He looked up at Ern. Keith, Shelley, and Ethan also stopped digging.
“I know because I visited him last night.” The statement left little to the imagination.
“Did you kill him?” Ern whispered in horror.
John shook his head. “He was still alive when I left him.” He stared at the old man with an intense look. “But the guy was dead the moment he took that bullet in the gut.”
They finished the task in silence. The word spread like wildfire, though, and John had an audience as folks were eating breakfast.
Eventually, he got tired of the whisperings and stood up.
“Yes. I interrogated the enemy soldier last night. And yes, I had to get persuasive,” he said to those who challenged with him stares.
“Persuasive? What you mean is that you tortured the man.” The accusation flew at him from an unexpected corner: Mike. He frowned at John and shook his head.
Several people started talking at once, and an argument ensued. Voices were raised to the point of yelling before Sarah intervened.
“SHUT THE FUCK UP!” she yelled at the top of her lungs. She stood beside her table. Jack’s hand reached out to her, and Sarah held it while continuing to glare around her.
“My husband ... is dead. I’m not interested in your shit today. So, shut it!” Tears streamed down her face, although Shelley could not tell if they were from grief or anger.
It did the trick. All arguments ceased immediately.
After Sarah and Jack retired to their room, the conversation continued. Everybody seemed to be in a more civil mood, and John was allowed to say his piece. People arranged themselves at tables near the ex-soldier, and he proceeded to tell them everything.
NOVEMBER 6, 7:40 P.M.
John stood inside the small office, which had quickly been converted into a second hospital room. The soldier had been laid out on a sturdy table. He was lucky to get a place at all.
Rosa pronounced herself well enough to leave the clinic, to make room for the more seriously wounded. She moved in with Claire and Shelley, preferring that to the old room she had shared with Patrick.
The soldier was asleep. John knew that the heavily medicated Melissa was fast asleep next door but still took care not to make too much noise.
John left the light off. Just enough of a glow came in through the storm shutters to give him a good look at the young man.
He was dying, that much was plain to see.
For John, anyway.
The man’s hair clung to his sweat-soaked forehead as he fought a losing battle. John’s eyes drifted down to his belly. Or rather, the bloody bandage and hastily sewn stitches that attempted to keep his insides from leaking out. Gut wounds were a tricky thing to start with, but this one looked bad. John doubted the man would have survived even if they had rushed him to a fully operating hospital.
Yeah, gut wounds were nasty. John had seen his share of them. He had inflicted his share of them too.
Don’t go there, John, he warned himself.
He stepped a little closer and mentally prepared for what he was about to do. He stopped seeing the baby-faced kid who winced in pain even as he slept.
John repeated a mantra in his head.
You are my enemy. I need information.
It helped him depersonalize everything he was about to do.
You are my enemy. I need information. You are my enemy. I need information. You hurt Melissa. You killed Craig.
No! Focus, soldier.
You are my enemy. I need information.
Finally, he was ready. He nudged the slumbering soldier. The soldier did not wake. So, John shook him a little harder.
The soldier’s eyes opened a fraction. The room was dark, but he could see John looming over him, nonetheless. His eyes opened wide as he realized the situation he was in, and he jerked slightly in the bed. This reminded him of his injuries and the pain he was in, and he winced. He was too weak to scream.
John warned him to be quiet all the same.
“Make any noise, and this will go bad for you,” he said as he stood over the soldier.
One look into John’s eyes was enough. The soldier nodded; the movement barely perceptible.
“Here.” John held up a cup of water and aimed the straw towards the man’s mouth. He knew from experience that those nearing death always had a terrible thirst. The man’s eyes widened once more, but this time in pure need. He moved his head and winced in pain but got his lips around the straw. He sucked the water greedily, but John moved the cup away after a couple of sips.
“That’s enough. It will just hurt if you drink more.” He looked down towards the soldier’s torso. “You’ve been shot in the gut.” His eyes traveled back to the soldier’s face.
The young man moaned. He started to tear up. “I’ve been shot...”
“Yes.”
“Did you shoot me?” he whispered.
“No.” John said with a small shake of his head. “But I would have.”
The soldier blinked. Tears rolled down the sides of his face and into his ears. John found the image disturbing for some reason.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
“P—I’m Paul.”
John smiled, although the smile did not reach his eyes. “I’m John.”
The smile faded and was replaced by a serious look. Paul recognized that look, and his eyes widened in fear. He started moaning again. A sorrowful and high-pitched sound that reminded John somewhat of a dog. John cut him off by stepping slightly closer.
“I need some answers, Paul,” He stated simply.
Paul started to shake his head and opened his mouth to speak. John knew that the soldier was going to resist, so he acted quickly.
Do something shocking and make them forget about resistance. That came straight out of the playbook. The book very few people knew existed.
John did what they had trained him to do.
He grabbed the side of Paul’s head with his prosthetic and struck down with his other hand, the action lightning-fast so that all Paul could
