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nightdog_barksAdding stats, etc.
Concrit is still very welcome. ;-)
ETA: Cross-posted to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
house_wilson and sick_wilson.
TITLE: Welcome to Wherever You Are
AUTHOR:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
nightdog_writes
PAIRING: House-Wilson, strong friendship, other OCs
RATING: A strong "R" for a graphically unpleasant scene of violence.
WARNINGS: Yes. See "Rating" above.
SPOILERS: Yes, for the S3 Tritter Arc and how it ended.
SUMMARY: Old enemies can turn up in the most unexpected places, and when those enemies are in positions of power ... all bets are off.
DISCLAIMER: Don't own 'em. Never will.
AUTHOR NOTES: None.
BETA: My awesome First Readers, with especial thanks todeelaundry and blackmare_9 for pelting me with cellphones until I got it right, and also to Dee for contributing a paragraph that was so much better than what I had.
lj cut here
Chapter Four
Bright and early Monday morning, House strode into the main lobby of Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital, swinging his cane, whistling a cheery tune, and carrying a large paper bag of breakfast goodies for his fellows.
Except that he didn't.
It was close to eleven a.m., he was limping, he growled at everyone who wished him a good morning (which, admittedly, was hardly anyone), and his breakfast had consisted of a can of Red Bull and two Vicodin.
He stepped into the elevator and viciously poked the button for the fourth floor. He had clinic duty this morning, his leg ached, and a pigeon had shat on his motorcycle jacket. His day couldn't get much worse.
The only bright spot was Wilson's flight arriving tonight. Maybe he'd be able to catch him on the phone before seeing him at work tomorrow.
Wilson's bed was moving.
Earthquake, he thought muzzily. Then -- no earthquakes in New Jersey.
He opened his eyes.
A guard was kicking one of the cot legs, jarring the bunk with each blow. Another guard was at his feet, unlocking the ankle cuff.
"Up and at 'em," the first guard said laconically. "You got a full day ahead of you."
Outside, Wilson could hear the prison camp coming to life -- people talking and shouting, the sound of pots and pans clanging. Breakfast smells wafted through the already-warm air.
His heart sank. As much as he'd hoped right before falling asleep, it hadn't been a dream.
Wilson hesitated at the entryway to the showers.
It was obvious he was supposed to disrobe -- a large, wheeled laundry bin was just inside the tent flap, and it was already full of red shorts and t-shirts.
There was a none-too-gentle jab in his ribs.
"Take 'em off," a guard drawled, his truncheon ready for another jab if need be. "You ain't got nothin' nobody here ain't seen before, and if you do then I wanna see it."
The floor was concrete, with drains set every few feet. The showerheads were attached to a row of wooden posts, and the water flow was apparently controlled from one handle on each post.
There were a few other prisoners there -- two skinny white guys, their farmers' tans standing out against their pale torsos, and one enormous black man, built like a tank, his skin gleaming ebony under the shower spray.
Wilson thought of all the stupid jokes he'd ever heard that had the punchline "Don't drop the soap." Suddenly they didn't seem so funny.
Taking a deep breath, he stepped forward.
None of the other inmates paid Wilson any attention. Feeling slightly more confident, he picked up a bar of soap from its holder on the shower pole. It was yellow and smelled powerfully of a strong antiseptic. He twisted the faucet handle.
"Ah!" Wilson yelped; the water pouring from the showerhead was freezing.
The tank next to him gave a low, amused chuckle. "Don't worry," he rumbled. "You'll get used to it after a few months."
Wilson toweled off as best he could. The rectangular piece of red cloth from the stack by the exit was thin and threadbare; he knotted it around his waist as he entered the next section of the tent.
There was a tub of cheap plastic shavers, still in their clear cellophane wrappers. He took one and claimed a place in front of a sink -- one of many, arranged in a row just like the showers. There was more soap here, and he shaved slowly and carefully. His face had been mostly protected by his arms the day before (don't think about that) so his cheeks weren't too sunburned.
"Hurry it up," a guard snapped, and Wilson started. He wondered briefly if there were guards in the bathrooms too, and decided there probably were.
"I'm done," he said softly, wiping the last of the soap from his face.
"Good. Get dressed," the guard said, and used his truncheon to point to another laundry bin, identical to the first, piled with clean red t-shirts and shorts.
Wilson quickly found his size, and pulled on the fresh clothes.
Morning ablutions, it seemed, were over.
Breakfast was powdered scrambled eggs, reconstituted with tepid tap water, two slices of dry, toasted white bread, unadorned with butter or any other spread, and four strips of rubbery bacon that tasted like they'd come off the ass end of a muddy pig. And an orange.
"Eat up, New Guy," a familiar voice said sardonically. "Breakfast is the most important meal of the day."
Wilson looked up from the horror on his tray to see Tooey slipping into the seat opposite. He quickly glanced away, faintly ashamed of the relief that had immediately flooded his system at the sight of a friendly face.
"So what's on your agenda for the day?" Tooey asked as he stole a bacon strip from Wilson's plate. "Places to go, people to see?"
"I don't know," Wilson said. "My -- the guard just said I had a full day ahead of me."
