Chapter 41
I awoke face down on the floor. Pain shot through my head, and my ears were ringing. I felt nauseous. When I tried to move my head, the pain and nausea worsened, so I lay still with my eyes screwed shut. I tried to move my arms and legs, but they felt paralyzed. I tried to move by rocking gently from side to side. Slight movement was possible, but my shoulders and hips were bumping into something on either side, like I was wedged in. And I had difficulty breathing, like my chest was compressed.
The ringing in my ears had to be from the gunshots. Someone was shot. Who? It wasn’t me, I was reasonably certain of that. Jeff? Enid? The other man?
Why won’t the ringing stop?
But the ringing was actually more like a humming. It seemed to be coming from under me, from under the floor. The floor of what? In spite of the pain, I had to open my eyes and figure out where I was. The left side of my face was against the floor, so I did what would require the least effort. I looked to my right. It was dark. It had been morning when Jeff and I drove up toward the Sheriff’s cabin. Had I been unconscious all day?
The room seemed to lift upward a few inches, then the floor fell away briefly, and I slammed back down onto it. I realized then that this was not a room. I was on the floor of a vehicle. The humming was road noise: the engine, transmission, tires on asphalt. We had hit a bump in the road. I was probably strapped down for safety and was being transported to a hospital. Maybe I was on the floor of my own car.
After that revelation, I stopped struggling with my position on the floor and drifted in and out of consciousness. I was jolted back when the vehicle rolled over more bumps. I heard a voice say, “Open up.” Did I know that voice? My brain was too fuzzy to focus. No, probably not. It didn’t matter. I was thankfully going to a hospital. Then there were many more bumps that went on for what seemed forever. I was being bruised and battered all over again. I groaned. Soon, I heard that voice again, “Open up.” Then it all finally stopped.
I anticipated the tender caring hands of doctors and nurses in sparkling clean surgical gowns, gently hoisting me onto a stretcher to whisk me away to the marvels of modern medicine. I heard the door near my head open and could see light flood into the vehicle. It blinded me and forced me to close my eyes to narrow slits. It was still daylight. Then the compression of my chest released, and I could take a full breath again. Through my blurred vision I saw that someone got out of the car. I was on the floor of the back seat of a car. Someone had been on the seat right above where I lay on the floor. I was filling the floor space. That person must have placed his feet on my back compressing my chest. I tried to shout, Why did you do that? But the outrage I heard in my head came out as a muffled, “Wha…..”
Hands came into the car and grasped my upper arms. I couldn’t help them get me out. My limbs were still not functioning. I expected when they pulled me up off the floor that my arms would spread out, something I myself could not do. But they didn’t. There was just pain shooting through my wrists and up my arms. Why did my wrists hurt? I realized it was because I was handcuffed. What the hell was going on? I’m supposed to be the wounded hero in my story. Discovered the conspiracy, attacked in the climax scene, adored by the grateful damsels who nursed me back to health, lived happily ever after in Willow Run.
Instead, I was struggling to stay conscious and stay vertical, my arms were cuffed behind my back, and someone roughly pushed me forward. At least my legs now worked, a little. I was then shoved into a brightly lit metal hut. There was a small office space with a desk. Beyond it stood a doorway leading to a much bigger space.
Standing next to the door was a tall man in camouflage outfit and boots. He was clean-shaven, tanned, and had closely cropped black hair. At the sight of me, a dark scowl formed on his face. It exuded an unspoken message: mess with me, and you’re a dead man. The name sewn into his short-sleeved shirt was Mason. Unless there were two Masons, he might be the man I assaulted in the dark, the one from whom I took the dog tag. I had imagined seeing him and his colleagues in jail today. Now I was his prisoner. How ironic.
“Parker, you son of a bitch,” Mason said. “You chipped two of my teeth. I will get even.” So he knew, at least now, that he did not run into a tree in the dark.
