Free NO GOOD DEED by M.P. McDonald Page A

and he was no longer chained to the board. His arms remained shackled in front of him, but when he curled his legs to his chest, there was no resistance. His stomach churned and he barely made it up on one elbow before he vomited eggs and water all over the floor. His throat felt raw and his chest ached as he retched until nothing more came up.
    Each cough tore through him like he was being turned inside out, but finally, the spasms died down. He hung his head, exhausted and his chest heaved as he sucked in air. Spent, he sagged onto his side. He was vaguely aware of the voices around him. Someone kept asking him if he was okay. It was the dumbest question he had ever heard. There was a splash nearby, and in blind panic, he rolled back to a half-sitting position and used his elbow and feet to scramble away from the sound. The guards were there in an instant, grabbing the chains and shackles.
    Jim leaned over him. “Maybe next time, you’ll talk.” He straightened. “Get him out of here.”
    * * *

    The walk back to his cell was a blur as Mark stumbled along between the guards. It was all he could do to put his hands and feet through the slots to have his shackles removed before he crawled onto the bed, wrapping the blanket around his shoulders. He couldn’t stop shaking and his teeth chattered. He clenched his jaw until it ached. It was only a matter of time now, he was convinced of that. No longer was it a matter of if, but a matter of when. They would kill him and there was nothing he could do to stop them.
    His stomach rumbled and he staggered to the toilet, but  he was reduced to dry heaves. Afterward, he leaned on the sink and scooped water to rinse his mouth, but as soon as it touched his lips, the nausea came roaring back and he gagged. Exhausted, he sank to the floor and curled up in the blanket. His shadowy reflection on outside of the stainless steel toilet bowl looked sinister, his eyes just dark smudges in his chalky face.
    There was no hope. As far as he could tell, he had been here months already. Mark tried to track the seasons by the weather when he was allowed out in the courtyard every few days. Spring had come to wherever he was, and since he had been here, he had seen only the gang of interrogators. Even his request for his lawyer was ignored. How could they do that? He had watched plenty of cop shows. The bad guys always got lawyers. How come he hadn’t been able to talk to his?
    Jessie had mentioned the term “enemy combatant”, but he hadn’t had time to ask her exactly what that meant. Now he knew. It meant they could do anything they wanted to him. Anything at all.
    His shivering abated, but his energy didn’t return. He coughed, his whole body shuddering and he groaned at the ache in his ribs. He felt like he had been beaten with a bat. Wrung out emotionally and physically, he slept.
    The clink of the slot woke him. They were back. He scuttled under the bed, banging his head against the metal in his haste. If they tried to take him, he’d fight. It would be better to die fighting right now. Backing into the farthest corner, he strained to hear over the sound of his own breathing. A soft scrape reached him and then the creak of the slot closing. Mark remained under the bed for a long time, ears attuned for any other sounds. Slowly...carefully, he inched his way out and spotted his meal tray.
    Eyes glued to the door, he retrieved it and set it on his bed. The sandwich looked safe enough. He sniffed it. Turkey. It was dry, and after a bite, he reached for the purple juice that didn’t taste at all like grape juice. The liquid hit his mouth and it was all he could do to keep the small bite of sandwich from coming back up.
    After two more attempts to eat it, he gave up. His stomach couldn’t handle the food and what little he had managed to swallow came back up moments later. When the slot opened for him to push the tray out, he shoved it as hard as he could, and the curse of the guard on the