Solitary Confinement

The weirdest thing about where they took him was that it wasn’t really a containment facility. He was actually a little offended that he was so low profile to them that they threw him in the back of what looked like a Toyota 4Runner from the 90’s without a second thought. Nothing in this tract of the globe was ultramodern(not structures, technology, or beliefs), but he never pictured war to be so…. improvised. When he signed up he always pictured war to be more straightforward than it actually was, at least in the Middle East. Instead of a structured regime to fight against with hierarchical command structures and fighters in bulletproof gear riding around in armored tanks, they had young teens with old Soviet era Kalishnikovs shooting at them for reasons that he didn’t fully understand, let alone that 13 year old screaming, “Death to the infidels! Death to America!” He had to shoot that kid, and it kept him up at night; his brains spilling out in the middle of the village square. They were pelted with rocks and had to leave before the kid’s eyes stopped twitching. That was his first kill, but it wasn’t his last. It made him pine for the era of stately combat; where both sides lined up to duke it out, and children were far from the skirmishes. But he knew that time period never really existed;kids have been fighting wars since people learned that it was much easier to bludgeon someone’s brains in than trying to negotiate with them.

Insurgents lurked in every slightly darkened corner and hid in plain sight. People you thought could be trusted turned on you without a second thought, and then before you knew it, half of your squadron was executed on the spot and the other half hauled away in the best vehicles the 90’s had to offer. He wouldn’t be surprised if some of the engines in these death traps were being kept alive with a roll of duct tape and a prayer to Allah.

He had been stuck in this house for a little over a week now. It certainly wasn’t the expected cinderblock walls, metal bars, and drafty friable infrastructure, but it still sucked. It seemed like he was being kept in a guestroom, but there was no bed and the windows were boarded up. His right ankle was trapped in a leg chain, which gave him room to stand and wander, but it tensed before he made it anywhere near the door or either window. Two armed guards came in twice a day with what was probably food. He kept it down, though, so he considered that a win.

It was important to keep active when being held, he was pretty sure he read that somewhere. So, he did fifty pushups, once in the morning(or whenever he woke up) and once at night(or whenever he felt tired enough to sleep). It kept him going, and he recited his name to himself during every rep.

“Wyatt Kershaw, Wyatt Kershaw, Wyatt Kershaw,” That was crucial because it reminded him that he was a unique individual with some semblance of autonomy and couldn’t give in to their dehumanization. They hadn’t come for him yet. It was only a matter of time, the room wasn’t soundproofed and he heard the agonized screams of his friends and brothers through the paper thin walls. It was another reason why he focused on exercise; if he could increase his heart rate enough, then the pumping of his blood could lessen the sounds of terror. The insurgents didn’t leave him unscathed though, he had been nursing one helluva concussion from when one,the size of a linebacker, sucker punched him then stomped on his head when he was sprawled out in the dust. It was only one stomp, anymore and he’d probably be dead; brains splattered on the ground like that kid he gunned down(he didn’t even know that kid’s name).

Wyatt’s stomach grumbled angrily, and he breathed through a sharp hunger cramp. It was about time for him to receive his pittance of food. Right on schedule, two insurgents unlocked the door and walked into the room.

“Hey fellas, what’s on the menu today? You did give my compliments to the chef like I asked you to, right?” Wyatt asked, a charming smile on his face. Or at least it was before his skin was exposed to these sweltering and horrible days in the desert and he had been assaulted by Hulk Hogan’s stronger brother.

They glared at him with an equal measure of disrespect and hatred. Which was fine, he wasn’t their biggest fan either. They both had automatic weapons slung on their backs with scabbards for blades held by cloth belts. One had a long black bushy beard and the other just had dark stubble. He wondered if he needed a shave yet.

“Eat,” the one with stubble grumbled. He dropped the tray of food on the ground and the gray mush erupted like a geyser, spraying the ground with gruel. Luckily, most was still on the tray and he reached out like a timid puppy for the food. He was just waiting for one of them to lash out, they hadn’t yet, but those baleful looks they gave him made him want to curl into a ball and cry. Which he would do, but not until later when he was getting tired and his pride dissolved in the night.

His middle and index fingers hooked around the edge of the tray, and he was about to slide it along the splintery floor, when the one with the bushy beard stepped forward and raised a fist. Wyatt fell back and raised an arm to protect himself, but all that happened was the insurgents started to laugh merrily. They cracked up actually;it was humiliating.

Suddenly, he wasn’t hungry and rage filled his stomach instead. His jaw clenched so hard, he thought it would crack in two. They were still laughing, and he wanted them dead; Wanted to do it himself.

