Internment

Inc.

Despite being in darkness,

Justin sensed this room was smaller. It was as cold as the other one, with a pungent smell, like some kind of beer or liquid gone bad. Beyond bad. Justin cringed and plugged his nose, gathered his senses. His stomach, though sore from the beating, cried for food, anything to fill the void, including asparagus or cauliflower, foods he despised. Then again, at this point the offer of paper and cardboard would have had him running his tongue over his lips.

He opened his mouth to speak but clamped it shut as memories flooded of what had happened yesterday. Or several days ago? Last week? He groped, discerned this room was indeed smaller and also devoid of a view to the outside, walls feeling rough in spots. Justin guessed (hoped) it was night, too dark outside now to notice a window. The smell made him sick, it was worse than a skunk’s scent. He lifted a foot and discovered where the smell originated as it invaded his nostrils, now stronger. The section by his groin was wet. He touched the spot and gagged, forced what rose to his mouth back down, and stood. His legs buckled, his side hitting steel. He examined the metal. Another bunk, this one harder and colder than the other. Justin crawled onto it, then jumped back as metal points and rods poked through cloth to his skin like barbed wire.

He touched it and withdrew his hand. He cursed under his breath, fearful what would happen if he was heard. He ran his hands lightly across this slab in hopes of finding a place to sit. Points and rods poked his fingers at every inch.

Internment

by

David DeGeorge

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

Internment

COPYRIGHT © 2017 by David DeGeorge

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

Contact Information: info@thewildrosepress.com

Cover Art by RJ Morris

The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

PO Box 708

Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708

Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com

Publishing History

First Mainstream Thriller Edition, 2017

Print ISBN 978-1-5092-1615-4

Digital ISBN 978-1-5092-1616-1

Published in the United States of America

Dedication

To my grandparents, Joseph and Amelia Bulo and Lenora and Tony DeGeorge.

~*~

Joe came here from then-Czechoslovakia at twenty-three, couldn’t speak English, and spent his life working in an open hearth to raise five kids, all of whom led prosperous lives with long-lasting marriages. Amelia (Milly) raised the kids and, despite any problems, stayed until the children were grown.

~*~

Tony’s father came to the U.S. from Italy near the turn of the twentieth century. Tony earned a degree in accounting when, around that time, the stock market crashed. Yet Tony never struggled, ultimately became company secretary/treasurer of a Pennsylvania electric corporation. He and Lenora raised two children. Lenora was a good painter, though she never tried to sell any of her work and unfortunately died in her early sixties, after nearly forty years of marriage. Tony, who lived another three decades, missed her, even in his last years.

~*~

Your sacrifices made life so much easier for your children and, of course, us grandchildren. Only wish you were alive to see my work in print.

Chapter 1

Justin Hopkins awoke lightheaded and dizzy in a cramped room, on a concrete surface. He shivered. His reedy body tended to go cold easily. He was wearing a lightweight T-shirt and pants, olive drab, like the ones worn by the people he’d seen yesterday. Or what he assumed was yesterday. He had no idea how long he’d been out. His shoes and socks had been removed.

His stomach grumbled, and his muscles ached as if he’d done heavy lifting. Before passing out—after having drank some wine—he’d been eating a ham sandwich. It had to be at least twelve hours later, he deduced, or his stomach wouldn’t be having this conversation with him.

He cleared his head, brushed brown hair from his eyes, and called for his uncle. Silence greeted him. A second attempt netted the same result.

Somebody!

No one came forth. Despite a foot being asleep, he rose and limped to the door, as slowly as moving through water. He struggled to remain upright.

The door had no knob on this side, only a metal block with a deadbolt keyhole.

Anybody out there? What’s going on? Justin pried at the crack between the thick oak door and jamb but was unsuccessful. Uncle Blake, let me out of here! He pounded until his hands hurt, leaned on the exit, then slid to the floor. It was as cold as snow. The room was unheated and with it being fall, northern temperatures were not mild. He sprang up and searched for an escape. The smooth lavender walls were bare, no windows. He wrapped his arms around his chest. His teeth chattered so he did push-ups, sit-ups, jogged in place until he got warm, then tried the door again.

