Mark coughed and felt his body turning until he was lying on his side. He panted and discovered the cloth was gone and he was no longer chained to the board. His arms remained shackled in front of him, but when he curled his legs to his chest, there was no resistance. His stomach churned and he barely made it up on one elbow before he vomited eggs and water all over the floor. His throat felt raw and his chest ached as he retched until nothing more came up.
Each cough tore through him like he was being turned inside out, but finally, the spasms died down. He hung his head, exhausted and his chest heaved as he sucked in air. Spent, he sagged onto his side. He was vaguely aware of the voices around him. Someone kept asking him if he was okay. It was the dumbest question he had ever heard. There was a splash nearby, and in blind panic, he rolled back to a half-sitting position and used his elbow and feet to scramble away from the sound. The guards were there in an instant, grabbing the chains and shackles.
Jim leaned over him. “Maybe next time, you’ll talk.” He straightened. “Get him out of here.”
The walk back to his cell was a blur as Mark stumbled along between the guards. It was all he could do to put his hands and feet through the slots to have his shackles removed before he crawled onto the bed, wrapping the blanket around his shoulders. He couldn’t stop shaking and his teeth chattered. He clenched his jaw until it ached. It was only a matter of time now, he was convinced of that. No longer was it a matter of if, but a matter of when. They would kill him and there was nothing he could do to stop them.
His stomach rumbled and he staggered to the toilet, but he was reduced to dry heaves. Afterward, he leaned on the sink and scooped water to rinse his mouth, but as soon as it touched his lips, the nausea came roaring back and he gagged. Exhausted, he sank to the floor and curled up in the blanket. His shadowy reflection on outside of the stainless steel toilet bowl looked sinister, his eyes just dark smudges in his chalky face.
There was no hope. As far as he could tell, he had been here months already. Mark tried to track the seasons by the weather when he was allowed out in the courtyard every few days. Spring had come to wherever he was, and since he had been here, he had seen only the gang of interrogators. Even his request for his lawyer was ignored. How could they do that? He had watched plenty of cop shows. The bad guys always got lawyers. How come he hadn’t been able to talk to his?
Jessie had mentioned the term “enemy combatant”, but he hadn’t had time to ask her exactly what that meant. Now he knew. It meant they could do anything they wanted to him. Anything at all.
His shivering abated, but his energy didn’t return. He coughed, his whole body shuddering and he groaned at the ache in his ribs. He felt like he had been beaten with a bat. Wrung out emotionally and physically, he slept.
The clink of the slot woke him. They were back. He scuttled under the bed, banging his head against the metal in his haste. If they tried to take him, he’d fight. It would be better to die fighting right now. Backing into the farthest corner, he strained to hear over the sound of his own breathing. A soft scrape reached him and then the creak of the slot closing. Mark remained under the bed for a long time, ears attuned for any other sounds. Slowly…carefully, he inched his way out and spotted his meal tray.
Eyes glued to the door, he retrieved it and set it on his bed. The sandwich looked safe enough. He sniffed it. Turkey. It was dry, and after a bite, he reached for the purple juice that didn’t taste at all like grape juice. The liquid hit his mouth and it was all he could do to keep the small bite of sandwich from coming back up.
After two more attempts to eat it, he gave up. His stomach couldn’t handle the food and what little he had managed to swallow came back up moments later. When the slot opened for him to push the tray out, he shoved it as hard as he could, and the curse of the guard on the other side almost made him smile.
Days passed and they didn’t come to take him to be interrogated. Every time a meal arrived, he jumped at the sound at the door, terrified they were coming for him. The constant stress made eating impossible and his hunger diminished. At first, he tried to eat everything, but when he puked more often than not, he quit trying. What difference did it make anyway? Starving or drowning, the end result was still dead. At least he controlled one.