"Ah." Tooey frowned as he chewed the inadequately-smoked pork. "Probably a work detail, then. Places to go, rocks to break." He smiled faintly at Wilson's shocked expression. "Everything here's make-work," he said. "They have to do something with us, make it look good."
Wilson picked at his dry eggs. The plastic fork felt light and useless in his hand.
"What about that guy?" he asked, remembering what he'd seen yesterday. "The guy they threw in the ... the hotbox."
Tooey shook his head slowly.
"You ask a lot of questions, New Guy," he said. He sighed and wiped at his mouth with a napkin. "Sentenced to a week in the box. He'll be lucky if he makes it through the fourth day."
Wilson put down his fork. Suddenly he wasn't hungry anymore.
"What did he -- what did he do?"
"He tried to escape."
A pair of shadows loomed over the table; Wilson saw Tooey glance up and then look quickly down and away. A large hand squeezed Wilson's right shoulder.
"Breakfast's over," the guard said.
"Dr. Cuddy?"
The female voice was timid; Cuddy didn't recognize it and glanced at the caller i.d. on her office phone.
Human Resources/Personnel.
"Oh, God," she groaned. "Don't tell me there's been another harassment complaint." She was going to kill House, she really was this time. She'd already had to threaten, cajole, and finally bribe him into doing his clinic hours this morning, and he'd kept those insolent blue eyes fixed on her the entire time. She'd be so glad when Wilson got back; Wilson could get House to do things when no one else could.
"What?" the voice squeaked. "No, Doctor, this is about something else."
Cuddy checked her watch. Meeting in two -- no, one minute.
"There was a rather unusual request over the weekend for medical records."
"Yes?" She tapped her fingers on the desktop. Why couldn't people ever get straight to the point anymore?
"Well, we've had requests like this before, but not for a while, and when we get these kinds of requests, they're usually for Dr. House's records, but this one --"
"Let me get this straight," Cuddy interrupted impatiently. "You're saying this has nothing to do with Dr. House?"
"No, Doctor, but the request was from the Hellebore County --"
Another line on her phone buzzed. Meeting.
"Look," Cuddy said. "Send me an email or write it up and send it interoffice mail and I'll take a look at it. I'm sorry, but I've got to go now."
"But --"
She hung up. Gathering up her papers and notes, Dr. Cuddy strode swiftly from her office. Couldn't keep potential donors waiting. This was important.
In another part of the hospital, a young woman looked at the phone in her hand, the dial tone buzzing like an angry insect.
"-- it was for Dr. Wilson's records," she finished, although there was no one there to hear her.
Wilson's steps slowed as he realized the transport truck was parked, engine running, next to the locked door of the hot box.
As he drew closer, he could see that the door was constructed of steel sheet metal. In the center was a narrow, barred window, and on one side a small, hinged square. A plastic water bottle sat next to it, a length of twine tied around its neck, and Wilson understood the little door set into the larger one was for lowering food and water to the prisoner trapped inside.
"Let me out," someone called, and it took Wilson a moment to realize the voice was coming from underground. From the prisoner in the box.
"Please let me out. I'll be good. I will. Please, oh God, it's hot, please let me out."
The voice was weak, and Wilson stared at the barred window in the ground.
"Water," the voice pleaded. "Please, water."
There were two guards on duty at the box.
"You had your water this morning, asshole," one of them shouted. "No more water for another two hours."
"Water! Please let me out! Water!"
"Ah, Christ," one of the guards muttered. "Shut the damn grate so we don't have to listen to that all day."
His partner grunted his agreement and used the toe of his boot to slide closed the narrow window's metal cover.
The man underground began to scream at the dying of the light. When the slot was finally covered, all that could be heard was a muffled noise, like the roar of a faraway crowd.
One of Wilson's guards shoved him forward.
"Show's over," he said. "Get in the truck."
Wilson picked up a rock and carried it to the other side of the road. The ankle fetters forced him to take short, calculated steps, and he picked his way across the tarry blacktop carefully, trying to avoid the cracks in the asphalt surface. It was clear there'd been no vehicles on this road for a long time. He set the rock down on the slowly-growing pile, recrossed the road, and picked up another rock.
Why did the prisoner cross the road? he thought. To get another fucking rock.
It was what he and his fellow three prisoners had been doing for the past hour -- picking up rocks from one pile and moving them to another.
Wilson was hot. His back hurt, he was covered in dirt and rock dust, and his fingers and hands were scraped and bleeding.
The four guards and their boss sat in the cool shadow of the truck, drinking water from plastic bottles stored in an ice chest. Wilson caught snatches of their conversation from time to time -- "Yeah, that's what the wife said," and "How do you think the Wolf Pack'll do next year?" and "Then I hit her, and she shut up."
Wilson hated them. He had just dumped another rock to the ground and turned wearily back for another when there was a cry of surprise and pain from behind him, cut short by a terrible crunching sound. He spun around.
One of the prisoners, an older guy who'd insisted everyone call him "Three," had apparently managed to climb to the top of the taller rock pile in order to push some of it down. Make it look smaller. Instead the stones and gravel had shifted under his feet, and he'd come tumbling down to land in an awkward sprawl in the dirt.
