Page 72 of Redemption (Devil Dogs of the Apocalypse #4)

Hawk

Torture can come in many forms.

There are the obvious medieval methods: burning alive at the stake, being less than fatally stabbed while trapped in an iron maiden as you slowly bleed out, having your nails forcibly removed through the use of thumbscrews, being stretched to your limit by the rack, or compressed by the Scavenger’s Daughter.

Even the simple task of placing a rat on a person’s stomach, covering it with a metal bucket, then using some form of heat to light it, stirring the rodent to find any means of escape, even by way of creating one through the victim’s belly, can be construed as a pretty effective method of torture.

And then there’s one particular favorite I learned about a long time ago courtesy of the Discovery Channel: the Pear of Anguish.

This was where a metal, pear-shaped device would be inserted into any available orifice a person had, be it their mouth, vagina, or anus, and the mechanism would then be cranked open, slowly spreading the metal petals within the chosen body cavity while effectively delivering indescribable amounts of pain to the poor receiver of such torment.

Over the years, methods have, naturally, evolved. Nowadays, there’s a lovely little addition called psychological torture—my personal and current Hell.

Unable to sleep, I pace the length of my glaringly white room.

Even in the dark—with the moonlight streaming in through the uncovered windows being my only source of light—it’s still too harsh.

I’m almost tempted to slit my wrists just to give it a bit of color.

If I could break the fucking glass, I’d be out of here.

Goodbye. Sayonara. But the shit is thick.

Impact resistant. Like it was made to keep people in.

I fucking hate hospitals, and I realize this particular building isn’t actually one, but with the pale white walls echoing the stench of death and subtle notes of antimicrobial in the air, it sure as shit can be considered a convincing duplicate.

Ever since I was a child, hospitals have not been my best friend.

Why would they be? Everyone who enters is either crying or in pain, or crying because they’re in pain.

At seven I had to go in and bear the weight of my father plus two of the nursing staff as they held me down, immobilizing me so I could be still enough to get stitches.

Needles used to terrify me. Of course I didn’t want one sticking through my skin over and over again.

After that fateful day, I didn’t fight as much, not wanting the decision of going through with it or not held against me.

Literally. But that didn’t make the visits any more enjoyable just because I was calm about it.

Later on, after joining the military, hospitals, stitches, and scars became a normal thing.

But even the regular visits didn’t change my views about them in the years since.

Medical facilities, regardless of what country I was in, still housed death.

I saw friends of mine mangled and torn apart, the doctors working hour after hour doing their best to stitch them back together like rag dolls.

Some came out with scars. Others came out in pieces.

I’ve lost more friends and family than I’d like to count in hospitals: my grandparents when I was the ripe old age of nine; my sister when I was seventeen during her first year of college—she was hit by a drunk driver; dozens of my fellow Marines following the worst month of attacks anyone had seen in years.

Each day, another was medevacked. A bullet.

IED. It didn’t matter. Some survived. But none were ever the same again.

Just like most everyone else, I ended up there with Jax, praying like hell we’d come out of it all intact and sane while, at the same time, listening to another platoonmate succumb to their wounds just beyond the flimsy curtain.

Then, it was my parents’ turn when the virus hit. They complied and went to the hospital—as every news station indicated they should. Hand in hand, they walked through those doors but, sadly, never made it back out.

I didn’t even get to say goodbye.

It's been hours since Cole left me alone in my own, personal nightmare. He said he’d see me again in the morning, same time as the day before, but this time I’m hoping he returns with actual answers. Progress. Something. Anything.

We’ve been here for days and have absolutely fuck all to show for it. And, with me being perpetually relegated to this measly two-hundred-square-foot, poor excuse for a hospital room, not knowing what the hell is going on out there is literally killing me.

Come on, people!

I’m up. I’m walking. Both my eyes are in fully functioning capacity.... Sort of.... My vision is a tiny bit skewed on the one side, and I might still be bruised all to hell, but I’m absolutely capable of doing something other than staring at fucking ugly-ass, white walls, Goddammit!

I AM A BADASS, LETHAL FUCKING MACHINE OF WAR! I’M NOT MEANT TO BE KEPT IN A CAGE! LET ME TAKE ON THE FAT LITTLE PIGGIES! I’LL MAKE THEM SQUEAL BEFORE I SLAUGHTER EVERY LAST ONE OF THEM!