He abandoned his exercise routine. There was no point. Time didn’t matter and he sat in the cell staring at the wall. They took away his blanket after he shoved out a meal a second time, and he was sure they cranked the air conditioning on to its lowest setting. He shivered and lay on the bed. Mostly, he slept.
His dreams no longer held future events, instead, he dreamed of the past. Christmas, summer vacations, sitting in school. The settings didn’t always look like he remembered, but somehow he always knew where he was in them. And he was always safe.
Delivery of meals became an annoyance that took him from his dreams and forced him to get up to push the tray back out. At last there came a time when he couldn’t get up. He tried, but his head spun and he sat back down. Three times, he tried to stand. They would be mad at him. He knew it, so he lurched to his feet. His head swam and the floor raced up to meet him, slowed only by the thud of his head as it hit the toilet.
He lay stunned, watching with mild interest as blood flowed across the floor. His blood. At least he had added some color to the room. The puddle spread and felt sticky and warm beneath his ear. He raised his head a fraction and tried to swipe at it, but his arm was too heavy to move. With a wet squelch, his head sank back to the floor. It felt like ice against his cheek. Mark shuddered and closed his eyes. He was so tired.
Voices, urgent and angry, penetrated his consciousness. They were angry at him-he could tell. They were probably mad that he had made a mess in his room. If they just gave him a minute, he’d get up and clean it. If he could just get his body to cooperate. He had to get up.
The command from his brain died on its way to his limbs. Shiny black boots halted a few feet away and a blur of pink became a face. It was speaking to him, but Mark couldn’t process what it was saying and gave up when the effort sent a bolt of pain through his head.
He couldn’t remember closing his eyes, but he felt something prying them open one at a time, and groaned when a bright light flashed in them. He tried to close his eyes and turn his head but hands held him still and tore at his shirt. Something tight went around his neck. Fear that they were going to strangle him entered his mind, but he couldn’t summon enough energy to open his eyes. It wasn’t until he felt a hard board at his back, and his body rolled onto it, that the panic set in. He tried to scramble off the board, but his arms and legs had been strapped down. It was no use. He was trapped. The voices dimmed and became distant. Then they were gone and everything went black.
“Open your eyes!”
A hand shook his shoulder and Mark blinked awake with a start. He squinted at a greenish curtain dangling from the ceiling. Where the hell was he? The room wasn’t the same as the interrogation room and he was in a bed. A real bed. With a real pillow and he smoothed his hand against the mattress. Sheets. Scratchy ones, but they felt heavenly to him. Blankets covered him up to his chest. He wanted to close his eyes and burrow into them, but the hand shook him again.
The voice came again, “Oh no you don’t. No going back to sleep.” While still commanding, it wasn’t threatening.
“What?” Mark tried again when his first attempt came out as a croak, and he sought out the speaker. Jim.
Mark jerked and tried to scoot to the far side of the bed. A clip on his finger fell to the floor and he nearly tore his hand off when the handcuff attached to the bed pulled him up short. What did Jim want? He blinked, and rubbed his eyes against the top of his shoulder, feeling dizzy. A loud beeping began, adding to the confusion.
“Christ! Lie down before you pass out again.” Jim put a hand on Mark’s arm, urging him back against the bed. “Stick your finger out. You knocked this thing off.”
Mark complied, but never took his eyes off the other man as Jim put the clip back on Mark’s finger. At least the annoying beeping stopped. He licked his lips; they felt dry and cracked.
Jim looked over to a guard by the door. “Free one of his hands, would you?” When the guard had done so and moved back to his post, Jim picked up a pitcher on the rolling table and poured some water into a cup.
Eyes wide, Mark watched, an alarm from some monitor barely audible over the sound of his heart beating in his ears.
“Here.” Jim thrust the cup at him.
Mark recoiled, batting it away. It sailed into the curtain, splashing water across the bed and onto the floor.
Jim looked from the cup, still rolling on the floor, to Mark. “What the hell did you do that for?”