"Shit!" Wilson cursed and hobbled as quickly as he could to the man's side. He knelt, mentally listing the prisoner's injuries. Scalp laceration, bleeding all over the place. A trickle of blood from the man's right ear. Clear liquid oozing from his nostrils. Bruising beginning to form under the eyes. Wilson pried up the man's eyelids, and even without a penlight he could see that the pupils were vastly uneven. The injured man's pulse was fast and thready. Wilson looked up to see the two other prisoners and the guards all standing there like spectators at a reality TV show.
"I'm a doctor," Wilson snapped. "This man has a skull fracture. We need to get him to a hospital right away."
Nobody moved.
"Did you hear me? He could die from this!"
The prisoners turned away and began to pick up rocks again. The guards started to drift back towards the truck. Wilson gaped.
"What the hell is wrong with you people?" He shot to his feet, and clumsily pursued the crew boss.
"Look," he yelled. "This has gone far enough! It's not bad enough that you kidnap me and lock me up like an animal -- this is murder!" And he grabbed the boss's arm.
Too late, he remembered Tooey's words from the day before -- "There's that whole dynamic of giving sadists and assholes guns and uniforms."
There were bright blue flashes, the bzaaapppp of at least two Tasers, and Wilson found himself flat on his back, looking up into a cloudless blue sky.
"Prisoners don't touch guards," the crew boss said from somewhere up above. "Thought that woulda been obvious by now."
"What do you want us to do with him, Sarge?" one of the guards asked. Wilson moaned softly and tried to move, but his arms and legs didn't seem to work.
"Strip him and stake him out," the boss said. "See if getting some ant bites and a sunburn on his pecker learns him anything."
He was vaguely aware of hands under his arms, dragging him away from the truck and the rockpiles and the deserted road. His heels bumped along the ground, leaving a parallel trail in the sand. Then he was lying flat again, and more hands were lifting his arms, tugging his t-shirt off over his head. Fingers hooked into the elastic waistband of his shorts; he tried to grab at the cloth as it slid down over his thighs but the double Tasering had left him helpless.
His hand fluttered in the air like a wounded bird.
One of the guards dropped several somethings by his head; they made a clattery sound as they hit the ground. He realized they were long wooden tent pegs when the guards stretched his arms out and began pounding the rods into the dirt next to his wrists. He tried to move again, and this time was able to raise his right arm. The guards easily caught it and forced it back down. He grunted as lengths of rope were looped around his wrists and pulled tight, tying them securely to the pegs.
"No," he whispered, but the guards were already at work on his ankles, unlocking the fetters and wrenching his legs painfully far apart.
When they left him, he was spreadeagled, bound hand and foot to the rapidly heating, scrubby earth, the sun beating down on his naked, exposed body.
There was a rock digging into Wilson's back.
He took slow, shallow breaths, trying not to panic, and pulled at his restraints again.
It was no use. The bastards obviously had plenty of experience at this; they'd stretched him taut and tied him tight. There was no way he could get enough leverage to free himself.
A fly buzzed at his ear and he shook his head to try and chase it away.
In the distance he could hear the clink of chains as his fellow prisoners continued to carry rocks back and forth, and the braying laughter of the guards as one of them told a funny story.
Probably about other inmates they'd tortured, Wilson thought, and struggled again to fight down the rising fear.
Down here at ground level it was a different world -- all he had to do was turn his head and he could see ants and grasshoppers, oddly-colored beetles and strange flying bugs. So far nothing had bitten or stung him, and for that he was grateful.
He raised his head for a moment and looked down at his body. He could see the nest of curly, dark pubic hair into which his penis and testicles had sensibly retreated, and his legs spread wide and the tops of his feet, but not much else. His shoulders began to protest and he dropped his head back with a thump.
Naked, he thought. Naked and tied up like an animal ready for slaughter in the middle of the goddamn Nevada desert by a bunch of insane rent-a-cops.
He felt something feather-soft, tiny legs creeping, and he raised his head again.
A centipede was exploring his stomach, its long antennae waving back and forth like miniature radar sweeps.
Wilson held his breath.
This is so fucked.
He was thirsty. And hungry, but mostly thirsty.
The centipede hadn't bitten him, but numerous other small insects had -- mostly ants, he thought, but he couldn't be sure since he couldn't always see them. They burned and itched, and he could feel things crawling in his hair and along his outstretched arms.
His shoulders ached, and his hips, and his wrists and ankles were chafed and raw because he'd been unable to keep from tugging at the ropes that were holding him so damn tight.
He blinked up at the sun.
God, he was thirsty.
Wilson moaned softly. He knew he'd been doing it for awhile now, but he couldn't seem to stop himself.
His skin was starting to turn red and he had a terrible headache. He'd closed his eyes against the searing sun a long time ago, but he could still see it, red against his closed lids.
A shadow fell over his face and slowly, painfully, he opened his eyes. It was one of the guards, checking on him.
"Wadr," Wilson mumbled. He tried to lick his lips, and tried again. "Water. Please."
