Scarecrow Returns

WHAT FOLLOWED was more than Schofield—weakened, pinned down, helpless—could bear.

The original rat box was lifted off Hartigan’s head and Schofield saw the gruesome remains of Hartigan’s face. It was beyond disgusting.

Both of Hartigan’s eyes had been chewed out and were now just empty bloody sockets, dangling with ragged flesh. Schofield stifled the urge to vomit as he saw the smaller of the two rats scurry in through Hartigan’s left eye socket and then race out his gaping mouth.

Hartigan’s corpse was unceremoniously tossed onto the conveyor belt, and to the chants of the crowd of Thieves—“Fire! Fire!”—it disappeared into the furnace.

Mobutu walked with the box over to Mother’s forklift and Schofield’s heart sank.

He couldn’t handle this. First Gant, now Mother. His mind reeled at the thought of what was about to happen.

Abruptly, Calderon called, “Let’s make this a double feature! Bring out a second box! For her French friend!”

The crowd loved this. They cheered as a second, identical box was brought out.

The veins in Schofield’s forehead bulged as he tried with what little energy he had left to yell through the bit in his mouth.

Mobutu used his stepladder to reach up and place Hartigan’s grisly box over Mother’s head. As this happened, for the briefest of instants, Schofield caught Mother’s eye . . .

She was looking directly at him.

The look on her face was one of the most profound sadness, of longstanding friendship and deep affection. She mouthed the word, “Goodbye” just as the box came down over her head and cut off Schofield’s view of her face.

Schofield strained against his bonds, but it was useless. He slumped against the bed frame, out of energy, out of determination and finally, completely, out of options.

There was nothing he could do to stop this. All he could do was watch as his closest friend in the world died a foul death at the hands of Marius Calderon.

Calderon saw this.

Shane Schofield was beaten, his mind, his spirit broken.

The second box came down over Baba’s head and as its neck-hole was stuffed with rags, Schofield thought he heard Mother say something to Baba. It was muffled, so he couldn’t hear what she said, but it was short, just a few final words.

Then, grinning with delight at the show he was putting on for his cohorts, Mobutu mounted his stepladder between Mother and Baba, opened the top panels of both boxes and held a rat in each hand poised above the boxes, ready to be dropped.

The crowd cried for him to put them in, but Mobutu waited for the signal from Calderon.

Calderon held up his microphone. “Zack. Emma. Me again. If you’re out there, this is the sound of Gunnery Sergeant Newman and her French friend, Master Sergeant Huguenot, having their faces eaten by rats.”

He nodded to Mobutu.

Mobutu dropped the rats, one into each box.

The crowd cheered.

A second rat for each box quickly followed, then Mobutu flipped the panels shut.

Schofield watched helplessly.

Then the kicking, thrashing and screaming began.

It was exactly as it had been with Hartigan.

As Calderon held up his microphone, both Mother and Baba started shrieking in pain, bobbing from their suspended arms, their bound legs trying to lash out.

Hideous noises came from their headboxes—screaming, grunting, crunching sounds.

As with Hartigan, the terrible scene lasted about thirty seconds before first Mother, then Baba, went limp and they both just hung there, strappado-style, hands behind their backs, their heads bent and still.

Tears began to form in Schofield’s eyes.

Calderon said sadly, “You, Captain, are a dangerous man to know. I honestly can’t fathom how you live with yourself. Of course, from what I hear, you struggle to do even that: I know you tried killing yourself once—like your father, aren’t you—but the plucky Sergeant Newman stopped you. The question is: who will stop you now?”

Schofield clenched his teeth around his bit, tears pouring down his face.

Calderon grinned callously, his gray eyes alive. “Captain Shane Schofield: son to a brutal father, lover to a doomed woman, and now witness to the death of his truest friend. Consider yourself broken. Which means now it is time for you to die—”

“Sir!” a voice called from the exit doorway.

Both Calderon and Schofield turned to see a Thief standing by the door.

“What?” Calderon called.

“We got ’em! The two civilians with the spheres! Bad Willy just caught ’em! He’s bringing ’em in now!”