The Falling Sun
Nisshoku - Eclipse

“Will you swear allegiance to the US and defend the US from any foreign attack? Will you foreswear any allegiance to the emperor?”
     The man in the chair was sweating, although the air was icy. “What –? What are you talking about? What's going on?” The rope binds dug into his wrists.
     “Are you willing to serve in the armed forces of the United States on combat duty, wherever ordered?”
     A groan of dissent dribbled from the man’s lips.
     “Answer yes or no.”
     “What do you want with me!”
     There was movement beyond the blackness. The man squinted his cataract-filmed eyes. He leant forwards –
     A jet of cold water shot him in the face.
     He bolted to the back of the chair; the air knocked from him.
     “It will be much easier for you if you answer.”
     The man shivered broken syllables, wanting to have his own questions answered before he dared answer theirs. Whomever they might have been.
     “Where the Hell am I?”
     “No.”
     A light flared through the darkness. The man in the chair retreated – the restraints lengthened the torture, bit into his flesh. A white-hot orb formed and moved towards him, swinging; pushed by the figure.
     “Will you swear allegiance to the US and defend the US from any foreign attack, and will you foreswear any allegiance to the emperor?” The nonsensical question came again. An illusion, for there was only one right answer.
     But this was the least of the man’s worries: he was contemplating his escape.
     Shaking the chair had proven fruitful: one of the nails holding the legs was loose. If he could get a leg free, then the others would surely follow.
     Having scanned the room in the few moments since he had regained consciousness, and the light had allowed him, the man had seen a door. He estimated that there were five metres between himself, the door, and the figure. If he could uproot the chair, then he could dart for the exit. The chair would be a weapon. Yes, that could work. With time.
     All he could do presently was keep the figure talking. Survival rested on distraction.
     “Who are you?” he blasted.
     There was no reply, just the swinging of the pendulum. Blotches sparked into the man’s vision. He could not swat the light, so he clasped his eyes shut, bawled: “Tell me who you are!’
     “Ex-general John Friedman Thorbes.”
     “What?”
     “You lie –”
     “Who are you?”
     “And cheat –”
     “What?”
     “And steal, and torture, and corrupt, and –”
     “I demand you tell me who you are!”
     A pause. Only the throbbing of the pendulum.
     Then, an anguished voice: “You created me.”
     The man in the chair chuckled. A disturbed, sand-abrasive chortle, like a sadist beckoning the knife. For there was something hard and sharp about this man. Something that incubated in the cold, which the jet of water had channelled. He laughed at the absurdity of his situation. Laughing at the fact the figure had stolen his name.
     Ex-general John F. Thorbes, sir!
     A man with a lot of enemies – who didn’t in the world of politics? – but none of whom had previously hunted him down for whatever inconvenience he had caused them. It was laughable. And he filled with delight at the thought of ramming the pendulum down the throat of that creep. For John F. Thorbes was not afraid. He was trained for these moments.
     Again, the figure rifled: “Are you willing to serve in the armed forces of the United States on combat duty, wherever ordered?” A pause; “Is that familiar?”
     “What –?”
     “You heard what I said.”
     The pendulum swung higher and closer, an inch from ex-general John F. Thorbes’ flesh. He supposed that the figure behind the light could see him, although he could not see them. He flinched as the screw wriggled from the chair leg. His panting muffled the sound.
     The ex-general bartered for more time. The same questions. The same evasions; “Why am I here? What do you want from me?”
     “Answers.”
     “I am an old man and have lived a long and eventful life. You must be more specific.”
     “I would say it’s the blackest part of your past, but I am sure that’d be wrong.” The figure shuffled, still obscured; “This confusion and helplessness you feel, it is more familiar than you think. I for one know exactly the fear you possess. The uncertainty –”
     “I ain’t afraid of you!” John F. Thorbes spat. He writhed in his bonds.
     The figure came closer. The pendulum swung at its side and sent grotesque shadows up the walls. “Is it hard knowing how we felt?” The tone was softer, taunting the ex-general; “What about those girls, John? Did they beg for mercy?”
     “What’re you talking about?”
     “Vietnam.”
