Page 10 of All Saints Day
Chapter 5
Louise
“All right, sounds like your lunch appointment is here,” Frank chirps with saccharine sweetness as he throws the large metal lever in the far wall of the torture chamber I have been brought to for my meeting with Lowry this afternoon.
A larger scale version of my holding cell, with tiled, windowless walls and a drain in the center of the hexagonal room’s angled tile floors; is outfitted with two deep sinks, a long length of high-pressure hose on a large crank wheel, several hanging shackles and permanently installed hooks; an exam table on lockable wheels, and a St. Andrew’s Cross wrought in heavy steel plate on hydraulic pumps and pivots which I’ve been shackled to for hours—the massive steel ‘X’ inverted so that my splayed ankles and frozen bare feet hang in the air—my bound wrists suspended inches above the floor; my face dully throbbing from being hung upside down so long.
The room smears in my vision as the table rotates—bringing me back around to the upright position in a dizzying, sickening rush of blood.
“I hope she brought some fries—I’ve been really craving them lately,” I manage to grunt out with a weak laugh.
Frank beams and gives my cheek a none-too-gentle smack.
“Love that fresh mouth,” he growls, running a thumb over my lips. “But you better clean it up for the boss lady. If you’re realgood—she might even give you some special privileges; make your stay here much more comfortable.” He leans in close—so close our lips almost touch. I’d spit or bite—but I know it only turns him on, so I just pretend to be made of cold, cut stone until he lets go of his hold on me.
“Fine, have it your way, Sweetheart.” He turns away from me, cracking his knuckles as the door swings open—allowing Lowry in and Frank out.
Lowry enters the torture room flanked by three massive men in impeccably cut dark suits. The first holds an extremely overkill assault rifle, trained on me. The other two carry plush winged-back armchairs, which they set down on the tile floor before me, allowing Lowry to take her seat in one before disappearing back through the torture chamber door.
“Good afternoon, Louise,” she greets me sweetly, folding her hands in her lap as she crosses her legs.
“Maybe for you, Suz, but for me—it’s still been captivity and torture 24/7 since your cursed crone ass brought me here,” I sigh, blood gently seeping from where the ankle and wrist restraints bite into me.
“If you can behave,” she sighs sleepily, almost bored—producing a small remote from the breast pocket of her suit jacket and pressing one of the miniature buttons on its black plastic face; my metal shackles open, my body slides unceremoniously from the pillory to the floor, my legs not yet ready to support me. “You may have a seat.” She gestures to the open chair—her flunky’s rifle trained on me.
“How kind of you,” I hiss, struggling to keep myself from passing out as I hold myself up on all fours on the tile floor, stars and blooms of color swimming across my field of vision.
“This has been going on for far too long, Louise,” Lowry sighs as I crawl weakly to the upholstered chair, the two musclebound lackeys from earlier re-entering the chamber with a small table and a tray of various goodies. “Each day our scientists get closer and closer to unlocking the secrets of the Zeitnot virus, evenwithout your help,” she reasons with me, as I pull myself up and into the chair—my ankles and wrists bleeding, the sour tang of my sweat mixing with the strong smell of food and hot tea—as she continues.
“Good for them,” I groan, going limp in the seat. Though I won’t admit it, the cushy silk velvet piece of furniture feels like heaven, and I might just be convinced to give up my soul for a hot bath and a good night’s sleep after they let me eat this entire tray of food. Not really, but the momentary thought of hope and comfort was an indulgence I couldn’t deny myself.
Still, I’m mystified. The Windmill must really not have been able to get their hands on the research my parents did for the Feds, because they still seem unsure that I could actually be the keystone to the cure—let alone any meaningful breakthroughs with reverse-engineering my blood to make a cure. Lord knows they’ve taken enough of it.
Even stranger, Frank has obviously not shared with them how much he knows in all of this time—yet he continues to conduct my torturous interrogations day and night. It doesn’t make sense.
In my early days in captivity, I had held onto the hope that he was simply ‘going along with it’ in order to lull the higher-ups of the Windmill into a false sense of security before he broke me loose.
Any hope that Frank might double-cross the Windmill evaporated after the third time he pushed me to black out during our first water-boarding session together. Still, I can’t pretend to understand exactly what he’s playing at by keeping the discoveries made at the cottage to himself.
On several desperate occasions, I have wanted to confront him about it. To ask him why the fuck he continues to let them torture me when he knows everything that I do.
Is it some misguided sliver of hope that keeps my lips sealed? The thought that he might be stalling, doing his best to play for time while he architects my rescue? If I were to show my hand andcall Frank’s bluff—it could cause his carefully laid plans to fall to ruin.
Really, I’ve cooked up some absolutely unbelievable scenarios in all the grim hours I’ve had to contemplate my fate.
Sometimes I wonder why I haven’t just given up the ghost myself. Susan said herself that they need me alive until they can figure out how to develop a cure, treatments, vaccines, etc. All with the implicit message—once these things have been developed—I am free to be eliminated.
I am living on borrowed time, whether I confess or not.
“You are incredibly brave, my girl. I’ll give you that.” Susan sighs wearily, offering me a mimosa in a Tritan flute and a miniature quiche on a cocktail napkin.
“Aww thanks, Suz. Means a lot—coming from the woman who betrayed me after pretending to be maternal support and my mentor for a good portion of my adult life,” I laugh weakly, doing my best to keep my hands from shaking as I take the treats from her as casually as possible.
“Stupid—but brave,” she sniffs, looking at me pityingly.
“You really shouldn’t have,” I bubble brightly, shoving the tiny quiche into my mouth before gesturing to the large tray of fresh fruit, pastries, sandwiches, etc. between the two of us. “Brunch served in a torture chamber? Most plebs like me can only dream about this kind of shit.” My eyes scan the tray, no forks, knives, or anything else that might provide me with an improvised weapon. Not like I could do much with the bruisers surrounding us pointing guns directly at my noggin, but the instinct to get my hands on something demands I scope out the possibilities just the same.
“Louise,” Susan Lowry presses. “There are many reasons to co-operate,” she begins again, shrugging off my unkind words.
