A Fleeting Glimpse of Shadow

Major Fitzpatrick had close-cropped grayinir air and myriad lines and wrinkles around his face. He was square-jawed, broad-shouldered, and possessed seemingly inhuman posture for a man his age; he didn't look as though he'd slouched a day in his life. His eyes had the tired, clenched look of a man who'd sold himself in two places at once, and Michael was convinced he didn't even know how to smile. His exsionsion when he'd looked up from the paperwork on his desk as Michael came in didn't exactly inspire one to confidence; Michael distrusted him the moment he laid eyes on him – there was something furtive, underhanded in that lined and craggy face, something that raised the hackles on the back of Michael's neck. As his interrogation proceeded he was swiftly coming to the conclusion his first impression had been on the mark, and that thought made him even more frightened than he had been before. The sheer bulk and muscle of the soldiers surrounding him was intimidating, but there was a careless cruelty behind the Major's eyes that alarmed Michael.

It didn't help that Major Fitzpatrick had known Michael for a homosexual before he'd even opened his mouth. One icy glance flicking up and down Michael's body, a keen look into his teary, terrified eyes, and the Major had him figured out; despite the fact the sergeant had introduced Michael as "Phil Boyles," all the Major had called him so far was "faggot." Never angrily; never loudly; he used the was tas though he had every right, as though Michael had given him his permission, as though it were Michael's name. And every time he called Michael that the other men grinned, and some sniggered and muttered to each other.

Michael had brazenly lied to the Major from the outset, choosing to use a tale told him by a gay friend from high school about fetishizing t dri drivers; he had even told Major Fitzpatrick his contact had sent him off on a wild-goose-chase and he'd gotten lost looking for his john. It sounded more reasonable, at least, than the truth, and as he'd gotten no hint so far that Legs, Frances, or Dr. Walker had been captured he figured he might as well keep their secrets and muddy the waters as thoroughly as possible. After all, a lot of gay men DID fetishize the truckers in the remoter San Diego truck stops; Michael had spoken to them before, shaking his head over the terrible risks – physical and medical – they took just for a quick fantasy-fulfillment. He hoped his story sounded convincing enough for Major Fitzpatrick's ears – he shuddered to think what this cruelly casual man would do if he knew the truth, and hoped against hope that somehow Legs and Frances and Dr. Walker would rescue him – "But if not that," Michael thought, steeling himself, "I hope I'm strong enough to keep my mouth shut so they can at least get out." He looked down into the Major's cold eyes and shuddered, thinking of all the horrible things men could do to hurt other men. "Please let me be strong," he prayed, swallowing the lump in his throat. "Please don't let me betray Frances – no matter what they do to me!"

But whatever deity he'd supplicated was silent and Michael stood, alone and feeling very vulnerable, in front of Major Fitzpatrick's big oak desk in the dark, cluttered room. The walls were made of the same stuff Michael remembered from Frances' office – temporary walls the color of faded denim, nubbly and rough – and tacked up on them were maps of Arizona, maps of the United States, and – Michael's heart turned cold – a map of North and South Korea. There was a big American flag on a brass stand behind the Major's desk chair and the desk was cluttered with paperwork, a slim black laptop, and several telephones, though the indicator lights on the electronic equipment were dark, and one of the phones was off its hook, not even beeping, eerily silent. The men who'd captured Michael stood in a semi-circle behind him, hemming him in; he could feel their presence all around him, like needles sticking into his skin, and as he was still wearing his parka he was sweating heavily. He could feel a steady stream of perspiration trickling down his back, oozing past the waistband of his underwear, and running in tickling drips down the crack of his backside. There were no windows, because they were underground; the men had taken him round the other side of the building and in through a front entryway, then down an elevator to a dark hallway; at the end of the hallway had been what Michael had privately called The End of the Road – Major Fitzpatrick's office. It was stifling, and smelled of chemicals and machinery, and Michael felt faint.

