فصل 11

chapter-11 with a Bang.

Hades Island (formerly Niutao), Tuvalu

Torstyn was tossing back and forth on his bed when he heard the pneumatic hiss of the lock on his cell door. He had been trying, unsuccessfully, to sleep for more than four hours—anything to escape the horror he felt. Making sleep even more difficult was his uncomfortable paper-fabric jumpsuit that made rustling sounds as he rolled in bed. That and the fact that the lights in his cell were always on as the cameras panned back and forth, scanning every inch of the room.

The Hades cells were patterned after the Purgatory in the academy, with some of Hatch’s own “improvements.” Worst of all, there was a flat-screen monitor built into the wall, and every fifteen minutes it would automatically turn on to a scene of the frenzied rats in the bowl ripping the flesh off some animal or human.

Torstyn knew the scene hadn’t come from Tuvalu, as the rats were mostly being fed bulls or cows. On Tuvalu, like Taiwan, the rats were fed fish. Still, the video had the desired effect. The constant shrieks of the rats had broken him down emotionally until he could no longer eat, and he kept breaking out in uncontrolled fits of sobbing. Torstyn had tried to use his power to blow the screen, as well as the lights and cameras, but couldn’t. He was powerless in this room. The cell had been designed for Glows.

He had no idea what time or day it was when the door opened and Hatch, escorted by two guards, walked into his cell.

“Stand up,” Hatch said sharply.

Torstyn looked at him coolly, without moving. Hatch had already ordered him to be fed to the rats, so he didn’t have much more to fear. Or so he thought.

“Stand,” Hatch said. He pointed a handheld RESAT at Torstyn and pulled the trigger.

A powerful wave of pain shot through Torstyn’s body, forcing him to gasp out.

“All right. You win. But I can’t stand with that on.”

Hatch turned off the machine. “The next time you disobey an order, I’ll leave it on until you beg to be fed to the rats. Do you understand?” “Yes, sir,” Torstyn said, forcing himself to his feet.

As soon as he was standing, Hatch said, “Sit.”

Torstyn did his best not to show his anger as he fell back down onto his bed. One of the guards set a chair down next to Hatch. Hatch slid it forward, then sat down across from Torstyn, his legs slightly spread.

“Leave us,” Hatch said.

The guards turned and walked out. Now that Hatch was alone, Torstyn thought of physically attacking him but pushed the idea from his mind. Hatch held his RESAT with the trigger in hand. All he needed to do was flip his finger.

“So, you’ve had time to regret your decision,” Hatch said softly.

“Yes, sir,” he said eagerly. Was Hatch thinking of freeing him?

“Of course you’re hoping that I have had a change of heart.”

You’d have to have a heart first. “Yes, sir. I’ve learned my lesson.” “Hope can be such a cruel thing,” Hatch said. “Camus was right. From Pandora’s box, where all the ills of humanity swarmed, the Greeks drew out hope after all the others, as the most dreadful of all. . . .” Torstyn just gazed at him, trying to decipher his meaning.

“Unfortunately, for you, at least, what is done is done.” A bizarre frown twisted Hatch’s mouth, and his voice fell. “You are done. It’s already been announced to the troops that there will be a public feeding with you as the main course. They’ve already started the betting pools—you know the ones, you’ve participated in them. They’ll wager on exactly how long you’ll live before your heart stops, or how long your screams will last. I understand there is some wider speculation about this contest. Outside of Vey, we’ve never attempted to feed an electric to the rats before. But Vey was special, wasn’t he? Unfortunately, you don’t have the same power that he does. Unfortunate for you, at least. I’m actually fine with it.” Torstyn just blinked.

“So the only question that remains, really, is not if it will end for you, but how it will end for you. Will you fade off into oblivion peacefully?” He paused. “I mean, of course, comparatively peacefully? Or in prolonged, horrifying agony?” Hatch leaned forward, his hair falling over his dark eyes. “I’ve come to make you a deal. For old times’ sake. If you cooperate with me, I will see that you are anesthetized before going into the bowl. You will not feel those little mouths, bite by bite, eat away your life.” He took a deep breath. “I can also promise you that if you don’t cooperate, I will make sure that your vitals are well protected so that the furry little creatures will have to gnaw their way up your body cavity to end your life. Could you imagine what that would feel like? Rodents under your flesh? What could be more terrible?” Torstyn tried not to show his fear but shuddered anyway.

“It was a medieval torture, you know. During the Inquisition, the torturer would place rats in a cage on top of a prisoner’s body, then put hot coals on top of the cage. The rats would burrow through the body to escape the heat. I can’t imagine how terrifying that would be. I’ve wondered what would be more painful, the rats or the horror itself. What do you think?” Torstyn didn’t answer.

“No, I don’t suppose you’d care to conjecture. So I’ll continue with my offer. If you fail to help me, you will be terrifyingly aware of every rat’s bite. Your head and eyes will be caged, so you can see your own skeleton as the rodents strip the flesh from your legs and arms to the bones. You will witness your own slow consumption.” He leaned back. “So, traitor, what will it be? Cooperation or untold agony?” “What do you want?” Torstyn asked.

Hatch leaned in. “What I want is Welch. Where is he?”

Torstyn just looked at him. “I don’t know.”

Hatch gazed at him for a moment, then, with an audible sigh, stood. “I was afraid you’d say that.” “I’m telling the truth,” Torstyn said frantically. “We helped him off the boat. He got into a taxi with two guards. That’s all I know. I’m telling the truth.” Hatch looked at him sadly. “That’s unfortunate for both of us, but especially for you.” As he walked to the door, the guards opened it for him. Hatch turned back. “Tara was more creative. She made up a story. I knew she was lying, of course, but I don’t fault her for trying. Fear is a powerful motivator.” The guards stepped to Hatch’s sides.