"Water?" The guard's voice was loud and mocking. "You want water? Here's some water for you." And he twisted the cap off the bottle he was holding and poured the ice-cold liquid over Wilson's chest and stomach.
Wilson screamed as the chilled liquid hit his raw, reddened skin. It was like the electric jolt of the Taser, and he bucked and thrashed as the water burned him like acid.
The heel of his left foot dug into the sandy dirt, dislodging a rock, and underneath the rock, in a tiny hollow, an insect. Normally nocturnal, confused and angry at being disturbed during the day, the creature waved its short, jointed tail and stung the nearest available target.
Wilson screamed again and tried to jerk his foot away from whoever had suddenly driven a needle-sharp nail into it.
"God!" he screamed. "Oh, God!"
"What the hell?" the guard muttered, and crouched down to see what the matter was. After a moment he saw the small insect, and grinned as he slipped on a leather glove.
Wilson watched through tear-filled eyes and gulped down sobs as the guard held the wriggling thing in front of his face.
"It's just a little bug," the guard taunted.
"No, please, oh God, no." Wilson could hear the stark fear and shameless begging in his own voice and hated it, but there was nothing else he could do. He wrenched again at the restraints, but the ropes were unyielding.
The guard laughed, then leaned close.
"I think it likes you," he whispered, and dropped the scorpion onto Wilson's genitals.
They'd gagged him to stop his screaming as the small arthropod had slowly worked its bumbling insect way off of Wilson's body, wielding its powerful stinger countless more times before finally hitting the ground and scuttling away.
"We knock off at six sharp around here, prisoner," the crew boss said. "Think you can keep the rest of the love-struck insect community away from your dick for the next couple hours?"
The rest of the guards snickered. The boss kicked Wilson in the hip. "C'mon," he ordered, and Wilson was left alone again.
House sat on his sofa, picking out a vintage Who tune on his guitar. Every now and then he'd reach over to his open cellphone, hit the speaker button and speed dial, and listen to the mellifluous tones of Wilson reciting the world's most boring voicemail greeting.
Every time, straight to voicemail.
Which didn't really make sense, because Wilson was back in New Jersey. His flight had landed safely -- House had checked both Flightview.com and the airline's own site.
Wilson should have turned his phone back on the minute he'd gotten off the plane; keeping in touch was practically a commandment in his eyes, and House smiled at the sudden vision of Wilson binding his pager to his arm like some kind of modern tefillin.
He decided not to worry about it. After all, he'd see Wilson tomorrow, and they'd laugh about it then.
They threw him into the back of the truck like a half-empty sack of grain.
The other prisoners and guards moved their feet out of the way. They'd cuffed his wrists in front of him but they hadn't taken off the gag.
Wilson didn't care. He wasn't sure if he cared about anything anymore.
He turned his head slowly -- there was someone else on the floor of the truck bed next to him. Someone cold and silent, whose eyes stared sightlessly at the swaying canvas tarp.
It was Three, his depressed skull fracture still leaking slow drops of blood.
When they got back to the camp, the guards hauled Wilson through the clearing and into the infirmary tent.
The desperate voice from the hotbox was silent.
"You again?" Dr. Tritter said.
~ tbc
NOTES:
Tefillin are also known as phylacteries; more information about them may be found here.
Concrit is still very welcome. ;-)
ETA: Cross-posted to
house_wilson and sick_wilson.TITLE: Welcome to Wherever You Are
AUTHOR:
nightdog_writesPAIRING: House-Wilson, strong friendship, other OCs
RATING: A strong "R" for a graphically unpleasant scene of violence.
WARNINGS: Yes. See "Rating" above.
SPOILERS: Yes, for the S3 Tritter Arc and how it ended.
SUMMARY: Old enemies can turn up in the most unexpected places, and when those enemies are in positions of power ... all bets are off.
DISCLAIMER: Don't own 'em. Never will.
AUTHOR NOTES: None.
BETA: My awesome First Readers, with especial thanks to
deelaundry and blackmare_9 for pelting me with cellphones until I got it right, and also to Dee for contributing a paragraph that was so much better than what I had. lj cut here
Chapter Four
Bright and early Monday morning, House strode into the main lobby of Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital, swinging his cane, whistling a cheery tune, and carrying a large paper bag of breakfast goodies for his fellows.
Except that he didn't.
It was close to eleven a.m., he was limping, he growled at everyone who wished him a good morning (which, admittedly, was hardly anyone), and his breakfast had consisted of a can of Red Bull and two Vicodin.
He stepped into the elevator and viciously poked the button for the fourth floor. He had clinic duty this morning, his leg ached, and a pigeon had shat on his motorcycle jacket. His day couldn't get much worse.
The only bright spot was Wilson's flight arriving tonight. Maybe he'd be able to catch him on the phone before seeing him at work tomorrow.
Wilson's bed was moving.
Earthquake, he thought muzzily. Then -- no earthquakes in New Jersey.
He opened his eyes.
A guard was kicking one of the cot legs, jarring the bunk with each blow. Another guard was at his feet, unlocking the ankle cuff.
