Chapter 20
Thomas
It’s almost a relief when I hear the buzzer and the light goes off for me to put on my helmet once more. The dispassionate guard directs me down the hallway, back to the interrogation room, only this time, when the door opens, the room contains several items of interest that weren’t there before. Most notable are the two sizeable guards, who each take one of my arms in a steel grip as they guide me towards the chair.
I suppose it’s instinctive to resist one’s fate when it involves the potential for excruciating pain. I’m unable to resist the urge to struggle against them as they force my arms into position, the third guard helping them by fastening the first buckle and securing my right wrist. Moments later, both of my arms and my chest are secured in the vice-like grip of the thick, padded leather straps. I continue to struggle to the last, kicking out at them as they move on to secure my legs but unable to stop them from completing their task.
My eyes dart around the room as my mind is temporarily overcome with panic. It’s only when they’re done that I realize it’s useless to continue struggling. After several seconds I begin to calm down enough to form rational thoughts. It’s then that I begin focusing on the other items in the room. There’s a computer cart with the typical paraphernalia, which looks like it belongs in a library, not a prison interrogation room. There’s a cart with some syringes and a few items I can’t identify that concern me most. On the second shelf, I think I glimpse a defibrillator like the ones I’ve seen in doctor’s offices and such—not an encouraging sign.
Two of the guards remain in the room, while the one who took me from my cell leaves. I look at the old-style clock on the wall with its second-hand moving lazily around in a circle. It’s 2:32 p.m. It’s 2:32 p.m., and I’m about to be tortured. I wonder how long I’ll be able to hold out before I tell them everything they want to know. Five minutes? Ten? Will I be strong enough to make it to half an hour? Will I make it a whole hour and risk permanent physical or psychological damage? I recall Veritas’ description of some of the after-effects of the shock therapy sessions that her mom went through and wonder if I’ll experience the same thing . . . or worse.
The interrogation room door opens once more, and the evil man in the lab coat enters like some specter from beyond the grave. He’s got a small plastic case which he ceremoniously places on the cart alongside the syringes.
“Welcome back, prisoner 00XJ5.”
There’s that sinister smile again. I decide that if I ever have the chance, I’m going to punch him in the face as hard as I can.
“I have some good news,” he continues. “Well, it’s good news for me, not-so-good news for you, unfortunately. It seems your friends on the outside have gotten wind of our plans to begin phase two interrogation and have organized a little protest in an attempt to sway the judge to stop us. I regret to inform you that we succeeded in rescheduling the hearing for 1 p.m. today, during which we were granted the right to proceed—a little fact your friends aren’t aware of yet, I’m afraid.
“Let’s get to know each other a little better, shall we?”
He gently removes my helmet and stores it under one of the carts.
“There, now.”
Leaning in, he secures a final restraint around my forehead and then opens the little box he brought in with him to reveal a syringe with an ominous-looking blue liquid inside.
“This solution contains nanobots that will migrate to nerve centers around your brain and help facilitate the interrogation. I’ll need to insert this needle into your cranium through your nasal cavity, which can be a bit tricky, so I’m going to give you a sedative that will put you to sleep for about thirty minutes. You won’t feel anything during this little procedure, but when you wake up, we’ll be ready to begin.”
He replaces the syringe with the blue gunk into its little box, then lifts one of my sleeves, swabs my skin with an alcohol pad, and deftly delivers an injection using one of the other syringes from the cart. Within about a minute, I’m out cold.
* * * * *
When I wake up, the first thing I notice is that there are several wires running from my head to the back of the computer cart. Dr. Cheros is standing close to my side, looking down at me with apparent anticipation.
“Welcome back. We’ll start with an easy topic,” he says with a wicked smile. “I must tell you that we already know much about the freedom movement. If you get caught in a lie, you will receive a negative consequence. The information you give that we can’t verify on the spot will be verified after our session, and if those answers turn out to be lies . . . well, I’m sure you get the idea.”
The smile fades from his face as he continues. “Tell me exactly, in detail, how you were invited to your first reveal party.”
My mind flashes back to the invitation on my pillow, and I consider whether or not they already know this information. Surely they already found out from some other poor sap they’ve interrogated. Yet, I also know that if I answer this question straight away, then they’ll move on to questions of more importance. The longer I can stall, the longer my friends in the movement will have to prepare for the revelation of whatever information I will eventually reveal. The longer they’ll have to cover their tracks and escape to a safe place.
So I decide to say nothing.
I suppose it shows on my face, or maybe in the way I inhale and exhale the next breath after I make my decision. Whatever it is that gives me away, the doctor can see that I’ve decided not to cooperate. His head slowly nods in recognition of the fact.
“Very well then,” he says, lifting the tablet computer he’s been holding and tapping on the screen a few times. I start to feel my feet get warm. Then they get really warm like I’ve just stuck them under the bathtub water spout into water that’s way-too-hot. Now the soles of my feet heat up, and it feels like I’m walking across black asphalt in my bare feet in the middle of summer. I start moving them around, but it doesn’t help. It feels like I’m about to get blisters, and this creep is just staring at me and smiling while I squirm. After about thirty seconds, the pain goes away entirely.
“Before we continue, I just want you to imagine how that will feel over your entire body for a length of about three minutes. The law allows me to go up to a pain factor of five if I deem it necessary. What you just experienced was a pain factor of one. Imagine what level five will feel like?
