He sensed its malevolent presence threatening to surface. He felt himself yield, needing its help. But at what cost? Despising himself for being weak, he closed his eyes and gave into fourteen years of built-up frustration, shame, and rage.

And wondered if he’d just sold his soul.

Chapter 41

Chapter  41

Deep in the Nicaraguan jungle, Nathan hangs at the brink of insanity. All he has left is hatred. At everything. At earth. At sky. At all things, living or dead.

Crack.

Sixteen.

The bite of the lash becomes venomous. Each crack of the whip hardens his hatred. He clings to it like a life raft—separating him from an ocean of infinite agony.

Eight feet of braided catgut strikes again.

Crack.

Seventeen.

***

Oblivious to his torn feet, Nathan pursued Montez across the empty expanse of West Mission Bay Drive.

Its siren and air horn blaring, a fire engine rounded the corner from Mission Boulevard. Its engine roared. A second, more distant siren joined the din. Probably police.

***

The whipping continues at ten-second intervals.

Crack.

Crack.

Crack.

Time drifts. The other had taken him away... for how long? How many lashes had he taken? He lost count at twenty-eight.

He opens his eyes and catches a glimpse of Montez leaning against a tree with his arms crossed. Montez yawns in mock boredom and nods runt boy over. They speak in hushed whispers for a few seconds. Maybe runt boy needs a rest, his arm must be tired from the exertion.

Nathan feels liquid running down his legs. He hopes this is the end.

***

Nathan saw Montez reach an expanse of grass and veer toward a loose group of palms. Closing the distance, he easily kept Montez in sight. His prey was silhouetted against the multicolored lights of the amusement complex beyond.

***

Time drifts again.

Montez’s calm voice brings him back. “Why don’t you just tell me your name? What possible harm could it cause? Why go through all this needless suffering?”

He doesn’t respond.

Montez snaps a finger.

He closes his eyes, expecting a blinding crack. It doesn’t come.

The waiting is so horrible.

The rope suspending him jerks. He opens his eyes. Runt boy is untying the knot. He’s lowered just enough to stand on his toes. A cruel trick. His shoulders are out of the sockets. They have been for hours.

Montez strolls over and throws power on his torso. He grits his teeth against the  blinding sting.

“We’re going to take a lunch break. Can we bring you anything? A club sandwich and beer?”

“Fuck you.”

“Such language.”

Time drifts again.

A slap across his lacerated face brings him forward. He opens his eyes. Montez. Inches away. Holding something. Leaning his head back.

A canteen? Water. He’s drinking water.

His tormentor spits the liquid onto his legs and feet. His welts erupt in fresh agony.

He hears himself again. Laughing. No, crying.

Maybe he could end this. Definitely worth a try.