"Up and at 'em," the first guard said laconically. "You got a full day ahead of you."
Outside, Wilson could hear the prison camp coming to life -- people talking and shouting, the sound of pots and pans clanging. Breakfast smells wafted through the already-warm air.
His heart sank. As much as he'd hoped right before falling asleep, it hadn't been a dream.
Wilson hesitated at the entryway to the showers.
It was obvious he was supposed to disrobe -- a large, wheeled laundry bin was just inside the tent flap, and it was already full of red shorts and t-shirts.
There was a none-too-gentle jab in his ribs.
"Take 'em off," a guard drawled, his truncheon ready for another jab if need be. "You ain't got nothin' nobody here ain't seen before, and if you do then I wanna see it."
The floor was concrete, with drains set every few feet. The showerheads were attached to a row of wooden posts, and the water flow was apparently controlled from one handle on each post.
There were a few other prisoners there -- two skinny white guys, their farmers' tans standing out against their pale torsos, and one enormous black man, built like a tank, his skin gleaming ebony under the shower spray.
Wilson thought of all the stupid jokes he'd ever heard that had the punchline "Don't drop the soap." Suddenly they didn't seem so funny.
Taking a deep breath, he stepped forward.
None of the other inmates paid Wilson any attention. Feeling slightly more confident, he picked up a bar of soap from its holder on the shower pole. It was yellow and smelled powerfully of a strong antiseptic. He twisted the faucet handle.
"Ah!" Wilson yelped; the water pouring from the showerhead was freezing.
The tank next to him gave a low, amused chuckle. "Don't worry," he rumbled. "You'll get used to it after a few months."
Wilson toweled off as best he could. The rectangular piece of red cloth from the stack by the exit was thin and threadbare; he knotted it around his waist as he entered the next section of the tent.
There was a tub of cheap plastic shavers, still in their clear cellophane wrappers. He took one and claimed a place in front of a sink -- one of many, arranged in a row just like the showers. There was more soap here, and he shaved slowly and carefully. His face had been mostly protected by his arms the day before (don't think about that) so his cheeks weren't too sunburned.
"Hurry it up," a guard snapped, and Wilson started. He wondered briefly if there were guards in the bathrooms too, and decided there probably were.
"I'm done," he said softly, wiping the last of the soap from his face.
"Good. Get dressed," the guard said, and used his truncheon to point to another laundry bin, identical to the first, piled with clean red t-shirts and shorts.
Wilson quickly found his size, and pulled on the fresh clothes.
Morning ablutions, it seemed, were over.
Breakfast was powdered scrambled eggs, reconstituted with tepid tap water, two slices of dry, toasted white bread, unadorned with butter or any other spread, and four strips of rubbery bacon that tasted like they'd come off the ass end of a muddy pig. And an orange.
"Eat up, New Guy," a familiar voice said sardonically. "Breakfast is the most important meal of the day."
Wilson looked up from the horror on his tray to see Tooey slipping into the seat opposite. He quickly glanced away, faintly ashamed of the relief that had immediately flooded his system at the sight of a friendly face.
"So what's on your agenda for the day?" Tooey asked as he stole a bacon strip from Wilson's plate. "Places to go, people to see?"
"I don't know," Wilson said. "My -- the guard just said I had a full day ahead of me."
"Ah." Tooey frowned as he chewed the inadequately-smoked pork. "Probably a work detail, then. Places to go, rocks to break." He smiled faintly at Wilson's shocked expression. "Everything here's make-work," he said. "They have to do something with us, make it look good."
Wilson picked at his dry eggs. The plastic fork felt light and useless in his hand.
"What about that guy?" he asked, remembering what he'd seen yesterday. "The guy they threw in the ... the hotbox."
Tooey shook his head slowly.
"You ask a lot of questions, New Guy," he said. He sighed and wiped at his mouth with a napkin. "Sentenced to a week in the box. He'll be lucky if he makes it through the fourth day."
Wilson put down his fork. Suddenly he wasn't hungry anymore.
"What did he -- what did he do?"
"He tried to escape."
A pair of shadows loomed over the table; Wilson saw Tooey glance up and then look quickly down and away. A large hand squeezed Wilson's right shoulder.
"Breakfast's over," the guard said.
"Dr. Cuddy?"
The female voice was timid; Cuddy didn't recognize it and glanced at the caller i.d. on her office phone.
Human Resources/Personnel.
"Oh, God," she groaned. "Don't tell me there's been another harassment complaint." She was going to kill House, she really was this time. She'd already had to threaten, cajole, and finally bribe him into doing his clinic hours this morning, and he'd kept those insolent blue eyes fixed on her the entire time. She'd be so glad when Wilson got back; Wilson could get House to do things when no one else could.
"What?" the voice squeaked. "No, Doctor, this is about something else."
Cuddy checked her watch. Meeting in two -- no, one minute.
"There was a rather unusual request over the weekend for medical records."
"Yes?" She tapped her fingers on the desktop. Why couldn't people ever get straight to the point anymore?