“I’ve only gone up to the maximum with one prisoner. He had kidnapped a little girl and buried her alive in his backyard in a box that only had enough air to keep her alive for a day. Of course, at the time, we didn’t know that. After enduring a level five pain factor on his right arm for just over three minutes, he confessed everything. It took us an hour and a half to reach that point. I visited him some weeks later in the psychiatric ward to see how he was doing. When he realized it was me, he pulled so hard on his restraints, trying to get away, that he dislocated his shoulder.
“So, I’ll ask you again to tell me exactly, in detail, how you were invited to your first reveal party.”
I stare at him without saying anything. I’ve already decided I’m not going to tell him just yet, even though I’m certain I’ll break eventually. My plan is to delay, delay, delay. Yet, even as I stare at him in silent determination, I wonder what my next consequence will be.
“You know,” he continues, “one of the keys to being a good interrogator is knowing as much as you can about the person you’re interrogating. For instance, I know that you don’t like snakes. Let’s see how it feels to have a snake slithering over your body, shall we?”
He taps on the keyboard and clicks away with his mouse, and soon I feel a sensation as if a snake has begun to crawl up my foot and inside the left leg of my pants. It feels so real I turn my eyes in that direction, but the straps make it impossible to see my lower leg. I twitch this way and that, straining against the straps, feeling the fear creep up my spine as I’m unable to stop a visceral reaction to what I’m feeling. The sensation continues, and now the snake is crawling across my stomach and around my side to my back. Its scaly skin moving side to side, slithering up my body. Now it’s wrapping itself around my throat, and it begins to constrict. I’m finding it difficult to breathe. I would swear there’s a real snake about to choke the life out of me. I struggle uselessly against the leather straps that hold me, closing my eyes and trying to will the sensation to go away. I start to panic again. Just when I think I can’t stand it anymore, it stops, leaving me heaving from anxiety and the stress of it all.
I look at the clock on the wall. It’s been just over six minutes since the session began.
“How were you invited to your first reveal party . . . in detail, please,” he says flatly.
What can it hurt to tell them? Surely they won’t get much vital information if I tell them about the invitation. And if I draw out the story, giving them details about where I had just come from, when I first noticed the invitation, describe my feelings about it and such, it will delay the next question that might be about something that really matters. Dr. Cheros says nothing but waits for my reply.
So I tell him about seeing the invitation, about reviewing the entry log to my room and finding it only showing my ID. I tell him about the passphrase—lying about what it was—and mention that the coordinates where we should meet were printed on the invitation. I’ve forgotten the coordinates and tell him so. I don’t mention how the bulk of the message faded from the paper, thinking that detail might give them a clue they don’t already have. Lastly, I tell him about tearing the invitation to bits and dividing the pieces between the two trash cans in my room.
When I’m done, I look up at him and see a barely perceptible smile on his avatar, and I feel hatred for this petty little man who, at the moment, has so much power over me. It occurs to me that I can use this hatred to help me resist giving them answers when the time comes. Focus on the anger—the hatred—not the pain, I tell myself, mentally preparing myself for the next onslaught.
“That’s very good. See, that wasn’t so bad, was it? Now, let’s move on to the next question. Tell me about going to the coordinates in the invitation on the day of the meeting. . . .”
I remain silent, giving him a look of stubborn refusal, and after a few clicks on his tablet, I begin to feel as if someone is holding a flame under my left earlobe. I twist and shake my head to get rid of the feeling, but, of course, this does nothing to alleviate my discomfort. I hear a low moan coming from my own mouth as I clench my teeth, knowing there is no other option but to endure the pain or tell this spawn of the devil what he wants to know.
I try to focus on counting to sixty in my mind, telling myself it will be over in sixty seconds, although I have no idea if this is true or not. When it stops, I hear a ringing in my ear, an odd residual from the experience. Again, I’m huffing like I’ve just run up the bleachers at the stadium, and he asks for the same information once more.
I don’t wait for a second consequence before giving him an answer. I take my time, like before, describing mundane details about my walk to the agreed-upon meeting place. I lie about some of it, describing a section of the woods I know well from my runs in the park and not the actual location where we met. He doesn’t interrupt me but just listens patiently as I tell my tale. I consider not telling him about the robes, but then I remember they already know about them from the footage the detective showed me, so I include that detail. When I’m done, he nods and stares down at his tablet once more, tapping furiously with both thumbs as he enters a note.
I wonder what the next question will be, as well as what the consequence will be when I refuse to answer it. The sensation of a nail being driven into my eyeball? Maybe the feeling of drinking acid, my throat burning with no relief. How can this be legal? How can they do this to me?
“Excellent,” he finally proclaims as he looks back up at me. “We’re making progress. Now I want you to tell me exactly how you communicate with the others in the movement.”
I squirm uncomfortably in my seat and try to think of how I should answer the question. I’ve heard before that the most convincing lie is mostly true, so I come up with what I think is a clever lie. I describe to him the method I use to communicate with my friend from the boating club but move the meeting place to a location across campus from where we actually meet, just to be safe. I go into great detail about our actual method of communicating. When I’m done, I breathe a sigh of relief, thinking I’ve just pulled off a major coup, to which he simply says, “You’re lying.”
And so begins my descent into the abyss.
Apparently, someone else they’ve interrogated has already provided at least some information about how the freedom movement communicates with its members. What information they actually have, I don’t know. The lines of his face that appear on the avatar remain unmoved. His eyes dart to the tablet screen as he taps away here and scrolls a bit there. He doesn’t even look back up as he begins to speak once more.
“Let’s try a level three sensation, shall we?”
The pain begins quickly, like a sudden punch in my stomach. It’s so intense that my chest locks up, and I can’t take a breath. It feels like my guts are on fire, and I’m about to explode. When will it stop? Please, God, make it stop.
