Sniper
this one was previously posted to the Sentinelangst list and needs a "partner betrayal" warning.
Sniper
by
Sheffield
He came home early from Rainier. His two o'clock had been cancelled and his
four o'clock meeting had been moved up to Thursday so he suddenly,
unexpectedly, had an entire afternoon to himself. He was burdened with the
usual backpack of miscellaneous stuff but additionally had a pile of blue
books, three inter-library loans and a box containing fourteen Shomash
artefacts he needed for an article he was writing.
So he was a bit preoccupied when he opened the door. So preoccupied that it
took him a good five seconds to understand what was happening; for his brain
to process the eight men in military gear systematically stripping down the
loft, emptying the fridge, packing up their clothes, taking the covers off
the beds.
They were all in green combat gear, pockets, bandoliers, muscles. It was as
if the loft was being boxed up by a GI Joe convention. He put the box of
artefacts down carefully on the floor, as if they might not notice him, as
if he might be dreaming the whole thing, as if he still had a chance to run.
"Tie his hands and cover his eyes," one of them said.
It was already too late to run, to fight, to yell for help. He was spun and
pushed and his hands seized and something was over his face and he couldn't
breathe and…
"Don't panic, Sandburg," a voice said calmly. "You'll be fine. Just
breathe. C'mon Chief. In… out… in… out… That's right. Here."
In the darkness he couldn't process, couldn't connect. The voice was Jim's,
surely? But it couldn't be, could it? Not Jim. It couldn't have been
Jim's face he'd seen, the head of one of the GI Joe's turning towards the
door as he came inside, could it? It couldn't have been Jim, standing there
packing his stuff, not under compulsion, not under restraint, could it? It
couldn't have been Jim's voice ordering him to be blindfold, bound. It
couldn't have been Jim in charge, in command…
Something touched his lips. Cold, metal; not sharp. The edge of a spoon?
But it pushed inside, pressed on his tongue. Just a spoon, right? And then
there was a click. His lips were cold. There was something pressing down
on his tongue. He whimpered, involuntarily, soundlessly…
"I know, Chief, I know. It won't hurt you. The blade holds your tongue
still and the jaws stop you moving your lips, but your airway is free and
clear so you won't choke, you hear me? There's a microchip on it that does
some techy thing with sound waves so you don't make any noise, Chief. I'm
sorry, but it's necessary."
Contrary to what you see on TV, Blair knew there was no safe way to gag
somebody. You stuff their mouth with something and it blocks their airway
so you have to supervise them every second or they can easily choke to
death. You spray their throat with something that anaesthetises their vocal
chords and they can still communicate by whispering, or by forming words
with the tip of the tongue and the teeth. But this… he tried to yell and
made no sound, tried to articulate but found his lips were frozen, his
tongue clamped.
"Don't panic, Chief, and you'll be fine. I…"
I what? What could possibly explain…
Someone lifted him, turned him on his side, curled him up. He felt a wall
at his back, at his feet. What?
"It's just for a moment. We'll let you out in the van."
Jim's voice again. "We." "We'll let you out." They weren't a "they", they
were a "we", and Jim was one of them.
He was in something; a box, a trunk, a packing crate, a suitcase. They were
carrying him downstairs and out of his life like luggage; the GI Joe
convention, with Jim at its head and Blair as its - what?
They opened up the box inside some sort of a van. A short, unpleasant
journey bouncing around on the floor of a van in eerie silence. And then
the van stopped, he was lifted out, and put into another vehicle. A car?
Whatever, this time he had a seat, was strapped in with a seatbelt. How was
it that no-one was seeing this? Handcuffed and blindfold and gagged,
people? Calling 911 much? Where was Jim, what was happening?
There was no conversation, no explanation; just the driving. He wasn't
uncomfortable - they checked his cuffs every hour or so - wasn't cold or hot
or hungry or thirsty, although come to think of it he was dying for a pee.
After a couple of hours they stopped again, and this time took him out of
the car and made him walk a few paces, and then untied his hands. A door
clanged behind him. He fumbled with the blindfold, blinked at the sudden
light. He was in a… room? An enclosed space, metal walls, no windows, one
door, locked - he checked. But there was a screen, and behind it a chemical
loo, which was a whole lot better than nothing. And water to wash with, in
a jug and basin arrangement like you see in old movies. And water to drink,
in bottles on a table, next to a battery-operated crockpot that turned out
to have some kind of bean and vegetable stew in it. And there was bread,
and a slice of cherry pie. He struggled with the thing in his mouth but
couldn't get any purchase on whatever fastened it behind his head. Did they
mean him to eat through it, drink through it, then? He opened one of the
bottles of water, tried to close his mouth around it.
It was messy but do-able. He could swallow; chew, after a fashion. But not
control the shape of his mouth or close it completely, not savour the taste
of the food, not with his tongue clamped down. Oh, and he drooled. Could
this day get any better?
As soon as he'd eaten, he sat down. Think, Sandburg, he told himself. What
was…
…and then he was waking up, lying on a bed, in a room he'd never seen
before. He still had the thing in his mouth but he wasn't bound. It was a
real room, too, not like the metal cell he'd been in last time. There was a
window, although it looked out onto a blank wall, and a real bathroom with a
real flush toilet. There was a bed, a table, chairs. A chest of drawers
held a selection of his underwear, neatly folded, and a couple of pairs of
his jeans and chinos, manically neat, alongside his three favourite tee
shirts, folded with tissue paper. Uh huh.
More bottled water and stew. He was hot: hotter than Cascade, hotter than
Canada. They'd drugged him, why? So he wasn't an awkward prisoner while
they flew? So they could wrap him up as luggage, again, while they took him
out of the country. This was tropical heat. South America? South East
Asia? Africa? The implications gave him a headache. He drank the water
and drooled a little more. If they were going to drug him they were going
to drug him. Inshalla. He shrugged.
There was a mirror in the bathroom. He looked at himself, dark eyed,
unshaven. No shaving mirror, so he didn't have anything to hold up and let
him see the back of his own head. How the hell was this gag thing tied,
that he still couldn't get it off, dammit?
He washed up, then went out and found a change of clothes, took a cool
shower and changed. He felt immeasurably better as a result, although his
head still buzzed with unarticulated questions. Jim. That was the key.
Was Jim mad, coerced, duplicated, hypnotised, cloned? Military. Had they
programmed him somehow? Brainwashed? Blackmailed? Because he had
certainly seemed in command.
If Jim was in charge, and in his right mind, then nothing too bad could be
going to happen. So why the gag? That was the key. What would happen if
he, Blair, could talk to Jim?
Then they came back, and there was no more time for questions. It was the
flex-cuffs and the blindfold again, and then another seatbelt in another
car. "Hey, Chief. You OK?"
Jim's voice.
He nodded. Because, you know, he really was OK, fundamentally. Oh, his
brain was likely to explode from unanswered questions but, you know, he had
his arms and legs and brain, and he was clean and well dressed and well fed.
Let's not be gauche enough to mention the drugged and kidnapped and other
side of the world…
__._,_.___