Last Half of Darkness - Chisel

Samuel Riley awakens from a decade long imprisonment in Fort Leavenworth only to be tormented once again by the same agent of the King in Yellow - White Mason.

Leavenworth Gate image licensed under CC BY-SA 3.0

Fort Leavenworth - United States Disciplinary Barracks (USDB) 1984

There it is again. Okay. Now. Pull yourself together. That face. Let's look at it again. Look at it again in the mirror. How many days had it been? Four? Five? Impossible to know for sure. That’s what the hole will do to you. Real disorienting shit. A man can only chisel cracks on the wall and sharpen shivs for so long.

Chisel chisel chisel.

He still had the black eye from Alberto. That prick got what was coming to him though. Got em real’ good between the ribs. I’d been sharpening that shiv for days already - bad luck holmes. Pobre cito. There are two rules in this place. Don’t sneak up on anybody - that’s a given. Too many dangerous folk in here to be sneaking up on anyone. Number two. Don’t steal chow. They used to say in the Corps that if you mess with a man’s pay or chow, they had a right to give you a once over. I still believe it. Alberto, you’ll live. Maybe you’ll need a new liver, but you’ll live.

Chisel chisel chisel.

Maximum security. That’s what they call it. No lights. No windows. No soul. Total black out. But that’s where they’re wrong. The souls are still creeping in and out of this place.

Creepin in and creepin out.

That’s cause’ they’re feeding on us. The ghosts here will eat you for lunch. Come into your dreams and suck that sweet brain like nectar. Everynight you get a little bit closer to the brink. Everynight a little bit closer to losing yourself completely. They got the company man. Patrick. He was just an appetizer.

Each of us has their own demons - me more than most. I still see the White One sometimes. He comes to visit often. Means they’re getting closer. I reckon they’ll drink my soul when it suits them. Probably when I’ve just about lost my mind completely. Probably tastes good and juicy to them like that. Get em’ while they’re ripe, boys.

They drank my wife. They drank my son. They’re gonna drink me up soon enough. They’ll throw me back like a shot of whiskey. Hope I taste like a pot of month old piss, you sons of bitches.

Chisel chisel chisel

Make a few marks on the wall. Over four thousand now I reckon. Sam Junior would be about 11. Who knows what’s even going on outside. Couple of presidents have come and gone. Now the Gipper has got the Ruskies on the ropes. They let me watch the news once a month sometimes so I know. 1984. We’ve gotta finish the job. Fighting the dinks was just a sideshow anyway.

Suddenly Old White is in the room. Big, bald and suited up as always. Can call that motherfucker many things but badly dressed was never one of them.

“Hello, Samuel,” White Mason said. He sits on my cot and adjusts his tie.

“Hello, fucker,” I say back. I start doing pushups on the cold, pale floor. I don’t give a shit what it smells like down here. Need to do something when my mind starts acting up like this.

“Staying fit I see,” he says with the same monotone voice he always used. “Excellent. I’m glad to see you’re keeping yourself occupied. Important for the mind.”

“It would also be important,” I say to myself or to White Mason, take your pick, “if you could get the fuck out of it.” I bang out another fifty quickly. Pushups ain’t shit to me anymore.

“It’s important that you keep active, Samuel. But there’s no need to be rude. I simply stopped by to see how you were doing.”

“Fuck you, baldy.”

“Once again, I don’t see the need for vulgar language. I did however want to let you know that you will be needed again.”

“Needed again?” I stop the pushups. I try to force the image of the bald tall man out of my mind but he’s still in the room no matter what I do.

“Yes. We want you to come out now. There’s something important for you to do.” “Listen, clown. There ain’t no way I’m getting out of this place. They designed Leavenworth for a reason. That reason is to keep murderers in.”

“You’re important to Us. We have a task for you. Now, get ready,” White Mason stood up from the cot. “Oh and by the way, you might want to shave,” he said and disappeared from the room.

Not sure why I’m surprised.

Another beat and the iron cell door opens with a long, painful creak. Some guard with a knight stick tells me to get dressed. Shave your face scumbag, he says.

I don’t like it but I do what I’m told. I shave. I dress in a new orange jumper. I get fancied up for the ball.

I get shuffled down the hall. The guards bring plenty of friends with them. Guess they’re worried about what they saw happen to Alberto. Pobrecito Albertito.

It takes a while. Suddenly I’m in a part of the prison I’ve never seen before. Lots of little rooms in this place. Little rooms with a lot of people. They put me in one of the rooms. Seems like familiar territory. No windows. Plenty of lights, though.

