SurvivorZ: Grave Harbor

47

NATE

A drenching bucketful of ice-cold water shocked Sergeant Crispin back to consciousness. Nate's sputtering gasps settled into anguished moans as the nerves of his bruised face and upper body awoke with renewed agony. Open wounds ached like hornet stings, courtesy of his dousing of salt water from the Mystic River.

Ed Stillson lowered the empty bucket in his hands and smirked at his bound captive. "Wake up, Mr. Lambert. I wasn't done asking you questions."

Nate struggled to escape the plastic zip ties binding his wrists and ankles to his seat. All he accomplished was to dig the straps deeper into the flesh of his bare arms.

He looked around, trying to catch his bearings before Stillson started in on another round of pummeling. The shipping container Mystic refitted for his cell was unremarkable, empty of any furnishings other than the lone metal chair bolted to the floor. A single, lazily flickering bulb hung overhead. To his right, a handle dangled from a cord running into the wall. He couldn't begin to imagine what purpose it might serve.

From somewhere outside, he faintly heard music playing in the zombie pens. Accompanying it was the sad crooning of dozens of undead voices.

Stillson carried the bucket over to the corner of the room and set it down. "Now, why don't we try this again? Who are you and who are you with?"

Nate sealed his lips and glowered at his interrogator.

"Still not feeling talkative?" Stillson chuckled. "Good. I was hoping to get in a real workout while I was here."

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a roll of tape. Giving Nate a sneer, he started wrapping up his knuckles.

"You a boxing fan?" he inquired. "Maybe you saw me in the ring. I was something of a big deal for a while. I was 23 and 2, with over 15 KOs. I even fought in Chicago against Luis Ortiz once. I was going places. I might've even had a shot at the belt if they hadn't screwed me over.

"See, it's easy when you're sitting outside the ring, watching. It's just spectacle. But when you're going toe to toe with someone in your weight class, it's a totally different experience. That surge of adrenaline you get when you know you're one lucky punch away from winning or losing everything. It's indescribable. Your body's jacked up to eleven. Your mind goes still, and your fists... They just fly with a will of their own. Take it from me, it's a helluva rush. Addictive. At least for me, it was."

He finished wrapping his knuckles and returned the tape to his pocket. Tapping his protected fists together, he approached Nate with a hungry look in his eyes.

"I'll tell you what. If you don't start talking to me, I'm gonna keep wailing on you until I feel that rush again. How's that sound to you?"

A metallic crash behind his back made Nate jump in his chair. He tried looking behind him, but all he could see was a gleam of daylight shining into the enclosed space. A whisper of cold air prickled his battered, exposed skin. Footsteps entered through the container's opened doorway in resounding claps of metal.

"What the hell is this?" an unfamiliar voice cried in outrage. "We're torturing people now? That's not what I signed up for."

A balding man approached from around his side. It took Nate a moment to place him. With a look of abject horror, Doctor Alvin Kline scrutinized the mountain range of swollen bruises covering his face and body.

"You signed up to treat patients," Stillson replied with an annoyed growl. "Here's your patient. Treat him so I can get back to work."

"This is inhumane. Rupert will hear about this."