Damn it, somebody, let me out! What the hell’s going on?

No response. He sagged to the floor, ignored its chill. What had happened? How long had he been in here, and why? He got back up and hit the door with his fists. Let me the hell out!

A twist of metal on the other side. The knob turned, a rush of air. He stepped back as the image and face made him even colder.

What do you want? Uncle Blake said. His previously combed gray hair was unkempt, blue eyes cutting through Justin like diamonds on glass, jaw clenched. What is wrong with you? He closed the door behind him.

What is going on? Justin clutched Blake’s sleeve.

Relax. Blake pulled free, ordered Justin to sit on the bed, then joined him, his voice softer. Understand, I love you very much.

Then why are you putting me in here? Where are my clothes? My wallet and phone? My truck?

They’re in safekeeping, no need to worry.

What is going on?

His uncle smiled a grin that made Justin shudder. "I’m helping you. We are."

Who’s ‘we’?

Tonya, Theo, Murray, Vera, and Johnnie, Uncle Blake said of his five houseguests, Justin having met two of them the night before. Tonya, her smooth oval face, light-brown hair, and wide smile having caused his heart rate to increase, Theo thin but tight-muscled with short, black hair.

Who are Murray, Vera, and Johnnie?

Vera and Johnnie are husband and wife followers, Murray also one of us. You’ll see. Blake rubbed Justin’s shoulder. "You were lost and are now found. My—our—job is to mold you. You are at the perfect age, on the precipice of manhood so we will make you better. Much better."

Justin now understood the letter had been a ruse and recalled the day he’d received it, handwritten name crude yet legible: Blake Panzer, from his psychiatrist uncle whom he hadn’t seen in ten years.

Eighteen years old, Justin had mostly raised himself in the tiny town of Salisbury, West Virginia, his parents more interested in traveling than raising him or his sister Tamara. Nine years his senior, she had left when he was ten. The only things he remembered about her were her blond hair and the ruby ring she’d gotten from their grandmother, a ring that displayed the graduation year and school name on one side, faces of comedy and drama on the other. He’d hoped to get one but dropped out to pursue his goal of writing nonfiction, had some articles published in travel magazines but barely made enough to survive.

In his letter, Blake claimed he’d done research on isolation and how it affected memory, how well people related to others after they’d been alone for lengths of time, said it was groundbreaking work, to be published in a prestigious journal or perhaps as a book. He’d requested Justin’s assistance regarding grammatical and editorial details. With dreams of big-time publication flowing in his mind, Justin, who usually considered things and analyzed them prior to making a decision, had made his choice before nightfall and was in his blue F-150 pickup the next morning, on his way to rural northern Minnesota. Uncle Blake’s ranch encompassed several wooded acres, no other homes around, the pitched roof of the one-story, L-shaped redbrick house making it seem bigger. A wooden front porch ran the length of the house. It was balanced by two large French windows on either side of the white door. Behind it, several hundred feet back, a barn housed a few cows.

Justin now wished he hadn’t let his emotions and imagination do his deciding upon receiving his uncle’s letter.

We’ll make you so much better, his uncle now repeated.

I don’t want to be better!

Blake clicked his tongue against his teeth a few times, responded all of them said that but once the experience was over, they had thanked him. He mentioned Justin had heard Tonya and Theo praise his results, boasted he had saved them and would do the same for him.

Justin protested he wanted no such salvation, the response surprising him in that he had a precocious respect for authority. He had always admired the military for instilling it in others, had been in Junior ROTC until he dropped out of school, and rarely argued with elders. Now, with his muscles weary and appetite voracious, he attacked his uncle, reached up, and grabbed the tall man’s shoulders. Trying to shake him was like trying to move a building. Let me outta here. I just want to—

A coarse, heavy hand landed on Justin’s jaw. He saw stars and staggered.

You attacked me. Blake scolded. Serious offense. I anticipated molding you into the perfect man, you on the brink of adulthood, the timing perfect. Or so I thought. He shook his head. You just made it harder on yourself. The man turned to the door and retrieved his keys.

