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[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
thick glob of oatmeal, two greasy looking
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sausage patties, a slop of some terrible looking scrambled eggs, a
couple pieces of bread, and a mug of coffee.
Ben ate every bite, and could have eaten more.
He wanted to smoke a cigarette but decided against it. Now was not the time.
He set the tray on the floor, stretched back out on the bunk, and
promptly went back to sleep. He slept for several hours. When he
awakened he felt much better, thought he might live, after all-at least
for the time being. He sat up and looked around the room. The tray was
gone. Someone had picked it up and left without waking him up. He had
slept the sleep of the physically exhausted.
As Ben stood up, he thought that much of the pain was gone. He took a
couple of steps and discovered he was wrong. His bruised muscles
protested every movement. He tried to ignore the pain and began walking
around the room, getting some of the kinks out.
One thing he knew for certain: if he had to take many more beatings like
the one he'd received hours before, there might be permanent damage. His
body just could not take more kicking episodes.
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He found his slippers and sat down on the bunk to put them on. He sat
for a moment, feeling the material of the slippers. They seemed to be
made of some sort of mixture of paper and cloth. He felt under the thin
mattress and found the box of matches Berman had given him.
"Might work," Ben muttered. "I've got to give this some more thought."
But how much time did he have to think about it? That, he didn't know.
And just how would he pull it off?
He didn't know that, either, but he did have a tiny germ of an idea.
He put the matches back under the mattress and started thinking about
freedom and how he might attain it. He
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William W. Johnstone
didn't quite know exactly how he was going to do that, only that he
must. He had to, or he would die.
Ben awakened on the floor of his cell. His captors had come for him
before noon, long before any escape plans had been thought of or thought
out, and hammered on him again and again. He had lost consciousness
several times, each time to be brought back into painful reality by
having buckets of water tossed on him ... at least Ben thought it was
water, he wasn't sure.
During the beatings, in which a number of the younger guards under
Bradford's command took part, Ben was called a number of things.
"Goddamn fascist!" was the favorite, it seemed.
"Right-wing dictator!" was a close second.
There were other names, but they usually didn't register through the fog
of pain in Ben's body.
All during the hours of torment, Ben thought that if he survived this he
had to get out, had to get free. The guards were going to cripple him,
he was sure of that, sure that was their intention, and just as sure
that they had been ordered to do that. By whom, he didn't know, but he
hoped that one day-if he succeeded in escaping-he would find out.
Whatever he was going to do, no matter how bad he felt he was going to
have to do it soon . . . immediately. One more beating like the one he
had just suffered, and something in his body would give way or break.
Ben dug out the box of matches and made sure they were the
strike-anywhere type. He put them in his shirt pocket. Then he began
shredding the ends of his slippers to provide a better ignition point.
He worked quickly but carefully. His mind was made up: he was going to
make his break, or attempt it, the next time the guards came
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calling. If they killed him during his try ... well, so be it. A quick
death would be better than a slow, prolonged one.
Ben began walking stiffly around and around his cell, very slowly at
first. Then, gradually, he increased his steps. He forced his mind to
accept the pain until at least part of the stiffness left his legs. Then
he rested and caught his breath. Before his muscles could cool down, he
was up and walking again. He repeated this process several times, until
he began to feel better-winded and hurting some, but better.
An hour passed, with Ben occasionally getting up and working his bruised
legs just to keep diem from stiffening
up-Then he heard a noise in the hall. He took a couple of
single matches from his pocket and got up from die bunk, holding die
shredded slippers in his left hand, the matches in his right. He walked
over to the steel door, considering just how he was going to play tiiis.
Something heavy rapped on the door-a billy club, Ben imagined. "Hey,
General Tough Boy!" a voice called. "You still alive, old man?"
"Yes," Ben said with a tiieatrical groan. He hoped the groan sounded
authentic.
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zanotowane.pldoc.pisz.plpdf.pisz.plkwiatpolny.htw.pl
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| Cytat |
Dobre pomysły nie mają przeszłości, mają tylko przyszłość. Robert Mallet
De minimis - o najmniejszych rzeczach.
Dobroć jest ważniejsza niż mądrość, a uznanie tej prawdy to pierwszy krok do mądrości. Theodore Isaac Rubin
Dobro to tylko to, co szlachetne, zło to tylko to, co haniebne.
Dla człowieka nie tylko świat otaczający jest zagadką; jest on nią sam dla siebie. I z obu tajemnic bardziej dręczącą wydaje się ta druga. Antoni Kępiński (1918-1972)
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