Now Major Fitzpatrick was silent, ruminating over Michael's spurious story. He seemed to believe it, at least on the surface, but that handsome, rugged face was shuttered, suspicious, and Michael was all too aware of the men and their guns behind him. Michael swallowed heavily and pressed his arms closer to his side, trying to keep them from trembling. He knew that to show any weakness at this point would only stimulate these men to cruelty; how many times had he experienced just that in the past? The high school football team, the weightlifters in the university locker room, a group of construction workers on the corner by the mall where he worked – bullies grouped, drawn to debility and frailty like magnets, and the weaker and frailer their target the tougher and crueler they became. Michael had learned long ago that to cry was to invite further injustice, but sometimes it was so hard not to cry.

Major Fitzpatrick folded his square, calloused hands on the desk in front of him and looked urbanely u Mic Michael, pursing his lips. "All right then, faggot," he said tranquilly, ignoring the snickerings of his men around him, "You've told us what you're supposedly doing here. Your story aside, answer me this." He leaned forward, and his dark eyes became even more intense than before; his gravelly voice deepened. "What the hell did you do to our computers?"

Michael blinked at this sudden accusation. "I – what?" he said, terribly confused. Major Fitzpatrick regarded him even
"
"You heard me," he said coldly. "Our computers. How did you shut them down? How do we get them back up? Were you using a wireless network to hack into it? What?"

Michael stared blankly at him. "I – don’t know anything about computers," he stammered. "I'm an interior decorator."

Another snigger from behind him, and whispers. The Major glared at him. "So you say, faggot," he said. "But let me tell you this. Sodomy's illegal in Arizona. Did you know thatggotggot?" Michael swallowed again, and his heart, which had slowed to a canter, galloped along again at a breakneck pace, and his eyes started to tunnel. "So if you admit to me – a law-abiding, upright American citizen – that you're out here specifically to perpetrate sodomy upon a heterosexual truck driver, it's really up to me to stop you. My patriotic duty, really. Now," he said, looking over Michael's pale face and terrified eyes unsympathetically, "I could turn you over to the police – I really ought to, you know, faggot – but that wouldn't do me much good, would it? Because you're not here to butt-fuck truck drivers, really, are you?"

"I told you – " began Michael in a high squeaky voice, but Major Fitzpatrick interrupted him, his voice rising.

"Because the nearest highway with a truck stop on it is over ninety miles away, and I have a very hard time believing you walked ninety miles from the New Mexico border looking for a truck driver." Major Fitzpatrick glanced behind Michael, and without warning a rough hand shoved Michael forward until his face was pressed on the Major's desk; someone kicked his legs apart and to his horror Michael felt the cold hard muzzle of a gun shoved into his crack. "Now tell me," said Major Fitzpatrick serenely; Michael could no longer see him, his cheek was pushed onto the paperwork, a hand gripping him by the back of his neck, another two hands held his arms out stra, "n, "now tell me, faggot, what are you really doing here, and what did you do – " Major Fitzpatrick's voice got louder and higher, he'd stood up " – to our computers?" When Michael's only response was a terrified squeak, Major Fitzpatrick grabbed him by the hair on the back of his head and jerked back until Michael was looking up at him, his chest still pressed to the desk, the muzzle of a rifle shoved so hard against him he instinctively tried to squirm away, compressing his testicles against the edge of the desk and letting out a sob of fear. He looked up at the Major, panicky but resolutely dumb – he would NOT speak. He would NOT betray Frances and Dr. Walker and Legs. The Major stared down at him, dark eyes impassive, indifferent; he seemed to read the defiance in Michael's eyes, so he let go and sat back down.

"Well, then, faggot," sighed the Major, picking up a file and glancing through it, "I suppose, if you've got nothing more to tell me, I might as well let Sergeant Kistler give it a shot. He's a lot more persuasive than I am." The muzzle between his cheeks twitched and twisted, pressing in harder, and Michael let out a panicky moan, squeezing his eyes shut. "Unless, of course, you've changed your mind, and you want to tell me who exactly it is blowing up airplanes, climbing around in our ductwork, fucking up our computers, and killing my men."