     “That’s classified.”
     The figure retreated. A caustic choking erupted from their lungs.
     John F. Thorbes was no doctor, but that death-rattle – like the many he heard in the army camps – didn’t sound healthy. He imagined that his kidnapper might hack their organs across the floor. That would be good for him – he could slip away. But as he thought this, the choking subsided.
     A hand rose to the ceiling and seized the bulb.
     “Is that what you want?” John F. Thorbes ventured; “Information on ‘nam?”
     “No, John.”
     “What then?”
     The figure pushed the pendulum once again.
     “The internment camps. Tule Lake.”
     John F. Thorbes noticed a bitterness in the voice, as if the word had been a mountain that the figure could not quite climb, or sewage that they had to wade through. He, on the other hand, had remained unfazed. The retired part of him, that ex-general military confidence, had returned to command. He knew exactly what was being asked of him.
     The ex-general flashed: “I don’t make deals with terrorists. Who are you? How do you know my name?”
     The figure remained resolute, but in the reflections of the pendulum, they writhed like a flame. Miniature projections of the bulb danced in their eyes. Eyes that took it upon themselves to be judge, jury, and executioner. They would have pierced John F. Thorbes’ heart – if he had one.
     “You know me. But perhaps you choose to forget. There were thousands like me. You knew them all. You asked them the same questions.”
     “Enough with the riddles. What is your name?”
     Silence.
     “If you abduct me like this, then I sure as hell deserve your name.”
     The figure, once again, melted into the black.
     As seconds passed without word, John F. Thorbes quietly rattled in the chair. He hoped to prize the final screw loose – when the light snapped out!
     “Akira Yamamoto.” the voice whispered.
     John F. Thorbes was plunged into darkness.
     He might have been trained for these situations, but his heart was thumping now. He could hear it in his chest, his hands shaking to try and break free of the bonds; his nostrils filled with the stench of despair.
     And it got worse.
     Over the noise of his rollicking chest could be heard a shuffling. The interrogator was on the move. It was impossible to tell where, until the sound of a whining door conquered his attention. Silence followed. This time, the interrogator had left the room.
     John F. Thorbes girded himself with steel nerves; fought with the chair.
     Another sound stole his attention. It was louder than the shuffling and more metallic, the haunt of something on rusted wheels being dragged, like chalk shrieking on a blackboard. Footsteps shuffled behind it, as Akira, that malevolent silhouette, returned to the room through the creaking door and dragged whatever it was that he dragged.
     “They’ll be coming for me.”
     Closer and closer…
     “So, get away now.”
     Closer and closer…
     “You’ve made a mistake.”
     A click echoed somewhere in the abyss, and the light above John F. Thorbes flickered back to life.
     A cruel, cold, metallic hook travelled towards him. A butcher’s hook used for corpses – and it was scraping towards the ex-general and his thundering, bloody heart.
     Akira sung as he approached:
                                                                                               “Everything I touch
                                                                                               With tenderness, alas,
                                                                                               Pricks like a bramble.”
     The hook stopped a hair's distance from John F. Thorbes’ head. He could sense it there; could feel the phantom pain as he imagined its claw piercing his skull. It was too late to run.
     From the darkness came another instrument – Akira’s hand reaching out. John F. Thorbes pressed into the back of the chair. He felt the legs tilt…
     “I want my wife.” the captor said.
     Then the chair toppled. The world spun for John F. Thorbes. His spine crunched as he struck the floor. Forty years ago, he would have sprung from such a knock to pummel his fists into his kidnapper; presently, he flailed like an upturned tortoise, weighed down by the chair; made increasingly desperate as Akira loomed over him, so controlled, so deranged. One of the ex-general’s boots struck out and relished the impact of hard leather on gut. Akira reeled. His right hand swung out, just missing the sneering hook, and slapped the bulb. It swung, sending malevolent reflections of the frenzy across the walls.
     Thorbes knuckled the floor, lifting himself and the chair. Each stride was a battle. A fire exit sign beckoned.
     He lost sight of Akira. By the time he realised, the blunt instrument was already at the back of his skull. The lights went out. Again.