Chapter 5 Chapter 5: The Third Man
“Enough!”
The third man roared as he stood. The chair screeched across the floor. His face was harsh, marked by a terrible scar running from hairline to jaw, a jagged purple line that narrowly missed his eye and split his full black beard in two. He wore a dark suit, absurd in the wasteland, over a skintight black turtleneck.
“Enough. I’ve heard enough of this pathetic whining. Everyone out.”
Guy and the guards moved toward the door.
“Not you, Brian-the-Brain.” His lip curled. “God knows why they call you ‘the Brain.’ Who’s going to record this?”
I took a last, desperate shot. “Ask Nate! He’ll vouch for me! He knows I saved him!”
In one swift, brutal motion, he crossed the room and backhanded me. Stars exploded in my vision. “Shut up, bitch. You speak when spoken to.” He leaned in, breath hot on my ear. “I am Charles, Sheriff and Mayor of New Eden. You are nothing here.” He yanked me from the chair, my shoulders screaming. He hoisted my bound wrists onto the ceiling hook; my feet barely scraped the floor. He dragged a terrified Brian and his desk closer, positioning the glowing device to face me. The room emptied; the door clicked shut. Just the three of us.
What followed was a long, dark descent. I was beaten. Tortured. Asked the same questions again and again in a relentless, grinding cycle. I’d like to say I stayed silent, that I was a hero, but like anyone who’s faced an expert torturer, and Charles was an expert, an artist of pain, I broke.
I told him I was just a scavenger. He laughed, a dry, hollow sound, then pressed a hot iron to my ribs. The smell of my own skin cooking, the sizzle of it, made me scream the truth.
I confessed everything they wanted to know. The recent truths. How I killed June because she was slowing me down, a necessary mercy that felt like a sin. How I’d scouted this town for three days from the ridge, searching for any weakness, any way in. How I watched Nate’s group get attacked by the ferals and only stepped in at the last second, to earn my entry. How I was running from my past, desperate for a new life. How I’d hoped New Eden could be that fresh start.
“Why’d you really spare Nate?” Charles asked, deceptively soft. I hesitated, scrambling for a safe answer. He didn’t wait. He burned me again, this time on the inside of my arm. The scream was torn from my soul.
I told him I helped Nate because I wanted to bed him. I served the lie, letting my voice sound crude and desperate. Let him think it’s lust. That’s a motive he’ll understand. Better than him knowing I saw Dog’s eyes in Nate’s face, how close I came to killing him by the broken cart and taking his boots.
He promised me water if I talked. When the words finally spilled out in a desperate river, he picked up the glass, held it to my cracked lips, then poured it slowly, deliberately, onto the floor. I watched the precious liquid soak through the grate. I would have licked it from the tiles if I could.
I told him everything, except my life with The Sisters. That core of me, shame and strength both, stayed locked away. He knew nothing about that. Asked nothing. Thank The Mother. By then my will was ash. I was a hollow thing, desperate to please him, to make the pain stop. I needed him to like me, to see me as useful.
“Security’s reputation,” he breathed against my ear. “You do understand. We have to be sure.”
Suddenly he stepped back. “Everyone back in!” he roared.
They flooded in at once, waiting just beyond the door, no doubt having heard every scream.
Charles smirked, adjusting his suit jacket as if he’d concluded a business meeting. “Alright, Guy. Ask your questions. Just… formalities. For the record.”
Guy sat slowly, eyeing my bruised face with a mix of pity and revulsion. “Tilly, we took your blood while you were out. You’re clean taking rads daily, I guess. But do you have any other… mutations we don’t know about? Anything physical?”
I tried to meet his gaze through swollen eyes. “No. I don’t think so. I’m clean.”
Charles nodded to the guards. “Strip her.”
I struggled feebly. “No, please! Don’t!” Hands grabbed me, held me fast. A blade flashed. My T-shirt was sliced open and pulled away. My trousers and underwear were yanked down in one brutal, humiliating motion, leaving me exposed and shivering under the harsh lights.
Guy gasped, recoiling. “Shit.”
Charles laughed, a booming sound that filled the room. “Never seen a ladyboy before, Guy?” He stepped forward, pinching my breast, squeezing my nipple until I cried out. “See? Real enough up here.” Then his hand moved down, grabbing my genitals, crushing until my scream was a ragged, broken thing. “And these too. Not Feral. Not a Mut. Just a fucking freak.” He released me with a shove of disgust.
He strode to the door, calling over his shoulder, “It’s harmless. Sign it in. Assign it a human number and give it a bunk in Section 1.”
Guy added quickly, “And her things? The weapons?”
Charles paused at the threshold, not bothering to look back. “Let it keep them. It’s gotta earn Chids somehow. And it did help Nate, it earned them. Rules of the town.”
The door slammed, leaving me naked, broken, and utterly alone, assigned a number in the one place I’d hoped would be a sanctuary.
The man they called Guy studied me for a long moment, his gaze as calculating as a butcher weighing a side of meat. Finally, he grunted and gestured to one of the stone-faced guards. “Cut her down. Give her, her things and bunk her in Section 1.”
The coarse ropes around my wrists fell away. As my arms were freed, a torrent of fire roared back into my numb limbs, the sensation so violently agonizing I saw white spots dance before my eyes. My knees buckled; the strength to stand was a distant memory. But the guard’s arm shot out, catching me before I could hit the filthy floor. His grip was impersonal, efficient. “Ma’am, this way, if you please,” he said, his voice a flat monotone. He steadied me, hand under my elbow, and guided my stumbling form toward the heavy door.
“Wait.”
Guy’s voice, like grinding stone, halted us. He stepped forward and shoved a small, cold piece of metal into my palm, a dog tag. “You’ll need this, Tilly.” It was a stamped metal chip, its edges slightly rough. The number 327 was etched into its surface, my new identity. “Wear it at all times. It’s a hanging offense if you don’t.” Then, turning his head slightly toward the guard, he added, “Hand her over to that whelp, Max. About time he earned his keep. Tell him I’ll clip his wings if he doesn’t show her the ropes.”
The guard gave a short nod and led me out of the interrogation room.