‘You’re fucking kidding me!’
Fifty-Eight
The red digital display was active once again.
59, 58, 57 . . .
‘I pressed the right button . . . that was the fucking deal,’ Hunter yelled at the top of his voice. He ran back to the cage and double-checked the wooden cross. He had no way of freeing Garcia from it. The nails that pierced his hands were deeply embedded in the wood. Hunter noticed that the main body of the cross was slotted into a separate wooden foundation.
42, 41, 40 . . .
His only hope was to lift it off its base and drag it out of the room in time.
33, 32, 31 . . .
He had no more time to think. He quickly placed his right shoulder under Garcia and the cross’s left arm. From his weight-training experience he knew he had to use his legs and not his arms and back to lift it up. He steadied himself on his feet; bent his knees and in one quick push used all his power to shove his shoulder against the wooden cross. It surprised him how easily it all came apart.
The cage door stayed open but Hunter wouldn’t be able to get the cross through it without tilting it. He twisted his body, rotating his waist to the left as far as he could go. Garcia emitted a muffled grunt of pain, but Hunter’s acrobatics did the trick. They were out of the cage. Now he had to make it to the door.
20, 19, 18 . . .
His feet were in agony and he was starting to feel the double weight on his back. ‘A few more steps,’ he whispered to himself, but suddenly his left knee buckled under the weight and he came crashing down, slamming it against the concrete floor. A searing pain shot up his leg, making him dizzy for a couple of seconds – precious seconds. Somehow he still managed the cross on his back.
Hunter wasn’t sure how much longer he had. He was scared to turn around and check the clock, but he knew he needed to get back on his feet. He firmed his right foot on the ground and with a scream pushed himself back up.
9, 8, 7 . . .
He finally made it to the door. He needed to use the twisting trick once again, but this time he couldn’t rely on his left knee to support the weight. Using his right leg as his main balance point he repeated the same movement of seconds ago. He screamed out in pain, praying he could hold on for just a few more steps. He tasted sick in his mouth as his body felt faint and struggled to cope with the unbearable pain. Hunter felt his grip weakening – he was losing the cross.
One more step.
He used his last ounce of strength to push himself and the cross through the doorframe.
No more time.
He let the heavy iron door slam behind him hoping it’d be strong enough to withhold the blast. Hunter let go of the cross and fell over his partner using his own body as a human blanket. He closed his eyes and waited for the explosion.
Fifty-Nine
The ambulance came screeching to a halt in front of the emergency ward entrance. Three nurses were waiting to retrieve its patients. They watched in horror as the first stretcher was wheeled out. A half-naked man with a barbed-wire crown on his head had been nailed to a life-size wooden cross. Blood was pouring out of his opened wounds.
‘Jesus Christ . . .’ gasped the first nurse to reach the patient.
The second man was covered in a thin gray powder, as if he’d been dug out from under a collapsed building.
‘I’m alright, get off me. Take care of him,’ came the loud shouts from the second patient. Hunter was trying to sit up, but being restrained by the ambulance paramedics. ‘Get your hands off me,’ he demanded.
‘Sir, we’re already taking care of your friend. Please calm down and let the doctors have a look at you. Everything will be OK.’
Hunter observed in silence as the nurses hurried Garcia through the double doors at the end of the busy corridor.
As he opened his eyes he struggled to understand what was happening. For a few seconds everything was blurred, then he noticed the white walls. He felt dizzy and desperately thirsty.
‘Good, you’re awake.’ The woman’s voice was soft and sweet.
With great effort he turned his head in her direction. A petite, short dark-haired nurse was staring down at him.
‘How’re you feeling?’
‘Thirsty.’
‘Here . . .’ She poured some water from the aluminum jug next to his bed into a plastic cup. Hunter drank greedily, but as the water hit his throat it burned. A look of pain washed over his face.
‘Are you OK?’ the nurse asked worried.
‘My throat hurts,’ he whispered in a weak breath.
‘That’s normal. Here, let me take your temperature,’ she said, offering him a thin glass thermometer.
‘I don’t have a fever,’ Hunter protested, pushing the thermometer away from his mouth. He finally remembered where he was and what had happened. He tried to sit up but the room did a back flip somersault on him.
‘Wow!’
‘Easy there, mister,’ she said, putting her hand over his chest. ‘You need the rest.’
‘I need to get the hell out of here.’
‘Maybe later. First you need to let me take care of you.’
‘No, you need to listen to me. My friend . . . how is he?’
‘Which friend?’
‘The one who came in nailed to a fucking cross. I don’t think you could’ve missed him. He looked like Jesus Christ. Do you remember him? Supposed to have died for our sins.’ Hunter tried sitting up once again. His head pounding.
The door opened and Captain Bolter stuck his head through. ‘Is he giving you attitude?’
The nurse gave the captain an ivory smile.
‘Captain, where’s Carlos? How’s he doing?’
‘Can you give us a moment?’ the captain asked the nurse as he stepped into the room.
Hunter waited until she was gone. ‘Did he make it? I gotta go see him,’ he said, trying to stand up but collapsing back into bed.
‘You ain’t going anywhere,’ the captain said firmly.
‘Talk to me, Captain, is he alive?’
‘Yes.’