"Well, we've had requests like this before, but not for a while, and when we get these kinds of requests, they're usually for Dr. House's records, but this one --"
"Let me get this straight," Cuddy interrupted impatiently. "You're saying this has nothing to do with Dr. House?"
"No, Doctor, but the request was from the Hellebore County --"
Another line on her phone buzzed. Meeting.
"Look," Cuddy said. "Send me an email or write it up and send it interoffice mail and I'll take a look at it. I'm sorry, but I've got to go now."
"But --"
She hung up. Gathering up her papers and notes, Dr. Cuddy strode swiftly from her office. Couldn't keep potential donors waiting. This was important.
In another part of the hospital, a young woman looked at the phone in her hand, the dial tone buzzing like an angry insect.
"-- it was for Dr. Wilson's records," she finished, although there was no one there to hear her.
Wilson's steps slowed as he realized the transport truck was parked, engine running, next to the locked door of the hot box.
As he drew closer, he could see that the door was constructed of steel sheet metal. In the center was a narrow, barred window, and on one side a small, hinged square. A plastic water bottle sat next to it, a length of twine tied around its neck, and Wilson understood the little door set into the larger one was for lowering food and water to the prisoner trapped inside.
"Let me out," someone called, and it took Wilson a moment to realize the voice was coming from underground. From the prisoner in the box.
"Please let me out. I'll be good. I will. Please, oh God, it's hot, please let me out."
The voice was weak, and Wilson stared at the barred window in the ground.
"Water," the voice pleaded. "Please, water."
There were two guards on duty at the box.
"You had your water this morning, asshole," one of them shouted. "No more water for another two hours."
"Water! Please let me out! Water!"
"Ah, Christ," one of the guards muttered. "Shut the damn grate so we don't have to listen to that all day."
His partner grunted his agreement and used the toe of his boot to slide closed the narrow window's metal cover.
The man underground began to scream at the dying of the light. When the slot was finally covered, all that could be heard was a muffled noise, like the roar of a faraway crowd.
One of Wilson's guards shoved him forward.
"Show's over," he said. "Get in the truck."
Wilson picked up a rock and carried it to the other side of the road. The ankle fetters forced him to take short, calculated steps, and he picked his way across the tarry blacktop carefully, trying to avoid the cracks in the asphalt surface. It was clear there'd been no vehicles on this road for a long time. He set the rock down on the slowly-growing pile, recrossed the road, and picked up another rock.
Why did the prisoner cross the road? he thought. To get another fucking rock.
It was what he and his fellow three prisoners had been doing for the past hour -- picking up rocks from one pile and moving them to another.
Wilson was hot. His back hurt, he was covered in dirt and rock dust, and his fingers and hands were scraped and bleeding.
The four guards and their boss sat in the cool shadow of the truck, drinking water from plastic bottles stored in an ice chest. Wilson caught snatches of their conversation from time to time -- "Yeah, that's what the wife said," and "How do you think the Wolf Pack'll do next year?" and "Then I hit her, and she shut up."
Wilson hated them. He had just dumped another rock to the ground and turned wearily back for another when there was a cry of surprise and pain from behind him, cut short by a terrible crunching sound. He spun around.
One of the prisoners, an older guy who'd insisted everyone call him "Three," had apparently managed to climb to the top of the taller rock pile in order to push some of it down. Make it look smaller. Instead the stones and gravel had shifted under his feet, and he'd come tumbling down to land in an awkward sprawl in the dirt.
"Shit!" Wilson cursed and hobbled as quickly as he could to the man's side. He knelt, mentally listing the prisoner's injuries. Scalp laceration, bleeding all over the place. A trickle of blood from the man's right ear. Clear liquid oozing from his nostrils. Bruising beginning to form under the eyes. Wilson pried up the man's eyelids, and even without a penlight he could see that the pupils were vastly uneven. The injured man's pulse was fast and thready. Wilson looked up to see the two other prisoners and the guards all standing there like spectators at a reality TV show.
"I'm a doctor," Wilson snapped. "This man has a skull fracture. We need to get him to a hospital right away."
Nobody moved.
"Did you hear me? He could die from this!"
The prisoners turned away and began to pick up rocks again. The guards started to drift back towards the truck. Wilson gaped.
"What the hell is wrong with you people?" He shot to his feet, and clumsily pursued the crew boss.
"Look," he yelled. "This has gone far enough! It's not bad enough that you kidnap me and lock me up like an animal -- this is murder!" And he grabbed the boss's arm.
Too late, he remembered Tooey's words from the day before -- "There's that whole dynamic of giving sadists and assholes guns and uniforms."
There were bright blue flashes, the bzaaapppp of at least two Tasers, and Wilson found himself flat on his back, looking up into a cloudless blue sky.
"Prisoners don't touch guards," the crew boss said from somewhere up above. "Thought that woulda been obvious by now."
"What do you want us to do with him, Sarge?" one of the guards asked. Wilson moaned softly and tried to move, but his arms and legs didn't seem to work.
"Strip him and stake him out," the boss said. "See if getting some ant bites and a sunburn on his pecker learns him anything."
