Chapter 13: Revenge(II)
Clang!
A cage slammed shut, and David secured it with a padlock, locking up the unconscious and barely clothed Wintergreen. Storing the keys, he gave a long thoughtful glance at the man. 'Enjoy your sleep,' he mused and turned around. 'It'll be your last.'
After he secured the duo at the staging area, he rushed here to the rest camp and dispatched the remaining soldiers. He didn't need to do much, as they were dead tired, having got off their shifts the prior evening. Most died in their sleep, and the ones that didn't, stood no better chance though they were awake.
Making his way to a dark green tent, he lifted the flap and entered, his features shifting into a smirk upon setting eyes on its sole inhabitant. Propped up on the same pole he formerly hung on was Fyers, unconscious and clad in just his underwear. "How the turntables…" he mocked with a chuckle as he gazed at the beaten and broken man.
For a full minute he just stared, reminiscing about the times he wished for this. He couldn't help it as he truly didn't expect to enjoy it this much. This situation met all his expectations and then some.
"Whoever said revenge doesn't feel good is a fucking liar," he declared, his words laced with conviction.
Nodding to himself, he pulled out one of Wintergreen's short swords and closed in on Fyers. "As much as I enjoy this, it would be much better if you were awake," he remarked and dug the sword-tip a quarter inch deep into the mercenary's abdomen.
Purposeful and unhurried, he ran the blade across the man's flesh and carved a long, bleeding gash on it. Fyers stirred awake immediately and released an air-piercing cry, mirroring David's on that fateful day. Despite the painful sting in his enhanced ears, the latter's expression was one of glee as he recognized the familiar screams.
With increased vigor and enthusiasm, he made cut after cut, leaving Fyers bathed in red with little to no room for additions. Stepping back to get a good look, he nodded at his handiwork. Fyers' current countenance bore a striking resemblance to his own after Wintergreen's "interrogation" that day.
Unlike him though, the older man did not possess a healing factor, as such, he passed out a few times. Anytime that happened though, David just stuck a few fingers in his abdomen and wriggled them around to wake him up.
Wiping the blood of said fingers, he stowed the sword and pulled out Fyers' gun. The latter saw this and opened his mouth to beg, but the pleas got caught in his throat when David shifted his aim downward. -BANG! BANG!-
A guttural and wretched scream, much louder and intense than those of before, echoed and disrupted the early morning. Fyers, whose knees now sported bloody holes, buckled and slumped as strength escaped him. He hung there with nothing but his arms for support, a development that worsened his pain.
David had forgotten all niceties and bound his arms-even the injured one-tightly against the pole, punishing him with agony that made him wish for death.
In the meantime, the novice torturer blew away the non-existent smoke on the gun muzzle and stored it, pleased with the response he obtained from his captive. In the midst of the man's suffering however, he made a brief exit and returned a short while later, carrying a bucket half-filled with water.
Out of his inventory, he retrieved a ladle and a salt packet, emptying the contents of the latter into the bucket and stirring with the former. While this preparation went on, Fyers, who had been dazed from the soul-wrenching experience, felt his faculties slowly return.
His senses slowly cleared up and gave him a good perception of David's actions. Through his less swollen eye, he watched his captor stir the contents of a bucket with vigorous yet graceful movements, mixing in a white substance on occasion. His one good eye widened in recognition, and that caused him more pain.
Yet, he grit his teeth and braved it, knowing that the bucket's contents promised agony much worse than what he currently endured. With supreme effort, he pushed down the mind-numbing pain and forced a plea through his lips. "P-plea-"
"Don't beg. It's pathetic," David cut him off.
Silence returned to the tent, with the dull rushing of water, labored breathing, and low groans the only things to be heard. Fyers watched as David dumped packet after packet of the substance into the bucket, turning the water in it a pale white. Were his skin not marred with so much blood, it would have mimicked the solution and gone a few shades lighter.
All of a sudden David stopped stirring and straightened himself, raising the bucket along. His abrupt motions sent an ominous shiver down Fyers' spine, and the man, despite the earlier warning, tried to plead again.
"I-I beg yo-"
David frowned, displeased at being begged.
SPLASH!!
It was like being doused in acid. Fyers, unable to endure the fiery sting of his wounds, struggled and screamed, producing sounds and movements unbefitting of any man.
Cries of agony and pig-like squeals erupted from his core and spilled out into the surroundings, washing over the camp and earning no reactions from the dead bodies strewn in it.