“If it makes you feel any better, in the words of Röhm, all revolutions devour their own children.” A strange, infantile smile crossed his face. He sang sweetly: “Red of the morning, red of the morning,

Thou lightest us to early death.

Yesterday mounted on a proud street,

Today a bullet through the breast.”

Hatch stared into Torstyn’s eyes. “You will be the first to go. You have fifteen days left to live. I suggest you use that time figuring out where Welch is.” He walked out the door. The door hissed as the pneumatic lock sealed the cell after him. Torstyn fell over on the bed and sobbed.

After his visit to Tara and Torstyn, Hatch walked to the D corridor to visit Quentin, who had been released from Cell 25 just three days earlier.

Quentin was still in pain and was curled up in a fetal position on his cell’s hard cot. His room was bare. He had no sheets, nothing he could hang himself with, not even his clothing, which, like Torstyn’s and Tara’s garb, was a pink, paper-fabric jumpsuit.

He had woken confused. He couldn’t remember if it was the day he would be moved into the monkey cage. He thought he remembered a guard telling him that, but he couldn’t remember or even be sure whether the guards were toying with him or not.

Ever since his stay in Cell 25 he had trouble keeping his thoughts together. Even with all the terror and humiliation of the monkey cage, he would still choose it over Cell 25. How had Vey survived it? Vey was a lot stronger than Quentin had given him credit for.

There was a loud burst of air, and Quentin looked up to see his door open. Hatch walked into Quentin’s cell, leaving his guards outside.

“I came to see if you were ready to tell me about Welch.”

Quentin looked away from him.

“I’ve been visiting with your partners in crime—the ones you’ve murdered by involving them in your plot. Not surprisingly, they are not doing well. It seems that they are afraid to die. Where you, on the other hand, would gladly die, wouldn’t you?” Quentin tightly closed his eyes.

“Cell 25 has that effect,” Hatch said softly. “I went to see if they would tell me where Welch is. But they don’t know, do they? Not that that would have spared them anything. Either way they will die a horrible and ignominious death.” He walked closer to Quentin’s cot. “I would ask if you knew where he was, but I know you don’t—otherwise you would have told us in Cell 25. You have nothing to give me.” “Then what do you want?” Quentin asked.

“I just wanted to see you.” Hatch sat down on the edge of Quentin’s cot. “And enlighten you.

“You might be wondering, why the monkey cage? I did not invent this torture, you know. I wish I had, but someone beat me to it. There is precedence for this. You’ll be glad to know you’re in good company.

“At the end of World War II, the Americans established an army disciplinary camp in Pisa, Italy. Right next to the famous leaning tower. At that time, the greatest attraction in Pisa was not the tower. It was an American traitor named Ezra Loomis Pound. Pound wasn’t just any American; he was one of the most famous poets in the world. He was a friend to Yeats. He collaborated with T. S. Eliot on his masterpiece ‘The Waste Land’—in fact, the book is dedicated to Pound. He even hung around with Ernest Hemingway. He learned boxing from him.

“He was an absurd little man, the pride of the world’s intelligentsia and the social elite. He was invited to all their fancy soirees. He once attended a London society party dressed in an all-green suit made from the felt of a billiard table.

“But none of that mattered after the war. He had betrayed his country. He, like you, was a traitor. To punish Pound for collaborating with the enemy, the Americans put him in a monkey cage. It didn’t take long for it to crack his beautiful mind.

“The uncultured American soldiers would stand next to the cage and listen to the madman rant in English, Italian, Chinese, French, and even some languages he made up. They didn’t realize that what he was ranting was the brilliant mental vomit of a genius, and what he said became some of the greatest poetry of his time: “The enormous tragedy of the dream in the peasant’s bent shoulders Manes! Manes was tanned and stuffed,

Thus Ben and la Clara a Milano

by the heels at Milano

. . .

yet say this to the Possum: a bang, not a whimper,

with a bang not with a whimper, . . .

“Ben and Clara were Benito Mussolini and his mistress, Clara, who were hung by their feet in Milano. The Possum was Pound’s nickname for his old friend T. S. Eliot. He was mocking Eliot’s poem ‘The Hollow Men.’” Hatch sighed. “This is how the world ends, not with a bang but a whimper.

“Imagine the sight of it, this brilliant cracked mind throwing his pearls to the swine. It was Pound who later declared, ‘All America is an insane asylum.’” Hatch looked at Quentin. “He was right, you know. Except he was too limited in his scope. The whole world is an asylum. And it needs a new director.

“Tomorrow you go to the cage. Perhaps there you too will find the insanity of genius.” A cruel smile crossed his face. “Or, then again, maybe just insanity.” Hatch walked to the door. “Eliot was right, not Pound. This is how the world ends, not with a bang, but a whimper.” “There will be a bang,” Quentin said. “The sound of your fall after you’re brought down and made to pay for your crimes.” “You’re delusional,” Hatch said. “Who can challenge me? Who can’t I buy off?” “Michael Vey,” Quentin said. “He’s the good guy. I can see that now. And in the end he’s going to win.” For just a moment Hatch’s arrogance flickered. Then his eyes narrowed. “Michael Vey is nothing. And in the end I will feed you his flesh.” He turned and walked out of the cell.

Quentin curled back up into a fetal position.