Justin rushed him, hoped he’d arrive as the doctor opened the door, whereupon he would sneak through. Instead, he stumbled into his uncle and the two fell in heap.

Followers! Students! Blake shook Justin off, punched him in the back and then the stomach. He stood and kicked Justin’s head. He rushed to the door, keys in hand, and yelled for his assistants. After he unlocked the door, Blake repeated the order as feet thundered down the hall.

What is it? Theo said, Tonya behind him.

Blake dusted himself off, then glowered at Justin who writhed with his hands over his stomach. The old man shook his head, then turned to the others with a frown. He’s going to require more effort than anticipated. He gazed at Justin. You will regret what you’ve done. He pointed to the door and spoke to his followers. Send him to the green room.

Justin gasped on the floor as his uncle’s words penetrated. He grimaced. It was unlikely he’d be onstage with a talk show host soon.

Chapter 2

Despite being in darkness, Justin sensed this room was smaller. It was as cold as the other one, with a pungent smell, like some kind of beer or liquid gone bad. Beyond bad. Justin cringed and plugged his nose, gathered his senses. His stomach, though sore from the beating, cried for food, anything to fill the void, including asparagus or cauliflower, foods he despised. Then again, at this point the offer of paper and cardboard would have had him running his tongue over his lips.

He opened his mouth to speak but clamped it shut as memories flooded of what had happened yesterday. Or several days ago? Last week? He groped, discerned this room was indeed smaller and also devoid of a view to the outside, walls feeling rough in spots. Justin guessed (hoped) it was night, too dark outside now to notice a window. The smell made him sick, it worse than a skunk’s scent. He lifted a foot and discovered where the smell originated as it invaded his nostrils, now stronger. The section by his groin was wet. He touched the spot and gagged, forced what rose to his mouth back down, and stood. His legs buckled, his side hitting steel. He examined the metal. Another bunk, this one harder and colder than the other. Justin crawled onto it, then jumped back as metal points and rods poked through cloth to his skin like barbed wire.

He touched it and then withdrew his hand. He cursed under his breath, fearful what would happen if he was heard. He ran his hands lightly across this slab in hopes of finding a place to sit. Points and rods poked his fingers at every inch.

Justin stepped away and goosefleshed. The hairs did not settle back down. The temperature in this room was close to freezing. He assumed it was night and got much colder up here after dark during these months. His stomach continued its plea.

God, why is this happening? he said to the ceiling. What did I do, didn’t do, say or didn’t say? Tomblike muteness was the response, causing Justin to shiver all the more. His teeth clicked out of control. He went back to things he’d done, the times he’d shoplifted groceries and auto parts to impress his friends. The times he’d teased others, or, on rare occasions, scolded his parents over the phone for their absence. Was this some kind of retribution? Religious he was not but believed God punished those who did not heed His word, the way He punished those of Sodom and Gomorrah and the people of Noah’s time. He had faith God had a reason for what He did, and as long as Justin believed in Him, God would give him what was best.

So what had he, Justin, done to earn his suffering? He got no answer, told himself to be patient. The world, after all, had taken six days to create. He contemplated escape scenarios, such as feigning sickness. Would that work? They’d beaten and then imprisoned him. What would they care if he was ill? Plus, his uncle’s psychiatry experience enabled him to detect most sicknesses. The man was quite able to recognize an act.

Justin’s mind worked double time. Attack the others, rush them. He dismissed this, couldn’t defeat them all, his uncle mentioning five of them. Were there more of these freaks?

Time passed and he still had no answer. His head throbbed, a migraine. He stretched on the cold floor and leaned against the slab. Sharpness punctured the back of his cranium.

Damn! He froze, listening for a rush of feet outside but none sounded. He probed the dark, his hands on the chilly floor, then the icy walls. His body continued to shiver while his teeth still clicked.

Justin guessed this cell to be ten feet by eight feet with a lock on the outside. Though his arms were wrapped around him, hands on his elbows, he did not thaw. He shut his eyes but sleep did not come. To distract himself he used his imagination, his memory, remembered John McCain’s Faith of My Fathers, a biography of how the man survived a Vietnamese prisoner of war camp. He replayed favorite movies in his mind and recited lines of poetry