Mason grabbed me by the collar, ran my face into the doorframe, and then shoved me through the inner doorway. He slammed me onto a chair in front of a desk. Behind that desk was a man also wearing a short-sleeved camouflage shirt. He appeared to be short, but powerful in the arms and shoulders, with a square jaw line outlining a clean-shaven deeply tanned face. It was topped by a stubble of ash-colored hair. He was quietly writing, but exuded an aura of command. He ignored me for several seconds, and then abruptly looked up from his writing.
“So you’re the pain in the ass I’ve been hearing about,” he barked. He stood up. He was indeed short, probably just slightly more than 5 feet, but broad in the shoulders, with a thick neck and legs like tree stumps. He walked from behind the desk to stand at its edge. Even in that short distance, his stride was more like an arrogant swagger, like he was the big dog. He had small hands, even smaller than what I might expect for a guy of less than average height. And stubby fingers. But I had no doubt those hands had a grip that could break bones if your handshake was not firm enough.
“Looks like you had a rough day. How are you feeling?” he asked.
I didn’t reply. I was still having trouble focusing, and brief waves of nausea swept over me. I could feel blood trickling from my nose onto my upper lip, courtesy of Mason and the doorframe. My lack of response did not seem to deter him.
“Well, no matter.” He walked around to be directly in front of me. He stooped over slightly, and I saw his hand come up swiftly toward my midsection. I was too hurt to react in defense. His fist slammed me in the gut. I doubled over in the chair. It was several seconds before I could sit up, and even then I was leaning over, as if I might fall face-first to the floor at any moment. All I could see were tiny points of light.
“That was just to make sure you know where you stand in the pecking order around here.” He spoke slowly, enunciating each word forcefully. “You are at the bottom.”
“But where are my manners. I have not introduced myself. Mr. Parker, I am Lieutenant Matthew Gates. I command this post, and that means I command you. I own you.”
I remembered seeing the name Matthew Gates on the list of AWOL soldiers that Ed had sent to me. So now there was absolutely no doubt in my mind that the entire group of AWOLs was here. Not that there was anything I could do about it. But there was some tiny sense of satisfaction in being right on that point.
Gates strutted around to a point behind my chair. He grabbed the collar of my shirt and pulled me up into a seated position. He leaned over me, and I felt his hot breath in my ear. “Now back to business.”
I was having trouble staying vertical again. I leaned forward to get some blood flowing back to my brain. He kicked my chair. It seemed to be an unspoken command. So I sat upright. He walked around in front of me and sat on the edge of his desk. “If it was up to me, you wouldn’t be here. You would be dead and buried. But someone has a soft spot for you. Since I am stuck with you, it is important that you realize your role here. You are here to work. You see, with the untimely death of that runaway at the cliff, we actually are one worker short in the fields. You are going to take his place. Any disobedience on your part will have swift and severe consequences.”
He continued. “We found some interesting items in your car, Mr. Parker. The missing dog tag of one of my boys. He actually thought he had run into a tree in the dark. Now we know different, and I suspect he will be paying particular attention to your needs.” He smiled evilly. “I insisted that the boys wear their dog tags. To keep military discipline, to maintain order, to stay focused on the mission. But I made an error in judgment there. I s
uspect that dog tag gave you too much information. But no matter now. You are here, and the problem is contained.”
“And we also found a fax listing the names of all the men in this unit.” Holding the sheets of paper, he leaned forward until his face was only inches from mine. “Where did you get this?” he demanded.
I said nothing. The heal of his hand struck me in the forehead, sending me and my chair spilling over backwards. I wanted to just stay there on the floor until the world stopped spinning. I wanted to just fall into a pain-induced sleep and remain there on the floor forever.
“No matter. We’ll find out. You have a lot of interesting stuff on your computer about your stay in Willow Run. That will be enlightening to read.”
He abruptly strode back behind his desk. “I’m sure you have all kinds of questions. And I want to be an accommodating host. So we will talk later. It is a bit lonely out here, surrounded by horny GIs and a bunch of illiterate rag heads. You can be my guest for dinner. In the meantime, you will be introduced to your new occupation. Mason!” he bellowed.