"Legs," thought Michael with a sudden thrill of hope. "They haven't caught him yet." Taking a dram of courage from this Michael said, his voice trembling but steadfast: "I don't know – I told you – I don't know anything about it." Remembering Doris' explanation of her former life he blurted, "I told you I was just an interior designer. I don’t know anything!"

"Hmm," said Major Fitzpatrick indifferently, flicking through the files on his desk. "Take him someplace else, Kistler, and squeeze it out of him. Have fun."

There was a loud chortle behind Michael, a horrible gurgling sound, and the rough hands on him jerked him back to his feet, nearly impaling him on the tip of the rifle. He was spun around to face the other men, who all leered and grinned at him, their eyes dark with malice and a horrible lust for brutality. Terrified, Michael tried to back up against the desk, his hands palm-out to them, but two of them grabbed him and yanked him into their circle; he stumbled and nearly fell, but there were hands on him, grabbing and pinching and bruising hands, pushing and shoving him back to the office door. He caught the corner of his cheekbone on the flimsy door jamb and flinched back, clapping his hand to his face, but the men only laughed louder and thrust him out into the hallway.

The fluorescent lights cast their harsh cold light on him, quivering irritatingly in the corner of his eyes; the linoleum floor and plain cinderblock walls echoed with the voices of the patrol as they guffawed and snickered and whispered, pushing him along the hallway, around a corner, and down another long hallway to a lone closed door at the end. Then Michael remembered the nightmare he'd had – had it only been last weekend? – and he knew with chilling certainty what these men were going to do to him. He started to sob incoherently, and tried to turn and break through the group encircling him, but the men only laughed harder and pushed more roughly; when Michael begged, "Please don't – please let me go – " one particularly nasty-looking brute struck him on his cheekbone with his fist, and through the sparks and black suction in his eyes Michael felt himself fall.

He landed on the point of his eyebrow, triggering yet more sparks, and his eyes overflowed with tears of pain and fear; behind it all was the terrible compunction to run, to escape, to get away, to save himself. But someone kicked him in the side and with a sickening whoosh all his breath left him; he curled in on himself, clutching his ribs and gasping. "Get up, faggot!" one of the men jeered, and then they all started. "Come on, faggot! On your feet! Come on, you wanted to get butt-fucked, didn't you? Look awful pretty down there, faggot, makin' me hard already."

Someone's booted foot dug itself under his stomach and flipped him onto his back. He looked up, terrified and filled with a sick horror at the men's grinning faces circling him; all he could manage to think coherently was, "Oh, please, not this, no – " and then the men grabbed him and lifted him to his feet, pushing him down the hallway to the door. He tried to dig his feet in, leaning back and straining, but all around him were rough hands, grasping and shoving and striking him, until his head spun and he hardly knew which direction he was pointing in. Then someone grasped him by the back of his collar and forcibly threw him forward. His head struck a plastic and metal chair, engendering more flashes and black blots before his eyes, and although he tried to stop himself he let out a frightened whimper.

He rolled up onto his hands and knees, trying to blink the fog of tears and pain away and desperately attempting to refocus his mind, which had gone hazy. The lights in the room were bright and harsh, more fluorescence, and he caught a quick glimpse of cabinets and a couple of small desks and more plastic chairs; then someone was on him, a heavy masculine body smelling of metal and sweat; Michael felt a hand groping for the front of his jeans and with a scream he tried to struggle out from underneath.

There was more laughter, more raucous jeering. A foot caught him in the ribs again and he collapsed on his stomach with a gasp, trying to catch his breath; his chest and esophagus burned and ached for want of oxygen and there were sparkles flashing in front of his eyes. Hands grasped and held him down; four men, one on each limb, and that heavy horrible body pressed down onto him, big meaty hand on the back of his head, pushing his face into the musty industrial-grade carpet. Michael was screaming freely, the words flowing out of him without conscious forethought – "No! Please! No, stop!" But they had no effect – he knew they wouldn't but he couldn't help himself. Again he felt the rough hand tugging at his jeans, which had come undone, and now he could feel the hard outline of the man's penis pressing up against his buttocks.