He was vaguely aware of hands under his arms, dragging him away from the truck and the rockpiles and the deserted road. His heels bumped along the ground, leaving a parallel trail in the sand. Then he was lying flat again, and more hands were lifting his arms, tugging his t-shirt off over his head. Fingers hooked into the elastic waistband of his shorts; he tried to grab at the cloth as it slid down over his thighs but the double Tasering had left him helpless.
His hand fluttered in the air like a wounded bird.
One of the guards dropped several somethings by his head; they made a clattery sound as they hit the ground. He realized they were long wooden tent pegs when the guards stretched his arms out and began pounding the rods into the dirt next to his wrists. He tried to move again, and this time was able to raise his right arm. The guards easily caught it and forced it back down. He grunted as lengths of rope were looped around his wrists and pulled tight, tying them securely to the pegs.
"No," he whispered, but the guards were already at work on his ankles, unlocking the fetters and wrenching his legs painfully far apart.
When they left him, he was spreadeagled, bound hand and foot to the rapidly heating, scrubby earth, the sun beating down on his naked, exposed body.
There was a rock digging into Wilson's back.
He took slow, shallow breaths, trying not to panic, and pulled at his restraints again.
It was no use. The bastards obviously had plenty of experience at this; they'd stretched him taut and tied him tight. There was no way he could get enough leverage to free himself.
A fly buzzed at his ear and he shook his head to try and chase it away.
In the distance he could hear the clink of chains as his fellow prisoners continued to carry rocks back and forth, and the braying laughter of the guards as one of them told a funny story.
Probably about other inmates they'd tortured, Wilson thought, and struggled again to fight down the rising fear.
Down here at ground level it was a different world -- all he had to do was turn his head and he could see ants and grasshoppers, oddly-colored beetles and strange flying bugs. So far nothing had bitten or stung him, and for that he was grateful.
He raised his head for a moment and looked down at his body. He could see the nest of curly, dark pubic hair into which his penis and testicles had sensibly retreated, and his legs spread wide and the tops of his feet, but not much else. His shoulders began to protest and he dropped his head back with a thump.
Naked, he thought. Naked and tied up like an animal ready for slaughter in the middle of the goddamn Nevada desert by a bunch of insane rent-a-cops.
He felt something feather-soft, tiny legs creeping, and he raised his head again.
A centipede was exploring his stomach, its long antennae waving back and forth like miniature radar sweeps.
Wilson held his breath.
This is so fucked.
He was thirsty. And hungry, but mostly thirsty.
The centipede hadn't bitten him, but numerous other small insects had -- mostly ants, he thought, but he couldn't be sure since he couldn't always see them. They burned and itched, and he could feel things crawling in his hair and along his outstretched arms.
His shoulders ached, and his hips, and his wrists and ankles were chafed and raw because he'd been unable to keep from tugging at the ropes that were holding him so damn tight.
He blinked up at the sun.
God, he was thirsty.
Wilson moaned softly. He knew he'd been doing it for awhile now, but he couldn't seem to stop himself.
His skin was starting to turn red and he had a terrible headache. He'd closed his eyes against the searing sun a long time ago, but he could still see it, red against his closed lids.
A shadow fell over his face and slowly, painfully, he opened his eyes. It was one of the guards, checking on him.
"Wadr," Wilson mumbled. He tried to lick his lips, and tried again. "Water. Please."
"Water?" The guard's voice was loud and mocking. "You want water? Here's some water for you." And he twisted the cap off the bottle he was holding and poured the ice-cold liquid over Wilson's chest and stomach.
Wilson screamed as the chilled liquid hit his raw, reddened skin. It was like the electric jolt of the Taser, and he bucked and thrashed as the water burned him like acid.
The heel of his left foot dug into the sandy dirt, dislodging a rock, and underneath the rock, in a tiny hollow, an insect. Normally nocturnal, confused and angry at being disturbed during the day, the creature waved its short, jointed tail and stung the nearest available target.
Wilson screamed again and tried to jerk his foot away from whoever had suddenly driven a needle-sharp nail into it.
"God!" he screamed. "Oh, God!"
"What the hell?" the guard muttered, and crouched down to see what the matter was. After a moment he saw the small insect, and grinned as he slipped on a leather glove.
Wilson watched through tear-filled eyes and gulped down sobs as the guard held the wriggling thing in front of his face.
"It's just a little bug," the guard taunted.
"No, please, oh God, no." Wilson could hear the stark fear and shameless begging in his own voice and hated it, but there was nothing else he could do. He wrenched again at the restraints, but the ropes were unyielding.
The guard laughed, then leaned close.
"I think it likes you," he whispered, and dropped the scorpion onto Wilson's genitals.
They'd gagged him to stop his screaming as the small arthropod had slowly worked its bumbling insect way off of Wilson's body, wielding its powerful stinger countless more times before finally hitting the ground and scuttling away.
"We knock off at six sharp around here, prisoner," the crew boss said. "Think you can keep the rest of the love-struck insect community away from your dick for the next couple hours?"
The rest of the guards snickered. The boss kicked Wilson in the hip. "C'mon," he ordered, and Wilson was left alone again.