Mason’s camouflage-clad form entered. “Yes, sir.”
“PFC Mason, please escort Mr. Parker to the fields so he can begin to appreciate his new home.”
“Gladly, Sir.” Mason roughly grabbed the handcuffs encircling my wrists, yanked me up from the floor, and pushed me ahead of him toward the door of the hut. I was taking only baby steps since I still did not have full control of my limbs. He slapped the back of my head a few times, chuckling each time I winced. “How does that feel, asshole?” he hissed in my ear.
What did Gates call them? Illiterate rag heads, a derogatory name for Arabic peoples. So another piece of my conspiracy theory was confirmed. There were probably many Afghans working as slaves here. Yet, knowing that now did not help my situation in the least.
Mason had run me into the doorframe coming into this hut. Even in my dazed condition, I realized he probably would do it again on the way out. I figured we were already even. Besides, if I was going to die in this valley anyway, I might as well exact a little revenge in advance. My mind was starting to clear, and anger was brewing deep inside me.
He had one hand on the handcuffs pushing me, and the other over my right shoulder steering me. As we approached the door, I could feel him picking up the pace so that my impact with the door would be greater than it was when we came in.
I slightly pulled my head back and my shoulder forward. Just as he propelled me into the sharp edge of the doorframe, I twisted my shoulder another notch, adding that torque to the force of the collision. His exposed hand on my shoulder took all the impact, not my face. A smear of his blood painted the metal entryway. He yelped in pain and withdrew his hands from me to tend to his wound. I smiled to myself and walked through the door unguided and alone.
“Mason,” Gates quietly commanded. “Enough. Just put him to work.”
If Gates had not been there, I would have taken Mason. Even handcuffed, I was certain I could get the best of him. He was strong, in shape, and in better health than I was at the moment. But he was also a hot head who let his emotions control his actions. I wasn’t so sure about Gates. He was powerfully built. But given the chance, I would get even with him too. His minor show of compassion in controlling Mason was not enough to make me feel grateful in return. I might pay a price for my impulsive retaliation on Mason, but I had to make a statement. It was not so much a statement to them, but to myself. They had me imprisoned, but I was not giving up.
Outside, I forced myself to be observant of my surroundings. Any information might help me later. What I saw were mounds of earth. Each was about three feet wide and perhaps seven feet long. There was a row of them a short distance from the hut. They were overgrown. So they were not new. But they were probably not more than a year old. These mounds were probably the graves of the Afghans, the ones who were worked to death last year.
What bothered me most were the unmarked mounds that were nearer. They were fresh, probably just days old. I slumped to my knees next to one of the mounds and felt a new wave of nausea. The nausea was not from the blows to my head. It was knowing that I had caused these deaths. These people had died because they were caught up in my wake, innocents who died because of my actions. There were four fresh graves.
My guess was these graves held the bodies of Cortina Perez, Joseph Custer, and Salah bin Tariq Al-Fulani, the dead man I found on Monarch Trail a week ago. The person in the fourth grave was someone I had never met, but I knew who it might be. Ranger Andrew Pine’s wife. I felt terrible for Andrew Pine because he had trusted me to help save his wife. I, of course, didn’t know when she died, but there was clearly no helping her. Yet Pine still cooperated with these bastards, thinking his efforts were going to save her life. Gates was a cruel son of a bitch. Maybe he kept her alive for a long time, but at some point he must have decided to tidy up loose ends. Eliminate a problem. He would soon enough find a reason to erase me from his list of loose ends.
And that made me consider Andrew Pine himself. I had called him after talking to Jeff, as promised. Yet my call went directly to voice mail, just as all my calls to Joseph Custer had gone to voice mail. Would there soon be a fifth fresh grave, one for Andrew Pine, added to this row of mounds?
At least I now had a job. It is the same job of all the people who are incarcerated. My job was to escape.