Chapter 26
PROCTOR’S WARM-UP FOR ANOTHER round of breathing exercises was interrupted by the faint noise he’d been waiting for: the scrape of the hatch sliding open.
This was it, then. Good—Proctor had been getting impatient.
He knew he had only seconds to prepare before the gas cock opened.
But that was enough. Almost without thinking, he dropped into survival mode.
Quickly, he emptied his lungs; took a shallow breath, let it out; repeated this; gulped several deep breaths in succession—and then at last began, from the belly up, to fill his lungs to their uttermost, and even beyond, with as much air as possible.
Then he let himself sag to the floor, slipping his shank out of hiding and nestling it between his fingers as he did so.
He heard the gas cock opening as his head came to rest on the rough canvas.
Almost imperceptibly, the index finger of his free hand began tapping out the seconds: one per beat of his heart.
Eight minutes: that was his goal. He figured his captor would not wait nearly that long—once psychotic killers had begun to act, the desire to bring that act to completion became almost overpowering—but he would try for eight, anyway.
He imagined boasting of the feat to his old SEAL buds—without context, of course—and knew none of them would believe him.
Still, it would be a feat he could always be proud of.
If he lived through the next half hour.
The first minute passed while, essentially, he completed preparing himself, mentally and physically. The second and third minute passed with situational awareness, running again and again through the steps he’d take once the man entered, working through the various ways it might play out.
At three minutes, the lights snapped on.
Now, for the first time, Proctor took stock.
The urge to breathe was faint but growing.
This, he knew from experience, was natural…
already, he felt on course to make eight minutes.
Although that wouldn’t be necessary: the lights coming on meant the guy was directly outside the room, probably watching him via some hidden means.
The lights meant business. The lights meant he was coming in.
Three minutes and a half had now passed—the longest his jailer could expect Proctor to hold out.
But the man had proven himself to be very careful, to take no unnecessary chances.
Weighing this against the sick urges he felt sure the insane man was feeling, Proctor guessed he’d wait four minutes—four and a half, max—before removing the cloth from beneath the door, opening it, and entering carefully.
As the need to breathe began to slowly intensify, Proctor turned his thoughts to what would happen after the man stepped in.
His fragmentary memories indicated that, the first time, his captor had worn a gas mask—but they also indicated he’d almost immediately taken it off.
That meant the anesthetizing agent, whatever it was, neutralized very quickly.
Proctor would need to resupply himself with oxygen before initiating his attack; he couldn’t very well overcome the psycho while still gasping for breath.
So when he heard the door open, he’d initiate the second stage of his plan.
He would continue holding his breath while the man approached him—no doubt with gas mask on and an incapacitating device of some type, probably that murderous Taser, at the ready.
The removal of the gas mask would be his signal to act.
Four and a half minutes had come and gone—five minutes was approaching.
His need for air was beginning to grow past the point where it could be ignored.
He knew that the record for holding one’s breath was over ten minutes…
maybe over eleven. But that was almost unnatural…
anyway, he wouldn’t need to make it nearly that far.
Five minutes had passed; surely any moment the door would open and the man would come in.
If he waited so long that Proctor began to feel faint, he could grab the assailant’s gas mask and briefly use it himself while he neutralized his opponent…
Five and a half minutes. He remembered from his SEAL training that, by this point, several trainees would have passed out and been pulled from the water.
He focused on the things that had been drilled into him: visualization techniques; using mental toughness to embrace discomfort; keeping one’s mindset fixated on the goal at hand; drawing on one’s team members to find additional strength in a shared ordeal… except here, he had no teammates.
Belay that—he had one: the cruel, talon-shaped blade hidden between his fingers, ready to deal death at a moment’s notice.
When it came to close-quarters fighting, Proctor had learned to be equally lethal with either hand, and he’d chosen to put the weapon in his left.
The freak’s gaze so obviously drifted to his right arm that—if Proctor timed things right—he’d never see it coming.
But now he’d passed the six-minute mark, and despite his best efforts, the need to breathe was growing extreme…
It was at that moment he thought he heard—from beyond the door—a chuckle.
He froze, lack of breath momentarily forgotten. It must have been his imagination: a trick of his increasingly oxygen-starved brain.
But then it came again, and this time there could be no question.
“I know you’re holding your breath, my friend,” laughed the all-too-familiar voice from beyond the door. “Six minutes—very impressive. But unlike you, I have all the time in the world. You, on the other hand, will have to breathe sooner or later… sooner, I’d imagine… and then you’ll go under.”
Proctor’s mind, even as it grew groggy from lack of oxygen, began to race.
This had to be a joke—or, rather, a test. The man was guessing, making sure.
Proctor could have been wrong about the dispersal period of the gas—maybe it was longer than he’d anticipated.
Or the psycho was being even more cautious than he expected.
Either way, it couldn’t be much longer. Any second now, the door would open.
And half a minute later, he’d be free. He forced his mind to focus on this outcome as his lungs began to scream for air…
Then the voice came again. “Oh,” it sounded through the door, mocking, self-confident.
“By the way, I know about that shank you have hidden. Palmed in your left hand—correct? You won’t have a chance to use it, I’m afraid.
Because sooner or later you’ll have to breathe, and then it’s lights-out for you, my friend. ”
Shock coursed through Proctor. How could the man know about that?
Had he been watching, via some night-vision peephole, as he honed the edge of the blade?
No, that couldn’t be—Proctor had taken too much care to keep his movements stealthy, slow, obscured from any possible angle of view.
He was just guessing again; a final test before entering.
… But then, how could he know about the left hand? Even if by some miracle he’d seen Proctor shape the weapon, it was impossible he’d seen him slip it into position as he mimed sinking to the ground. Guessing he had a weapon—maybe. But…
Another laugh. “Surrender to the inevitable. I know everything. All you’re doing is wasting time—and it would annoy me to have to pump a fresh load of gas in there.”
Proctor had been struggling with a combination of disbelief and lightheadedness, while meanwhile every cell in his body now cried out for oxygen. But—for a few seconds—clarity returned, and he realized that, whatever unexpected way this situation was playing out, he had run out of options.
As a member of the Ghost Company, though, he also knew that even when you were out of options, one final option was still open to you.
He gasped in a single deep breath, pushing himself into a sitting position at the same time. The relief was immediate… but so was the peculiar twirling sensation, swiftly stealing over him already.
“You know everything?” he cried, coughing. “Bet you didn’t know about this, motherfucker!”
And, raising his left arm, weapon extended and at the ready, he brought it down across his right arm.
“Your trophy is spoiled, you bastard! Can you see? I’m slicing up your meal myself!” And Proctor slashed at his arm a second time.
There was a howl of rage from the far side of the door. It seemed to go on for a long time, but—with each breath he took—the noise grew fainter to Proctor. The blade slipped from his hand as he felt the warm blood start flowing into the crook of his elbow.
“I’m going to leave you to bleed out!” came the faraway voice, trembling with fury. “You can die alone—in the dark!”
But Proctor didn’t hear him.
A few seconds later, the lights went off as well, plunging the room once again into utter darkness. But Proctor—already in a deep darkness of his own—did not notice.