Mark didn’t cower, but he couldn’t look Jim in the eye. He took a deep breath and forced an answer. Remaining silent would only make it worse. “I’m not thirsty, sir.” It was a lie, but the truth, that shoving a container of water in his face sent his pulse racing, was too embarrassing to admit.
“Bullshit.” Jim glared at him and then said, “And I suppose you aren’t hungry either.”
“No, sir.” That was true. He couldn’t recall the last time he had eaten, but he was beyond hunger.
“Well, you’re going to buy yourself a feeding tube. We aren’t in the practice of starving inmates to death.”
“No, sir. Drowning is quicker.” Mark flinched at the dark look on Jim’s face. What made him say that out loud? Fear pounded through his veins, only one beat ahead of the hate and shame.
The man stepped closer, face stiff with anger. “They’ll be in shortly to insert the tube. I heard it’s not pleasant.” Jim turned to leave, motioning to a guard on the other side of the curtain to come sit in the room with Mark.
The thought of a feeding tube scared the hell out of him. He couldn’t handle that someone would be shoving food into his stomach. It was just one more thing beyond his control. “Wait…sir.”
Jim held the curtain with one hand and turned back. “Did you decide you were hungry after all?”
Mark nodded. “Yes, sir.” He went limp against the pillow. They had won again. He expected Jim to leave then, and was surprised when the man came back and stood beside the bed. He studied him until Mark began to squirm.
“The doc here says you’ve lost twenty pounds since you came here. How is that possible? We’re very careful about supplying enough calories.”
Mark shrugged.
“Did you go on a hunger strike?” Jim’s voice was quiet. Almost like he cared.
“No, sir. My stomach just couldn’t handle food after…after the last time you questioned me.” Mark stared at the foot of the bed. Chains snaked out from under the covers, attaching to steel loops on the foot board. He moved his leg, feeling the scrape of the shackle against his ankle.” After awhile, I wasn’t hungry any more. There didn’t seem much point in eating.”
Jim tilted his head, his tone sarcastic, “No point in eating?”
Anger shot through Mark. It felt good after days of feeling nothing but fear. “Yeah. No point. You guys are going to kill me anyway. What do you care? Am I taking the fun out of it if I kill myself?”
“If you would just come clean-”
“I didn’t do anything!” Mark glared at Jim, his rage bolstering his courage. “I’d rather die than confess to something I didn’t do.”
Jim turned on his heel and stalked out of the room.
Jim brushed past a guard at the door. “Have them get him a tray of something decent to eat if the doctor okays it.”
“Yes, sir.”
I’d rather die. Taylor’s answer rang in Jim’s ears. Maybe the guy didn’t start out trying to kill himself, but he sure as hell didn’t seem to care if he ended up dead. Jim made the long trek from the naval hospital to the brig across the base. He could have driven, but it was just close enough to make him feel guilty for not walking. He hated laziness in others, and held himself to a higher standard.
How could Taylor have not eaten for a week and nobody had told him? Jim swore under his breath and wished he hadn’t traveled to Washington, but it wasn’t his choice. At least he’d been able to see his son, so it was worth it except in the two days he’d been back, nobody had mentioned Taylor’s food strike. If the guy died in custody, the press would have a field day. Already, there had been a few articles from the left calling for Taylor’s release, but so far, there hadn’t been much public outcry. Jim intended to keep it that way-even if it came down to force feeding.
Jim strode past his own office and went straight to Bill’s. He entered without bothering to knock.
Bill looked up from his computer. “How is he?” Before Jim could answer, Bill went back to typing.
“He’ll live…for now, even if he doesn’t want to.” Jim paced the confines of the office. “He thinks we’re going to kill him, so he figures he might as well control how he dies.”
The typing stopped and Bill swiveled his chair to face Jim. “He said that?”
Jim shrugged and shoved his hands into his pockets. “Basically. He’s given up.”