“Hey fuckwads, you two lovers gonna leave or screw here? Let me know so I can plan out my day.” Wyatt said. The vexatious laughter halted at once, and pure abhorrence filled their eyes. Homophobia, it was nice to know that some hate was universal. He was leaning against the back wall, and he used it as a buttress as he stood up. The insurgents stepped forward, but still out of his chained radius. Their hands rested on the haft of their machetes. “What, you two scared of little ole me? I’m the one on the leash. Honestly, how much English do you loathsome barbarians understand anyway?” Wyatt watched their reactions, and he knew that they understood enough. He balled his hands into fists at his side;his heart thumped wildly behind his ribcage. 

“COME ON! COME CLOSER YOU COWARDS!” he screamed. Wyatt rushed forward, only thoughts of tortured screams and wanton violence propelling him. All too soon, he reached the end of his tether, tripped and landed on the hardwood. His elbow slammed into the ground, and one of the men drove their boot into his solar plexus. The air rushed out of his lungs and he couldn’t get it back. It was hard to breathe and he instinctively curled in on himself. The laughter started once again, happier than ever. The door slammed shut and he heard the lock re-engage. Frustrated tears crested out of his eyes and he fought to keep them back, but they surged through his defenses and he was soon bawling his eyes out, trapped and in enemy territory.

What he wouldn’t do to have never been enticed over by the recruiter in his high school cafeteria. He should’ve just kept on walking, but the guy had a reusable water bottle and he thought it was cool. The rest was a war of attrition on him. 

“Oh, I’m sorry to hear about your dad’s passing. I’m sure that’s putting some tremendous strain on your family’s financial situation. Y’know what’s a great way to go to college on the cheap?” The rest was history.

Finally, his aspiration returned to normal and he eased himself off the unforgiving ground. He looked at the tray of food through water eyes and picked it up. Then, he hurled it into the locked door with a scream of frustration. The tray whistled in the air briefly, before it crashed into the door and rattled to the floor. Gray muck painted the door and floor.

“It tasted like garbage, anyway.” he muttered to himself as he crawled back over to the wall. His elbow throbbed and it was already bruising nastily. He sat there lifelessly and stared at the locked door, imagining Seal Team Six bursting through and bringing him to safety. But it didn’t happen.

When night came(or when he got tired enough to sleep on the floor), he didn’t do his push ups and didn’t bother reciting his name ad nauseam. He simply laid on the floor and fell into a restless slumber.

Days passed and he didn’t bother antagonizing the thugs who brought him food. They goaded him, even kicking at his outstretched leg, but he just waited for them to leave and ate the sludge. There was a bucket that they gave him to use for the bathroom, which they took away and cleaned every two days, but the revolting smell of his own waste didn’t make him feel sick like it used to. He wasn’t sure if that was a negative development or not. He cried at night;sometimes it was for the mom he left behind in a perpetually anxious state or the dad he lost to lung cancer before he ever decided to give his life to his country. There were even a couple of nights that he cried over Samantha Gallagher, the gorgeous redhead that refused to wait for him; didn’t want to put herself through the stress that would bring. She seemed clairvoyant now.

Wyatt had finally started to realize that rescue wasn’t going to happen. Everyday, the screams of his comrades filled his ears for hours as unspeakable things were done to them(they weren’t unthinkable because he had gotten pretty imaginative since being sent overseas). But even those screams had begun to calcify his ears; his whole being was becoming calcified. 

What they hadn’t provided him was a shower or clean clothes. He was still wearing the standard issue pants and shirt he was patrolling in. They took off his flak jacket and combat boots, though. He was starting to smell truly awful, but some of that could be the waste. It was all starting to seem so pointless to him. What was the use of remaining strong if the only logical terminus of this was Wyatt’s untimely demise?

Days continued to pass, and he only felt his zeal ebb away slowly. It was all starting to amalgamate into one endless pit of despair. He would get his two servings of gruel a day, the insurgents would come in and mock him, then he’d be left alone with his increasingly morbid thoughts. His facial hair had gone from stubble to scraggly to a full beard. The gruel would get stuck in the thickets of the hair now. Life had become all too predictable and he often wondered what he would do if he had access to a sharp instrument. Those thoughts didn’t help matters, so he tried to ignore them. He would succeed until the next day came and the newest screams started. 

There had been no screaming today, which was unheard of, and it was definitely past due. Wyatt grabbed the small tin cup that housed his daily allowance of water, and was taking the tiniest sip, when the bolt unlatched with a snap, and the insurgents walked in. This time was different, though. Instead of the usual pair, there were three others that he hadn’t seen before. Only two were carrying automatic weapons.