Meanwhile, David stood there and basked in the torturous symphony, a well of satisfaction bubbling deep within him. After a good while, the satisfying whimpers began to grow weak, making him respond by filling a syringe with epinephrine (synthetic adrenaline).
As much as he enjoyed this, he couldn't let the man pass out or worse, die. Not now at least.
The pain proved too much for Fyers, making him slowly pass out from the shock. Not only that, his breathing grew shallower by the second, and his heart no longer beat with the vigor of a normal, healthy person. 'At this rate, he might slip into a coma or die. Good thing they had medicine.'
With familiar and practiced movements, he flicked the needle of the syringe and plunged it into the mercenary's heart, emptying its contents into the walls of the organ. With a loud and sharp intake of breath, the darkness around his vision receded, and Fyers jolted awake, his head whipping about in confusion.
His blurred vision gradually cleared up, and he saw the reason for his pain standing before him. The bastard had both arms behind him, looking at him with a smile, his eyes projecting his immense schadenfreude.
What was it this time? His whole body burned as if someone had lit him aflame. His arm was ruined, and his legs… he didn't want to think about his legs.
What more did he want? 'Is he going to slam me in the ground again?' The mere thought sent shivers through him. 'Dammit!' he cursed inwardly. Truth be told, he was afraid, and he hated it. This wouldn't be happening if that boy had just died when he shot him.
Perhaps, if he'd taken the threat he posed more seriously he would not be in this situation. Alas, he let his hubris get the better of him. Now, their roles had been reversed and the boy didn't even allow him to plead for his life.
But that didn't mean he'd stop. With strained effort, he croaked, "Please, I'll do whatever you want."
Contrary to what he expected, he received a proper response, albeit one that scared him shitless. "I know you will. That is, unless you want me to drag you outside, cut you open, tie your guts around a tree, and leave you for the birds and the bugs."
If after everything, you thought it was impossible for Fyers to grow more scared, you were dead wrong.
"I'll do anything, please…"
Smiling at those words, David took on a serious demeanor and pulled his arms from behind him, raising both of them and presenting Fyers with two options.
"This syringe," he gestured to left hand, "contains sodium oxybate. This one," he gestured to his right, "contains diazepam. One simulates the nervous system, and the other calms it. Give me what I want, and the diazepam is yours."
Fyers' gaze lingered on his right hand for a few seconds and returned to his face. 'That's what I've been asking all this time!' Despite this inner tirade, no words flowed from his lips as he nodded.
"Good," David said and placed the syringes side by side on a desk. On that same desk, he picked up Fyers' satellite phone and shook it in his direction.
"What's the code?"
"8, 4, 5, 5, 3, 7, 2, 6."
He hurriedly input the code and gained access to the device, smiling as he explored it. "Keep this up and I might stop torturing you all together."
Unlike what he expected, the user interface proved easy to understand and maneuver. It's like he was seven years old again and using his father's Nokia. Scrolling over to the contacts from the empty messages section, he found just a few of them, less than ten.
None of them were named. 'Must be part of the trade,' he thought as he considered Fyers' occupation. Speaking of the man, he stopped playing with the phone and asked, "You want a boat off this island. Which number do you call?"
Fyers answered without hesitation, and David made the call, holding the phone to the former's lips. With venom in his tone, he warned. "Try anything, and we'll take a walk outside."
Nodding to show he understood, Fyers acted accordingly. He used no suspicious or ambiguous words and successfully secured a boat, set to appear in one week.
With his way home settled, David's mood improved and he decided to hold up his end of the deal. He locked the phone and retrieved the man's pistol, aiming at his forehead with an emotionless remark.
"This is better than diazepam."
-BANG!
With the fall of Fyers' head, came the rise of satisfaction, and with it a smile of triumph. He basked in the pride of his action, relishing in the accomplishment of obtaining vengeance and saving a whole bunch of people. 'Is this how heroes feel?' It felt awesome.
Fyers not only planned to bomb a commercial plane full of people, he also had him tortured with plans to kill him afterwards. If he had gone with a simple dispatch like he did with the man's subordinates, it would not have sat right with him.
People like Fyers were devoid of humanity. They cared little for who they hurt or killed as long as their goals were met. In real life and in fiction, when such people appeared and triumphed over the good guys, it always made his blood boil. He always prayed and wished for them to get their due.
Who knew his prayers would be answered? Watching his defeated and vanquished foe, David finally understood. After almost a month of tireless rumination, he now understood why killing these mercenaries made him feel the way he did.
It had always been his dream.
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MasterReigen
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