Rise of the Enemy by Rob Sinclair

them. Every part of my body ached.
    I gritted my teeth. Tried to count the seconds away. Tried not to think about the pain. Tried to buy myself a few more minutes.
    But the inner fight didn’t last long this time. I was too far gone.
    I gave in.
    I fell to the ground in a heap.
    ‘Get up,’ the voice said from behind me, almost immediately.
    I now recognised the voice. Not the man from the questioning room. One of the guards. He had a husky, accented voice. I didn’t move. Perhaps I tried to. I’m not sure. Even if I did try, it hadn’t worked. I stayed on the ground. Enjoying the feeling of release washing over my body. Not thinking about the consequences of what I was doing.
    ‘Last chance. Get up, now.’
    I closed my eyes. The world seemed to calm, the gritty noise from the speakers fading away from me. The walls around me were changing, the pillow beneath my head warm and soft.
    The crack from the whip brought me back around, back to my confines. I cried out. I imagined I could feel the skin on my back splitting as the leather cut across me.
    ‘Get up.’
    But I couldn’t move. Not this time. I just lay there, quivering, grimacing. Wanting something to take me away.
    Another crack.
    I shouted out again, kept my eyes closed. Squeezed them shut. Willing, hoping, that I could get away.
    Crack.
    My whole body flinched. I squeezed my eyes shut even harder.
    Crack…Crack.
    It was working. My mind was taking me away. I wasn’t even sure that I could feel the whip any more.
    Crack. Crack. Crack.
    I stayed on the floor. Still aware of the sensation of the whip as it cut into my skin, aware of the pain, but no longer caring. No longer able to care. I could barely hear the sound, even. My world was changing. The sound and the pain were fading fast. Before long, they were completely gone.

Chapter 10
    I slept for a solid twelve hours. But it hadn’t been good sleep. My body, at least, felt somewhat revitalised, but my head was swimming.
    During my waking hours I tried hard not to think about what I had been put through over the last three months. But in sleep I was a victim of my own mind. The physical wounds would heal. Many of them had already; it had been a number of weeks since the physical abuse had stopped. The mental wounds – well, they take much longer. I knew that from experience. The last three months weren’t the only time I had been held against my will. But they had made me question myself, my life, everything I knew.
    Every time I closed my eyes, my mind replayed my ordeal from the previous months. What they’d done to me. But it wasn’t just the torture. It was the things they’d said to me.
    I didn’t believe them. Couldn’t believe what they’d told me. And yet the doubts were there. Creeping into my thoughts at every opportunity. I didn’t want to believe them. But I had to find out for myself. I had to get to Omsk.
    And when I was there, safe, I would speak to Mackie. My boss. The man who’d sent me to RTK Technologies.
    I got up off the bed and stretched, my aching musclesstraining with the movement. I’d rested, now I needed to replenish. I left my cabin and walked through four long carriages to the restaurant car. As I walked in, I spotted the narrow bar area in the far corner, just four stools up against it. Numerous tables made up the remainder of the carriage.
    The time was almost midnight. All the diners had long gone, but the place was bustling with drinkers still. Couples sat side by side or opposite each other. Larger groups took up several rows, with empty cans and bottles stashed high around them. The bar would stay open all night, twenty-four hours a day. I wondered how many of these people would last the pace through to the morning.
    One of the large groups, a gathering of about ten gruff men, was already drowning out pretty much everything else with raucous laughter and drunken shouting. I reckoned it wouldn’t be too long before they either passed out or were thrown