He took a deep breath, his heart spasming in his chest. “What’s the special occasion, boys?” he asked, but he couldn’t even fake enthusiasm. It came out quavery and weak; he hated it. One of them threw a band of cloth at his feet. They didn’t say anything, but he knew what they wanted him to do all the same. “If you think that I’m covering my eyes, you’re smoking something.”

One of them sighed like he was inconveniencing them and three stalked over to him. Two of them were fingering the grips of their machetes and the third bent down to pick up the cloth. Wyatt waited until his face was far enough down, then he lashed out with his foot. He jammed the heel of his foot up and into his nose, and felt dark satisfaction when he felt the cartilage crumple up and warm blood on his foot. The insurgent fell back, screaming in Arabic, and clutching his nose. He rolled around and copious amounts of blood slipped between his fingers. Wyatt quickly hopped up before the others reacted;he suddenly felt more alive than he may have ever.

“That’s one down, who’s next?” 

“Stop,” one of them commanded imperiously. He snorted and gave them the finger. One of the more impetuous ones came forward with a wolfish grin. The only advantage he had was that they weren’t as trained as him. But it wasn’t much of an advantage in his emaciated and run down state. In fact, his legs were already starting to wobble. He didn’t realize he hadn’t been using them much lately;his apathy had disintegrated both his mind and body.

The rash one was still slowly inching over to him, getting closer to his radius. He unsheathed his machete and its shimmering blade stood out, even in the dimly lit room. Wyatt dodged as the blade came down in a swift chop, and he grabbed the hand with the machete, controlling the weapon. He had lost some strength in his arms as well, it was a struggle to keep control of the insurgent’s hand. Wyatt knew he had to stop them from shooting, so he pulled the insurgent in front of him. Left arm wrapped around his midsection, pressing them together and using him as a human shield. But the positioning had some disadvantages, and an elbow was repeatedly driven into his stomach as he bent the insurgent’s wrist into an untenable angle, prying the machete from his hand.

With trained lethality, he pulled the insurgent’s forehead back, exposing his throat and ripped the blade in a slight arc through the carotid artery on both sides of his neck. The arterial spray exploded out, dappling the others in their friend’s blood. Wyatt couldn’t help the unholy grin that distorted his mouth when he saw their horror stricken faces. The two holding rifles were shaking like leaves in a stiff wind.

“Hope that wasn’t anyone’s brother,” Wyatt said, throwing his lifeless body to the ground. The machete was still gripped tight in his hand, but it didn’t matter because his frame was exposed and the next thing he knew, tremendous pain shot through his leg and all throughout his body. He stumbled into the wall and slid down. Blood was spitting out of a nickel sized hole in his upper thigh. He refused to scream or show a modicum of pain, instead locking his jaw and glaring at the swiftly approaching thugs.

They didn’t do anything to cauterize the wound. Every slight jostle made him want to scream until his throat was raw and pulpy, but he wouldn’t give them the satisfaction as they dragged him down the hall. He had no idea where he was because they had wrapped the cloth tight around his eyes. Two insurgents were dragging him through wherever they were. He was unconscious when they brought him in. He couldn’t help the small whimper that escaped the back of his throat when they hauled him down a small flight of stairs.

“I don’t know what your goal is here, but I’m not giving you monsters anything.” One of them smacked him in the back of the head, and he decided to keep quiet for now. He was having trouble thinking of smart alec comments, anyway.

Finally they stopped transporting him and released him. He dropped to the floor, but they grabbed him by the hair and yanked him up. As the blindfold was lifted off his eyes, a sharp fingernail dug into his right eye and he let out another whimper. When he could see again, he was confused, bit only for a moment. While he had no idea what happened to the others in his squadron, he knew what was going to happen to him.

A film camera was directly in front of him, and blinding lights made it impossible for him to see anything else around. But he knew what this was. There was definitely a banner of some sort, letting everyone unlucky enough to watch this know what terrorist organization they were affiliated with. He could picture a fastidious director with an AK-47 slung over his back, trying to find the right lighting to show every scratch and bruise on his face;Wanting everyone to see how awfully he was treated. Wyatt couldn’t open his right eye and he felt an itchy trickle slide down his face. They were getting blood and didn’t even have to use ketchup or a facsimile. 

One of the insurgents was speaking in rapid Arabic. Wyatt made sure to kneel as straight as possible. He wasn’t going to look weak in his final moments. The broadside of a machete was pressed against his throat and he stared at the camera in grim defiance. He hoped his mom never saw this. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw an abrupt movement and felt nothing else.