Page 2 of Fighting for Valor
All of six feet until I find curved stone. What the fuck? Using the wall for support, I stagger to my feet, then turn around. “Jackson Richards. Listen carefully, fuckers. That’s the only piece of information you’ll ever get out of me.”
My words echo, and from the sound, this whole place is less than ten feet across. And tall. Despite my shoulder sending shooting pains down my back, I feel as high up as I can. The stones are rough, but arranged in a way I can’t find a handhold anywhere.
What I think is halfway around this hole, my foot comes in contact with something plastic. A bucket. Using it for reference, I continue around the space. My estimate is spot on. I’m in a goddamned well. Tilting my head back, I repeat my name and listen for the echo. Twenty feet down. Give or take. With no way up or out. No food. No water. And only a bucket to piss in.
I sink back down onto my ass and drop my head into my hands, elbows on my bent knees. Is this the end? Did Kahlid or one of his flunkies throw me down here to die?
“Go for it, shitstains. I dare you.”
Light chases away the darkness, burning my eyes. I don’t know how long I’ve been here. Six hours? Ten? Not more than that. Any longer in this heat and I’d be dead from dehydration.
Something lands with a thunk next to me, and then the light fades away as whoever’s up there drags a cover over the top of the well. Feeling around, I close my fingers around a plastic water bottle.
My hands shake, and I twist off the cap and suck down half the bottle in three gulps. It’s stale, but so much better than the parasite-infested swill Kahlid always gave us.
I’m not in Hell. From the heat, I’m nowhere near Hell.
Think. What do you remember after sending the message?
Attempting to channel Ryker, I search my memories. Over the months we’ve spent as prisoners, he’s taught us how to remember everything. Or…almost everything. Some things, it’s better to forget.
The stun gun. Darkness. Then…a truck bed. At night. I couldn’t see or move. I could smell the dust, though. I made some noise when we went over a deep rut in the road, then there was pain. My head. After that…nothing for a long time.
Loud voices. Pashto. But the accent was different than Kahlid’s. If I had to guess, I’m a good four or five hours away from Hell. A completely different part of Afghanistan. Why?
Now that my eyes have adjusted, I can make out a dim halo around whatever covers the top of the well. I’m messed up—dysentery, malnourishment, and so many blows to the head—my mental capacity is probably severely compromised. But there’s also a faint line that’s a little lighter than the rest. A small gap between pieces of wood?
Keeping my gaze fixed above me, I try to stay conscious long enough to see the sun fade away.
I still don’t have any answers. The light’s totally gone now, and it’s finally cooler. The air feels just as thick, though. Hard to breathe. Every time I get up and try to find a handhold or foothold along the wall, I end up dizzy.
Once or twice, I thought I heard a truck pass close by. Voices. But they could all be in my head. My tongue is so dry, it’s stuck to the roof of my mouth, and I gave up trying to keep my eyes open long ago. It hurts too much.
A skittering sound from behind my left shoulder makes me flinch, but I’m too tired, too weak to move. Rats, probably. I can deal with rats.
Something tickles my upper arm. Fuck. It’s too light to be a rat. Too big to be a spider. I fling it away, and a quiet thwap sounds from across the well. “Serves…you…right…” I whisper.
But then, something stings the bottom of my foot. The pain flares, bright and hot, all the way up to my knee. I can’t see anything, can’t find the damn thing. What the fuck is it? My low moan echoes off the walls, and my heart rate spikes. Another sharp pain in my calf, and I slam my hand down onto something squishy. Almost…rubbery.
Panic takes over, and all my efforts to remember the list of poisonous species in Afghanistan short-circuit.
Focus!
Not a snake. Oh, shit. Scorpions. Some of the most toxic species in the world live in this country.
My left leg is going numb. This is bad. So bad. Even worse when I hear more faint scratching to my right. I’m going to die here. Alone. In the dark. In agony. With no one to hear me scream.
Chapter Two
Ripper
A heavy weight hits my thigh. The light from above is faint. Like…twilight. I try to focus, to see the slats again, but I’m dying. I know it. The scorpions come every night. Some of the bites are infected. One of the water bottles they threw a while ago—I don’t know how long—landed on one of the swollen welts, and it broke open, the scent making me retch.
My fingers twitch, about the only movement I can still manage. I let my head fall to the side, peering up as a dark shape descends the rope ladder. They’re going to take me. Move me. Try to get me to talk. The joke’s on them. I can’t make a sound. I’m too weak.
Six times—I think—they’ve tossed a bottle of water into the well. The last one lies unopened. I couldn’t muster the strength. I’m covered in bile, piss, and blood, and hours ago, I made peace with my death.
“There is no cause for this,” the man says when he stands over me. “I will take care of you, my friend. Trust me.”
