The Source by Brian Lumley

Vyotsky licked his rough, fleshy lips, flipped the envelope across the cell, accurately onto Jazz’s bed. “There’s torture and there’s torture,’ he said, his voice husky with inner lust. ‘For example, these photographs will be torture for you. I mean, you and your little Tassi quite enjoyed each other, didn’t you?’

Jazz felt the blood draining from his face. He looked at the envelope, then back to Vyotsky. He was torn two ways. ‘What the hell – ?’ he said.

‘See,’ Vyotsky drawled, ‘the Major knows how I enjoy taunting you, so he said it would be OK if we had a little photographic session, me and the girl. I hope you like them. Very artistic, I think.’

Jazz flew at him.

Vyotsky stepped backward through the door and slammed it in Jazz’s face.

Inside the cell Jazz skidded to a halt. He glared at the door, his breathing ragged in his chest and throat. At that moment he could have happily performed an operation on Vyotsky’s intestines with a rusty penknife and no anaesthetic. But the photographs . . .

Jazz stepped to the bed and took five small pictures from their envelope. The first was a little crumpled; Jazz knew it well: Tassi, sitting in a field of daisies. She’d once given the picture to him. The next photograph showed her . . . naked, manacled to a steel wall. Her hands were chained over her head, her legs spread wide. The girl’s eyes were squeezed tightly shut – and Vyotsky towered beside her, grinning, weighing her left breast in the palm of his hand.

The third picture was worse and Jazz didn’t even look at the others. He screwed them into a tight ball and hurled them away from him. And then he curled up on his bed and concentrated on pictures of his own. They centered on Vyotsky’s intestines again, but this time there was no penknife. Just Jazz’s fingernails.

Outside the cell door Vyotsky stood for a moment with his ear to the cold steel. Nothing. Absolute silence. And Vyotsky thought: his blood must be water! He banged on the door. ‘Michael,’ he called out. ‘Khuv says that tonight, after we’re rid of you, then I can amuse myself with her for an hour or two. Life has its little moments, eh? 1 thought maybe you’d like to tell me how she likes it? No . . . ?’ Still silence.

The grin slipped from Vyotsky’s face. He scowled and walked away.

Curled up tightly on his bed, Jazz Simmons gave a low moan where he bit his lip until it bled. His blood wasn’t water but liquid fire . . .

Over the space of the next five or six hours Jazz had a good many visitors. They came to his cell with various pieces of equipment whose functions were all minutely explained and demonstrated. He was even allowed to handle, take to pieces and reassemble them; and he worked hard at it, for they were survival. But the tiny flame-thrower came minus its gallon of fuel, and instead of the small caliber sub-machine gun he got only a handbook.

The young soldier who turned up later that evening with the handbook also brought with him an ammunition box half-full of condemned rounds and rusting magazines. This was so Jazz could practice magazine loading. In a combat situation, the faster you can load a magazine the longer you live. Jazz had fumbled the first load, then concentrated, speeded up and succeeded in loading a second magazine in very quick time. The young soldier had been impressed, but after that he’d yawned and lost interest. Jazz had continued to load and unload magazines for another half-hour.

‘What are you in for?’ the soldier had asked eventually.

‘You mean why am I a prisoner? Espionage,’ said Jazz. He saw little or no reason to hide the fact. Not now.

‘Me,’ the youth thumbed himself in the chest, ‘it’ll be mutiny if I don’t get some sleep soon! There was a practice alert at the barracks last night, and I’ve been on duty ever since. I’m dead on my feet!’ He frowned. ‘Did you say espionage?’

‘Spying,’ Jazz nodded. He tossed the old magazines and a handful of discoloured, brass-jacketed shells into the ammo-box and slammed the lid, then fastened its hasps. Then he dusted his hands on his trousers and stood up. There. I think I can manage that well enough now.’

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