Ok... So... I might be losing my mind. But anyone would if they were in my shoes.

The more I look at these four pale walls of death, the more they seem like they’re closing in on me.

Claustrophobia is a breath away from setting in.

Not to mention the impending psychotic episode at still not even knowing if Jax and Aly are alive.

After surviving what I did, I can only imagine what they could be going through.

If Jax was strung up like I was, taking punch after punch, day in and day out. If Aly...

My breath catches at the thought of them taking advantage of her in that way. In the next second, my vision turns red. Vengeance and the need for all-out violence fill my veins.

I need to get out of here. Do some sleuthing of my own.

Hell, I’ll torture the information out of someone.

I don’t care! Just let me out of this monochromatic prison cell before I lose my fucking mind.

I know it’s not like me to be this out of control, this angry, this vicious, but I’ll be a sadistic son of a bitch if it means finding my family and ending this abomination of a town.

Steps echo from the hallway, causing my pacing to pause mid-step. Is it Cole? Did he find her? Did he get Jax? Is he coming to let me know it’s time to kick ass, take names, and get the fuck out of here?

Or is it one of them ? One of the others that kept me chained up in that dungeon? Are they getting suspicious of Cole visiting me? Are they coming to finish the job?

My pulse, already spiked to its limit, kicks into a higher gear.

Fuck. That. Noise.

Eyes wide with manic anxiety, I stalk back over to my bed, scanning the entire room for something to use in my defense, but there’s nothing. Not a damn thing besides my fucking bed, the bathroom, and the...

The bucket.

I can beat someone with it. If I hit them hard enough, maybe I’ll get lucky and cave in their skull.

Or I could shove it over their head to blind them for a few seconds.

Maybe hit them while it’s on their head and disorient them.

It’s an option. Not a great one since it’ll be loud as fuck.

.. but I’m at a severe disadvantage here.

Not about to turn down potential, I grab it and place it on the ground just to the side of the doorway before scanning the room at what’s left. Which would be the bed.

I could use the pillowcase. Wrap it around their throats and strangle them, or take the entire pillow itself and smother them. Quick, quiet, lethally efficient.

Fuck, this is embarrassing. What I wouldn’t give for a number two pencil right about now. If it works for John Wick, it’ll work just fine for me. But lo and behold, not a damn writing utensil in sight.

Pillowcase it is.

I grab the fabric and shuck it off, only to then reveal the fucking knife I had hidden away all along.

“You fucking idiot.” I shake my head, quietly reprimanding my overactive mind and the fact that I even forgot it was there in the first place. Without another thought, I reach for it.

The steak knife slides easily into my palm, but I keep the pillowcase clutched in the other, unwilling to discard another potential weapon even if its lethality is less than subpar.

The flimsy fabric dangles like a limp dick at my side as I stalk back to the closed door, tilting my head against the wood to listen in.

Whoever is wandering through the hall, it’s definitely not Cole.

His footsteps land differently. The cadence, unique to only him.

Not only that, but it sounds like there are more than one out there, and they’re whispering to one another.

I can barely hear them, but the crack between the door and the floor should fix that.

I fall to the ground, lying flat on my chest as I continue eavesdropping on their conversation.

“The bathroom’s right over here. There should be water and soap already staged. Go ahead and get yourself cleaned up. I’ll be right outside when you’re done.”

“But what if they catch you staying here with me instead of doing what he asked? What if he—”

My eyes widen.

Hold up.

Heartbeat screeching to a halt.

Wait a minute.

I know that voice.

I’d know it anywhere, even without the use of my ears. I’d feel it deep down in the black pit of my soul like a siren’s song, leading me straight to her.

That’s the voice of an angel. My angel. My sweetheart.

Aly. Holy shit, I’ve found her. She’s right outside this door, just on the other side.

Maybe staying in one place all fucking damn day long isn’t such a bad thing.

But who the hell is she talking to? That’s not the deep, velvety timbre of Cole.

And it’s definitely not Jax’s gravelly voice.

This one’s smoother, like silk, chocolate.

Familiar... somehow....