“I thought we were getting close to cracking him.”
Jim sank onto a chair. “Oh, he’s cracking all right. Just not like we had hoped.”
Bill grunted and leaned back into his chair. “Is he salvageable?”
He knew what Bill meant. Had Taylor been so broken that he was useless as a source of information? Taylor’s burst of anger at the end convinced Jim the man wasn’t quite there yet. “Did you ever think maybe this guy is innocent?”
“Nope.” Bill flipped through his desk drawer and pulled out a pack of gum, popping a stick in his mouth before holding the pack out to Jim, who waved him off. “The guy was fingered by a confirmed member of al Qaeda. He went to Afghanistan-we have proof of that. We also have the tapes of the calls he made just a few hours before the attacks took place. How else would he have known about the attacks?” Bill shook his head, his jaw working the gum like he had something personal against it.
Jim looked out the window, a few cherry trees bloomed, their color brilliant against the blue sky. Bill had a point. Taylor had to be guilty. He took a deep breath and brought both hands down on the arms of the chair, levering himself up. “Yeah. I guess so.” He began to leave, but turned back, adding. “I just hope we get some good information before he goes completely over the edge. He’s teetering.”
“So, we give him a little break. Question him a few times without any physical persuasion.” Bill grinned and wiggled his eyebrows. “Then, when he’s relaxed, bring him in again and twist the thumb screws.”
“I think you enjoy the interrogations just a bit too much. You scare me, you know that?” Jim was only half-kidding.
“Hey, these guys are getting what they deserve. Every time I see pictures of that mass of rubble in New York, I get pissed and you should too.” He shoved another stick of gum in, his usually pleasant expression darkened with anger.
“I know. I get angry too, believe me, I just want to make sure I’m getting angry at the right people. That’s all.”
“Don’t worry. You are.”
Jim nodded and left. He wished he was as confident of Taylor’s guilt. It would make his job a whole lot easier.
Jim spent the rest of the afternoon finishing some paperwork and then headed home. His stomach rumbled, and he recalled he had skipped lunch when he got the call that Taylor had been taken to the base hospital. A mental inventory of the contents of his cupboards and fridge revealed his meal choices would be limited to a can of soup and some leftover Chinese, week-old leftover Chinese at that.
There was a little diner just outside the base he could go to. He had eaten there a few times and the meatloaf was good. And maybe that pretty waitress would be working tonight. He cracked a smile and turned on the radio. It was the best idea he’d had all day.
Thirty minutes later, he dug into a thick slice of meatloaf smothered in a mushroom gravy. The waitress hadn’t been there, but as he ate a forkful of mashed potatoes, he decided he had still made a wise decision. Even the milk was good here, ice cold and plenty of it.
“Wow, you look like you’re starving,” his waitress joked when she stopped to inquire if everything was okay. “Don’t worry, nobody’s gonna snatch the plate away from ya, hon.”
The bite he had in his mouth lodged in his throat and he had to take another gulp of milk to wash it down. “Excuse me?”
The waitress grinned. “Nothing, I’m just teasin’ you. I like to see a man with a healthy appetite.” She patted him on the shoulder and moved on down to ask a family across the room how they were doing.
Jim’s appetite shriveled at her words, and he set his fork down, pushing away the plate. He had acted like he was starving, but he had no clue what it was really like to have missed more than one meal. He always knew if he skipped one, he could make up for it at the next meal. Taylor’s gaunt face popped into his mind and it contrasted sharply with the image he held of the man he had first questioned months ago. That guy had been tanned, healthy. He had been the picture of a man in the prime of his life. Now, he was pale and thin with his green eyes dulled by apathy and despair. A man who would rather starve.
Jim recalled Bill’s anger about what had happened on September eleventh. He set his jaw and picked his fork up. Bill was right. The bastard deserved it. He stabbed the last bite of meatloaf and crammed it in his mouth. Yep, he deserved it. Probably.