"Get the Vaseline!" shouted someone from across toom,oom, accompanied by more laughter.

"Fuck the Vaseline!" the man on top of Michael hollered hoarsely. "Doesn't deserve it, this faggot."

"Picked a good day to get butt-fucked!" shouted someone else, and Michael began to scream in earnest, begging them to let him go; he could hardly even struggle, he was being held down so firmly. Then thers a s a man's coarse jaw rubbing against his ear, and a voice growled: "You get what you deserve, faggot," and to his horror Michael felt his jeans getting tugged down over his backside. He twisted, strong and quick in his desperation, nearly bucking the man off; someone kicked him again, and with a gasping yelp he writhed away, trying frantically to get out from under his foe. He could see large, heavy feet, camouflage material tucked into the glossy black boots, the butts of rifrestresting on the floor; past the fuzzy carpet at his face he saw the back wall, plain white cinderblock, men's legs, heard men's voices. He drew in his breath in a sob of terror, felt a man's hand slide beneath his damp underpants, trying to pull them down.

Then a shout and an explosion – two explosions – three, four, five. More shouts. A scream and a groan. Something lurched horribly above him; a thick hot liquid streamed down his cheek, and the heavy body became still and sagging. Booted feet running, more explosions – boom, boom, boom – someone shouted, "Get the fucker!" and answering fire from the rifles. Michael got his hands and knees beneath him, bucking the body off from his back, which rolled to the side with a sickening thud, its head lolling, red and shining. He saw bodies lying on the floor, darke the the carpet with their blood; one face – white, empty of thought – stared blankly at him, a bullet hole in its forehead surrounded by a dark splatter. There was shouting behind him, and terrible noise, so Michael turned to see what was going on.

Legs danced there, blackened face grim, eyes flashing; his gun was empty but he spun and whirled like a ballet virtuoso, a star gymnast, a toy top; his hands were everywhere, dark gloved hands thrusting and twisting, breaking necks; long black-clad legs leaping, kicking, dancing. Only three men were left to stand up to him, trying to encircle him. Legs spun, his booted foot catching one of the men in the face; the rifle the man was holding faltered forward and Legs grasped it, but there was no time to aim and shoot; the other two were upon him. He used the butt of the rifle then, slamming it into the men's faces – a spurt of blood from a crushed nose, then the thick crack of metal on a skull; the last two were down; Legs flipped the rifle, took aim, three more explosions – boom, boom, boom – blood splatters, the rattling gurgles of the dying: the last three dead.

Legs whirled, turned to Michael, his blue eyes alight with battle fury, and Michael cringed back, suddenly afraid Legs would not be able to differentiate him from the men he had so brutally and efficiently killed. Frodo's casual statement came back to him: "I'm no assassin. That's Legolas' job." Suddenly that didn't seem like such an incongruous testimonial. Gone was the sexy, amusing, unnerving incubus he'd met in his bedroom; gone was the droll, intelligent bully from The Lido: Legolas stood, tall, whipcord-lean, quivering with suppressed energy, dark glossy spatters of blood on his black clothing, his white-blond hair mussed and coming out of its ponytail. Michael yelped in sudden fear and cringed back; something flickered in Legs' eyes – compassion, perhaps – he opened his mouth to speak, but then Michael saw, behind Legs, the door opening, and he gave a strangled cry and tried to point – but he was too late.

Legs heard the door and turned, swinging his rifle up at the ready, but Major Fitzpatrick had already squeezed the trigger. The side of Legs' face exploded in a mass of bright red, taking his eyeball and half his cheekbone with it, and the rifle dropped to the floor as the long lean body fell. He landed heavily, on his back, his head rolled to the side, and Michael looked into the beautiful ruined face at the remaining eyeball, fixed and empty of life, and then began to scream again.