Wait, the knight stick guard says.

I wait. Then I wait some more.

I start to think about making some marks on the wall.

Chisel chisel chisel

Fuck me, hurry up.

Door opens and in walks an Army officer. Big brass. Screaming eagles of a full bird. Green beret. Ribbon rack like a motherfucking hero.

“Know who I am?” he asks like I should know.

“No,” I say. I make it clear to him that I’m done saying “sir.” Saying “sir” got me nowhere in my past life.

“Colonel James McTeague, Special Forces,” brass man says and extends his hand.

I stare at it. He nods his head and quietly brings his hand back. He makes a big show of opening his briefcase.

“Mr. Riley, it has come to our attention that you have a desirable skillset that we would like to use for a highly classified mission,” he says.

I stare at him. He sounds like a goddamn tape recorder.

“I have your military service record right here. As well as your records from the San Francisco Police,” he says.

“Yeah?” I say.

“Yes, there is some impressive material in here. Marine Corps, 1967. Saw some action. Excellent aptitude for clandestine work. Speak several languages, including Romanian and Vietnamese. It would be a shame for these skills to continue to languish here in Leavenworth,” he says, looking up at me with his old grandpa eyes.

“You’ll probably see some other shit in there that says I belong right where I am,” I say.

I don’t have time for games. I have some preparations to make before evening chow. Alberto’s friends might be waiting for me in the yard.

“You are a convicted murderer, Mr. Riley. Don’t think we haven’t evaluated all of our options, but I don’t think you understand the offer. I’m talking about a clandestine mission that will help deliver a serious blow against the Soviet war machine. I’m talking about getting a life back. Albeit under our strict supervision…”

“Always a catch,” I say cutting grandpa off.

“Look,” he says. “You have two options. You come to work for the Company, under my personal command, and maybe we let you have a life back, or you go back to rot in your cell for the rest of your life. It’s quite simple.”

I stare at him again. Somehow this all seems like I’m back in my cell having one of my wall-ceiling dreams. Maybe this is White One messing with me. I look around the room.

“Something wrong?”

“Nah just making sure the walls aren’t coming in,” I say and I give a smirk.

“Mr. Riley,” he sighs. I guess even grandpa brass has his limits.

“Okay,” I say. “What do I have to do?”

“First of all there’s some legal paperwork. We have to do a couple of things to get you out of prison,” McTeague says.

“Such as?”

Colonel McTeague looks up at the door. Guess he doesn’t want anyone to hear what he’s about to say.

“First, declare you legally dead. Samuel Riley was killed in a prison brawl with a fellow inmate,” he says, watching for my reaction.

I nod. It’s not like there’s someone waiting for me on the outside.

“Second, we’ll move you to a secure facility for additional training. Black site. The mission you’ll be embarking on is not officially connected to any ongoing Company activity. You’ll have to receive the best insertion and acclimatization training that we have to offer. New name. New identity.”

Yesterday I was worried about my shivs and Alberto. Today I’m thinking about becoming a Company man. The void is about to open up some real weird shit.

“When do I sign on the dotted line?”

CIA black site - somewhere in the Colorado Rockies

Chisel chisel chisel.

Day 105 of training. Survival op in the rockies. Shit was real. Frostbite down my toes. One of them had to be semi-amputated. Lips are raw and torn. The price of admission.

Bert was up there with me. He was an Army ranger and even he barely finished the course. Had to tow the poor bastard the last ten clicks. Rappel off fifty foot cliffs. No food. No water. He was begging for me to drop him.

Chisel chisel chisel.

Day 201 of training. Language courses. Deception. Forgery. Romanian dialects. Romanian history and politics.

Day 220 of training. Seduction and sexuality. Real James Bond shit. Use your body for information. Fuck her. Kill her. Get the goods. Whatever needs to be done.

It’s all fine with me. I left a lot of my soul back in Nam’. Some of it in San Fran. Wherever it is, it’s gone.

Day 250 of training. They bring me into a briefing room. Some admin guy is sitting behind the desk and says today is the day I get a codename. And a wife.

Wife? I ask.

Yeah, her name is Irina. She’s going to be your wife. He throws down a picture of a very good looking woman. Slavic looking. Dark and maybe a little bit sad, but beautiful.

I can handle that, I say.

You run a pawn shop. In Bucharest.

Okay, I say.

You still need a codename, he says.

I ask him what kind of codename.

He says anything, just has to be a color and a noun. Section O rules.

There’s only been one thing on my mind. I write it out.

Chisel chisel chisel