House sat on his sofa, picking out a vintage Who tune on his guitar. Every now and then he'd reach over to his open cellphone, hit the speaker button and speed dial, and listen to the mellifluous tones of Wilson reciting the world's most boring voicemail greeting.
Every time, straight to voicemail.
Which didn't really make sense, because Wilson was back in New Jersey. His flight had landed safely -- House had checked both Flightview.com and the airline's own site.
Wilson should have turned his phone back on the minute he'd gotten off the plane; keeping in touch was practically a commandment in his eyes, and House smiled at the sudden vision of Wilson binding his pager to his arm like some kind of modern tefillin.
He decided not to worry about it. After all, he'd see Wilson tomorrow, and they'd laugh about it then.
They threw him into the back of the truck like a half-empty sack of grain.
The other prisoners and guards moved their feet out of the way. They'd cuffed his wrists in front of him but they hadn't taken off the gag.
Wilson didn't care. He wasn't sure if he cared about anything anymore.
He turned his head slowly -- there was someone else on the floor of the truck bed next to him. Someone cold and silent, whose eyes stared sightlessly at the swaying canvas tarp.
It was Three, his depressed skull fracture still leaking slow drops of blood.
When they got back to the camp, the guards hauled Wilson through the clearing and into the infirmary tent.
The desperate voice from the hotbox was silent.
"You again?" Dr. Tritter said.
~ tbc
NOTES:
Tefillin are also known as phylacteries; more information about them may be found here.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2007-07-01 05:24 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-07-01 05:29 pm (UTC)Thank you, Dee.
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Date: 2007-07-01 05:43 pm (UTC)And. If it goes to voice mail, you can have House leaving some brief bit of snark in Wilson's voice mail box. And we all know that House-snark = love. Hee.
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Date: 2007-07-01 05:51 pm (UTC)That voicemail thing has actually now led to House's musing about Wilson's need to keep in touch and then having a borderline-blasphemous mental image involving Wilson and tefillin.
I told Mr. Nightdog about it and he laughed, so it's phylacteries FTW.
Hee!
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Date: 2007-07-01 05:57 pm (UTC)I'll have to wikipedia those two words. Tefillin and phylacteries.
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Date: 2007-07-01 06:05 pm (UTC)Like House.
Wilson's not Orthodox but I'm betting one of his grandfathers or great-uncles was and he probably told House about it. Also House would have done a lot of
snoopingresearch into his best friend's religion because he's justnosycurious like that.no subject
Date: 2007-07-01 06:01 pm (UTC)*feels like a moron*
Ooohhhh, okay. I'm familiar, sort of, with the items in question. I had just spaced the proper name(s) for them.
What House's brain will do with this -- oh, it'll be funny, I'm sure.
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Date: 2007-07-01 06:13 pm (UTC)Mr. Nightdog has never worn them himself (he was raised Reform, as I assume Wilson was also) but when he was a teenager he belonged to a youth group called AZA, and one of the things they would do was go to the Conservative and Orthodox temples on Saturday mornings to help make a minyan if there weren't enough men there already.
Tefillin are a lot more common in those settings, and he would watch as the old men prayed and put them on.
I find it very easy to imagine Wilson doing the same thing.
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Date: 2007-07-01 06:16 pm (UTC)You have reached the voice mail box of ... (in that canned female voice) and then the incongruous voice of his friend saying, "Doctor James Wilson."
To page this person, press 5 now. To leave a voice message, press 1, or wait for the tone.
I know this because I do sometimes try to call people whose phones are turned off or who are out of the service range, like, down in the Everglades.
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Date: 2007-07-01 07:16 pm (UTC)Do you think that works or should I change it back the other way? Addressing this question to Dee also.
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Date: 2007-07-01 06:44 pm (UTC)House sat on his sofa, picking out a vintage Who tune on his guitar. Every now and then he glanced at his cellphone, open on the coffee table in front of him.
VOICEMAIL, the canned, illuminated message read.
House's cell would only say VOICEMAIL if he had voicemail on his service. What about this?
House sat on his sofa, picking out a vintage Who tune on his guitar. Every now and then he'd reach over to his open cellphone, hit the speaker button and speed dial, and listen to the mellifluous tones of Wilson reciting the world's most boring voicemail greeting.
Every time, straight to voicemail.
no subject
Date: 2007-07-01 07:05 pm (UTC)I was just coming back to change it, and I like your
postcardsuggestion very much.;-D
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Date: 2007-07-01 07:14 pm (UTC)Do you think that works or should I change it back the other way? Addressing this question to Mare also.
no subject
Date: 2007-07-01 07:24 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-07-01 07:34 pm (UTC)Gah. Excellent point. I'm having this odd bout of not trusting my first instincts ...
no subject
Date: 2007-07-01 07:33 pm (UTC)*smiles*
Yup, makes good sense now.
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Date: 2007-07-02 09:32 am (UTC)But that would be four o clock Las Vegas time which would make it seven PM East Coast time, which would make it plenty of time for House to have gotten home and become upset about Wilson and speaking of Wilson A FUCKING SCORPION holy shit seriously I'm not even a dude and I am thinking how painful that had to be.
More please