Page 8 of Shrapnel

The unmistakable sound of a leather whip swinging through the air made his entire body clench. Whipping was his least favorite form of torture. If he could see it coming, he could prepare himself. But with his back to the whip, it would be impossible to brace himself.

Judging by the gauges in the wood the whip wielder's accuracy was not great.

The collective gasp of the surrounding men was his only warning.

Leather popped in the air followed by a fiery sensation of pain. It licked a stripe across his back, and he slammed against the post in an unconscious effort to escape the pain. The pain spread, growing in intensity as if the whip created a line of fire that was slowly spreading across his skin. It wasn’t deep—just enough to strip the first few layers of skin off and expose the nerves.

Two more slashes came in quick succession. He grunted and nearly fell, the chain clanging against the ring holding him up. His weight was nothing to the post. It held strong.

He couldn’t tell if the warm fluid running down his back was blood or sweat. It didn’t really matter. Again, and again the whip came down on his flesh, stripping skin and sending blood spraying into the air.

Jackson rested his face against the post and breathed in the scent of wood and blood. He lost count of how many times the whip cut against him. It wasn’t very many, he could still stand by the end.

Someone tossed a bucket of cold water over his head, and he shook the water out of his eyes. It felt good. Like someone cleared the foggy haze in his mind and reset his systems. Cold droplets of water clung to his eyelashes and dripped down his angular chin. His anger flared as they left him on the post. It grew hotter the longer he was forced to stand there. His back was exposed to the humid air; every insect that landed on his heated skin sent shivers of pain down his back.

His fingers curled instinctively as if his blade could be summoned to his palm from the sheer will of his anger.

Closing his eyes, he tried to center himself. Rather than diffuse the anger, he stoked it. Like a small campfire, he needed to survive the night, he blew on the embers and fed it small bits. Not enough to let it roar free but enough to keep it going. He would need it soon.

They came for him sometime around nightfall. He didn’t fight them this time, just allowed them to bodily drag him away from the post. Rather than take him back to the shack, they dragged him towards a large home. Looking like it came straight out of a magazine, it had no place amongst the thick undergrowth of trees and vegetation. The kind of home that looked like it belonged on the beaches of Malibu.

Streaks of blood and dirt marked the crisp white walls where he bumped into them.

He grinned savagely when he saw it.

They brought him to what he could only guess was their torture room. Small, with concrete floors and various hooks and chains hanging from the ceiling it was supposed to look intimidating. It was laughable. Jackson could tell right away that it had never been used.

The metal of the hooks and chains was not rusted with blood and bodily fluids. There was no drain in the floor to clean up. At best, it was a poor recreation of a low-budget Hollywood slasher movie.

A young man leveled a handgun at his face while the other nervously unshackled his hands and tied him to a flimsy wooden chair in the center of the room. It creaked with his weight.

Legs splayed, he leaned back in the chair and leveled a gaze at them. His hair stuck to his sweaty skin and the back of the chair rubbed his open wounds in a way that felt like nails on a chalkboard.

The old man came back. He rested his hands on his hips and looked down his beer gut at Jackson.

“Where is our money?”

He arched an eyebrow at him.

The man swallowed thickly. “We don’t want to hurt you.”

His words ignited the embers of hate inside him. Flaring quickly and engulfing him, he cocked his head to the man. With a gut like that, he wouldn’t be able to run from him. Jackson could have his thick hands around his neck in moments. He looked like a screamer.

The old man didn’t like the look on Jackson’s face. He took a step back. He was tied up but there was no doubt who the dangerous one in the room was.

Jackson was supposed to be injured. Broken on the post outside and weakened from lack of food and water. Instead, the old man was staring down a caged tiger. Eyes glinting with an inner heat that could have come straight from the depths of hell.

His feral smile returned. It cut across a cruel face and brought absolutely no mirth to it.

“But I want to hurt you.”

The old man’s face blanched and he stared at Jackson in abject terror before making the sign of the cross.

Jackson flexed his wrists and felt the chair start to give. An inch, that’s all he needed. Maybe less if he could dislocate his thumb. This was his moment. It was all he needed. The fire would stretch out from inside him and he would be able to consume this petty man. He would obliterate him and leave nothing but ash behind.

An explosion rocked the room. Chains rattled against the wall and clattered to the floor. The old man stumbled— eyes wide in terror as he began mumbling. There was a sharp retort of gunfire followed by shouting. He couldn’t count the number of guns, but he could differentiate handguns mixed with automatics.

The home shook with another explosion. Then a third. The house was rattled off its foundations and there was an ominous rumbling sound. The distinct scent of smoke filled the room. It clung to his lungs and his skin. Jackson spat to rid himself of the taste. Amidst the heady oily smoke, he could smell burning hair and flesh.