(no subject)
Petty Officer First Class Eric Jensen was sure of two things.
The first was that most of the blood on the carpet was his.
The second was that there was far too much of it.
Everything else - where the others were, if Mother was alive, if he’d ever make it out of this room - was a variable, trending towards the negative.
He drew in a shallow, ragged breath, trying for what seemed like the thousandth time to ignore the white-hot pain in his chest as did so. He couldn’t tell how long he’d been here. All he could remember was the gunship overhead, then explosions, then Mother helping him up, then more explosions, then a flash of white, then…
…then this place.
The beatings had begun then, militants taking turns whaling on him with hammers, with chains, with brass knuckles, with their fists. He’d tried to resist, tried to fight back, but with both legs broken and a liter low on blood (at best, he kept telling himself), his efforts never resulted in more than laughter from the Chechens and a bout of extra hard beatings. He could feel the bruises welling up to the surface now, tender spots of black and blue mixing with his pallor.
They’d taken his carbine, his pistol, and his radio. They’d taken Leah’s picture, passed it around, then ripped it to shreds in front of his eyes. An attempt to reassemble it had led only to a fistful of photo paper and a swift kick in the stomach from the guard who’d walked in on him. He’d started coughing blood after that, had been for the past…hour. It had to be an hour, he told himself, but every minute passed like a century in this place.
He craned his neck to look at Mother, bound to a chair in the corner, mouth duct-taped. He hadn’t moved since the last beating, his stocky frame sagging against the ropes, his balding head bowed and bruised. If he was dead, he hadn’t started smelling yet. If he wasn’t…well, he could hope.
Hope. If he could’ve laughed without doubling over in pain or drawing a beating, he would’ve. Hope. It was, as they said, dangerous in places like these.
An explosion rocked the cave. Eric lifted his head to look at the door. It was nothing. Again. Probably the militants shooting off ordinance.
And yet…
Another one, this one louder, closer. And if he strained his ears enough, he could almost fool himself into thinking he heard voices.
Another explosion, the trademark poppopPOPpoppop of ammunition cooking off. No, he did hear voices. They were distant and resonant but they were in the cave and they were speaking English and they were talking about him and Mother...
For the first time in as long as he could remember, Eric Jensen felt hope. A single tear rolled down his cheeks, mixing with blood that had long since clotted.
The door crashed inward, and two figures rushed into the room, guns up, sweeping it for threats.
“We got ‘em!” The shout was muffled, distorted, as if it were at the other end of an echo chamber. One of the figures lifted Mother’s head and ripped the duct tape off his mouth, the other untying the ropes. Mother coughed, once, twice, shook his head.
“Rabbit…get Rabbit free.” One of them - it was Preacher, he’d recognize that helmet anywhere - walked over and knelt next to him.
“Hey, Rabbit. How bad’re you?”
Eric gestured to the bloodstain. “Can’t move my legs,” he rasped, wincing as he drew in another breath. “Think they’re broken. Breathing hurts.”
Preacher nodded. “You’re gonna be fine, Rabbit. Just fine. Voodoo, get his other arm. We need to move him.”
The other figure - it was Voodoo, that scar was one of a kind - walked over and looped Eric’s arm around his neck. “Let’s fuckin’ hurry up, guys!” The next thing Eric knew, he was off the ground and his legs were on fire, shattered bone grinding against torn muscle. He would’ve screamed if he had the energy.
“You…you came back for us,” Eric rasped. “You came back.” The dizziness threatened to overtake him, blackness rimming the edge of his vision.
“Fuckin’ A we did. Jimmy, Voodoo. Jimmy, this is Voodoo!” The only response was a sharp whine of static. “Fuck. Comms not working in here…”
And then blackness overtook him like a blanket.
The first was that most of the blood on the carpet was his.
The second was that there was far too much of it.
Everything else - where the others were, if Mother was alive, if he’d ever make it out of this room - was a variable, trending towards the negative.
He drew in a shallow, ragged breath, trying for what seemed like the thousandth time to ignore the white-hot pain in his chest as did so. He couldn’t tell how long he’d been here. All he could remember was the gunship overhead, then explosions, then Mother helping him up, then more explosions, then a flash of white, then…
…then this place.
The beatings had begun then, militants taking turns whaling on him with hammers, with chains, with brass knuckles, with their fists. He’d tried to resist, tried to fight back, but with both legs broken and a liter low on blood (at best, he kept telling himself), his efforts never resulted in more than laughter from the Chechens and a bout of extra hard beatings. He could feel the bruises welling up to the surface now, tender spots of black and blue mixing with his pallor.
They’d taken his carbine, his pistol, and his radio. They’d taken Leah’s picture, passed it around, then ripped it to shreds in front of his eyes. An attempt to reassemble it had led only to a fistful of photo paper and a swift kick in the stomach from the guard who’d walked in on him. He’d started coughing blood after that, had been for the past…hour. It had to be an hour, he told himself, but every minute passed like a century in this place.
He craned his neck to look at Mother, bound to a chair in the corner, mouth duct-taped. He hadn’t moved since the last beating, his stocky frame sagging against the ropes, his balding head bowed and bruised. If he was dead, he hadn’t started smelling yet. If he wasn’t…well, he could hope.
Hope. If he could’ve laughed without doubling over in pain or drawing a beating, he would’ve. Hope. It was, as they said, dangerous in places like these.
An explosion rocked the cave. Eric lifted his head to look at the door. It was nothing. Again. Probably the militants shooting off ordinance.
And yet…
Another one, this one louder, closer. And if he strained his ears enough, he could almost fool himself into thinking he heard voices.
Another explosion, the trademark poppopPOPpoppop of ammunition cooking off. No, he did hear voices. They were distant and resonant but they were in the cave and they were speaking English and they were talking about him and Mother...
For the first time in as long as he could remember, Eric Jensen felt hope. A single tear rolled down his cheeks, mixing with blood that had long since clotted.
The door crashed inward, and two figures rushed into the room, guns up, sweeping it for threats.
“We got ‘em!” The shout was muffled, distorted, as if it were at the other end of an echo chamber. One of the figures lifted Mother’s head and ripped the duct tape off his mouth, the other untying the ropes. Mother coughed, once, twice, shook his head.
“Rabbit…get Rabbit free.” One of them - it was Preacher, he’d recognize that helmet anywhere - walked over and knelt next to him.
“Hey, Rabbit. How bad’re you?”
Eric gestured to the bloodstain. “Can’t move my legs,” he rasped, wincing as he drew in another breath. “Think they’re broken. Breathing hurts.”
Preacher nodded. “You’re gonna be fine, Rabbit. Just fine. Voodoo, get his other arm. We need to move him.”
The other figure - it was Voodoo, that scar was one of a kind - walked over and looped Eric’s arm around his neck. “Let’s fuckin’ hurry up, guys!” The next thing Eric knew, he was off the ground and his legs were on fire, shattered bone grinding against torn muscle. He would’ve screamed if he had the energy.
“You…you came back for us,” Eric rasped. “You came back.” The dizziness threatened to overtake him, blackness rimming the edge of his vision.
“Fuckin’ A we did. Jimmy, Voodoo. Jimmy, this is Voodoo!” The only response was a sharp whine of static. “Fuck. Comms not working in here…”
And then blackness overtook him like a blanket.