Nike's Chariot

Ian was only a few weeks old, but wrapped up like a papoose. The little guy gurgled and cooed, while lying on Bob’s chest, as his father played Corsairs, a Genesis video game with swashbuckling pirates. Father and newborn son were bonding, as his wife recovered from a difficult pregnancy and delivery. Bob had taken a few weeks of vacation from work and was enjoying every minute of it. Suddenly, the baby boy punched his father in the face. Wham! He was just a newborn, but he sure could hit hard. Whack! Bob’s eyes popped open, just in time to get a full bucket of water thrown in his face. He spewed and sputtered, gasping as he regained consciousness. Powerful beams of light nearly blinded him, The pleasant memories of his newborn son had vanished. “Who are you?” a voice screamed at him. “What are you doing here?” another man shouted. “What were you doing in the Zone?” yet another voice demanded. Bob shook his head, trying to sort things out, hoping to buy some time. A door opened behind Bob and the glaring lights dimmed. The men interrogating Bob suddenly departed, but he knew someone had remained. “Well now, isn’t this a surprise?” a strangely familiar voice said. The man walked around to face Bob. It was FBI Agent Richard Barrow. This man had paid Bob a visit before the cataclysm, asking a lot of questions and perhaps insinuating criminal behavior. Barrow smiled. It was faked. He lifted Bob’s sagging chin. “What, no warm greeting for an old friend?” Barrow asked. “I’m so disappointed.” Then he slapped Bob across the face. The blow was heavy-handed, jarring in fact. Bob’s ears burned with pain and his jaw throbbed. He tasted blood. Barrow leaned over and lifted Bob’s chin again. “I am now the Director of the FBI and you were quite dishonest with me, Mr. Norton. Seeing you again confirms my suspicions that you are an enemy of the United States and therefore, I’m afraid you will be tortured, before we execute you.” “But why?” Bob asked. “I’m no threat to you!” “You withheld vital information from me,” Barrow said. “Such as?” Bob wondered, knowing full well what the agent was referring to. “A certain medallion you found while snooping around the Black Hills Ordnance Depot,” Barrow replied. “Oh, that piece of junk,” Bob sputtered, blood dribbling from his mouth. “I sold it to a coin dealer in Chicago.” Barrow frowned. “No, we know you didn’t. We went through all the coins and silverware and jewelry you did sell, but the medallion wasn’t there.” Bob was infuriated that the Feds had harassed his old friend Bennie. He couldn’t think of a sarcastic response, so instead he didn’t say anything. “Well, if you’re not going to cooperate willingly, we’ll see what a little bath will do to loosen your tongue,” Barrow said as he was leaving. Bob was bound securely to an inclined bench, which is approximately four feet wide by seven feet long. His feet were elevated. Almost immediately his sinuses filled with mucus, as his allergies reacted poorly to this reversed incline position. Bob thought about protesting, but he was resigned to the fact that none of them cared. A moldy damp rag was placed over his forehead and eyes. Water was then dribbled onto the cloth. Bob panicked, fighting the restraints until the leather straps rubbed his wrists and ankles raw. His struggling was to no avail. The flow of water increased and he instantly began gagging. The sensation of drowning was overwhelming and as Bob kicked and squirmed, he coughed and groaned, water backfilling into his nostrils and lungs. This procedure only lasted for 30 seconds, but it seemed like a lifetime. The cloth was lifted away and Bob was allowed to breathe normally. However, because of an increased flow of snot, Bob hacked and gagged, spitting in desperation to clear his throat. Bob almost passed out, as he retched violently. Sharp spasms of pain lanced up his lower back and stars shot across his eyes. The vomit barely cleared his lips, when his captors pressed the cloth over his face again and repeated the process, pouring water that flowed into his nose and mouth. They could not know that Bob’s worst phobia was drowning and he moaned pitifully as he tried to swallow and breathe at the same time. Almost unconscious from strangulation, they would let up just long enough for Bob to catch his breath, before they started over again. It felt more or less like he was drowning, barely gasping between life and death. Suddenly, the lights were turned off and everyone left the room. Bob sobbed and shivered, covered in vomit, mucus and urine. His bladder had voided during the procedure as well. He closed his eyes and tried to picture Ian and Debra, hoping he could rely on their images to get him through this. Time passed, although Bob had no idea whether it was hours or only minutes. He was unshackled from the waterboarding platform and dragged to a different room. There, he was unceremoniously plopped into a chair, his forearms strapped in place. Once again, he was joined by Barrow, who sat across from him, not saying a word. “I’m really not in the mood for all this torture shit,” Bob said with exasperation. “Why don’t you just ask me what you want to know and I’ll answer if I can.” The Director seemed accepting of the olive branch. “Very well, in the spirit of cooperation, I think we’ll try your method for the time being.” It was with great relief when Bob said, “Thank you.” “So let’s update you. Your sister Lydia is just fine, as are your other relatives who lived in Illinois,” Barrow reported without any warmth or compassion. “Of course, they think you are dead, along with your family, just like everyone else in the southeast and far west. I can also report that your friends Michele, Mark, Dave, Allison, as well as their families, are also doing just fine.” Bob was pleased. “Again, thank you.” “How did you get here?” Barrow asked bluntly. “I drove,” Bob replied. “I was looking for seeds to plant and other supplies.” “I assume that there are other survivors?” Barrow asked. Bob merely nodded. If he was going to be executed anyway, why give them more details than necessary. “How many?” “Fifty-three,” Bob lied. “We found a data bunker near Augusta and hid out there, along with a bunch of stragglers we picked up along the way. Of course, the medallion saved all of our lives.” “What happened to my men?” Bob couldn’t help the smug grin. “We killed them.” Barrow’s eyes narrowed. In this case, he couldn’t tell if Bob was stretching the truth. He didn’t like it, but he accepted the fact that it was possible. He had read Norton’s service record. “What’s it like out there?” he asked. “Pretty bleak,” Bob replied honestly. “There are no people, so it’s always quiet. I managed to find shelter each night, by not pushing too hard. I tried to go a few hundred miles a day, at the most. What used to be Oklahoma scared the shit out of me, so I turned north, following along the Mississippi.” “How did you get across the river?” “I drove across a bridge,” Bob snipped. “There are no bridges intact, except on this side of the grid,” Barrow countered. “We blew up every span.” “The Saint Genevieve-Modoc ferry in Missouri,” Bob said slowly, as if he regretted sharing the information. “It took a lot of luck to operate that beast and as it was, I crashed into the opposite shoreline. I’m not sure how I planned to get back.” “Why did you come here?” Bob shrugged before saying, “I did a little research when I got home from our vacation out west. Some things didn’t add up, so I just figured the Black Hills Ordnance Depot and the Stanley R. Mickelsen Safeguard Complex had something to do with our medallion. I’m an incurable snoop.” Barrow nodded and then said, “Too bad you didn’t mind your own business.”