by Nathan Jones
For almost half a minute there was no answer, but Torm seemed infinitely patient. Pete was starting to fidget, keenly aware he needed to get Jack started back to the squad's trucks, when the slaver finally spoke in heavily accented English. “I have nothing to say.”
The squad's interrogator smiled thinly and pulled out a small but wickedly sharp knife, idly trimming his nails with it. “That wasn't a request.”
Pete didn't like the look of that knife, although it seemed like he was more bothered by it than the overseer. The older man smiled back with equal hostility. “Then maybe you shouldn't have phrased it as one.”
Torm's chair went flying as he half vaulted over the back of it while shoving it down out of his way. In less than a second the scruffy man's sharp knife hovered a hair's breadth from one of the overseer's eyes, rock steady in his grip. “Sorry, buddy. I just figured you'd want to keep this friendly. Believe me, I'm more than happy to do it the other way.”
The slaver had frozen, not even daring to blink his threatened eye as it slowly reddened and tears leaked from it. Pete fidgeted, wondering if he should put a stop to this. So far it was just intimidation, but even that was heavily frowned upon.
Finally the overseer spoke in rapid Chinese.
“Oh, you don't speak English after all?” Torm demanded with a laugh. He babbled out some Chinese of his own, of which Pete only caught a few blistering swear words, and moved the knife over to the overseer's other eye.
Far from being frightened, the slaver seemed relieved to finally be able to blink his eye. He replied with a fairly lengthy speech in a flat monotone voice.
Whatever he said really seemed to piss Torm off, because after a while the private abruptly lunged forward, hitting the slaver solidly in the face hard enough to knock the chair over. The man landed mostly on his shoulder and arm, crying out in pain as the seat of the chair crushed his hand, and Torm stepped back.
“Hey!” Pete said sharply, moving forward.
Chavez caught his arm, by sheer force of presence stifling Pete's objection. “What did he say?” the sergeant asked.
Torm looked over, breathing hard more from pure rage than from exertion. “He said we're just like them. Going into their lands, taking slaves, looting camps, and murdering indiscriminately.”
“Wrong on all counts,” the sergeant said mildly, motioning for Torm to pick the chair back up. The private reluctantly complied.
No joke the slaver was wrong, and no wonder Torm had lost it. Pete couldn't even imagine what sort of deliberate blindness and mental twisting were required to even compare the vile atrocities of slavers to the US and Canadian soldiers that fought against them.
The CCZ was American soil, illegally occupied. Epsilon wasn't here to take slaves but to free them. And while they did bring back any supplies they found, those resources all went to providing for the freed slaves and helping them build a new life. As for the murder, those were all lawful executions of guilty parties; the Army didn't harm civilians.
The accusation pissed Pete off, too. For a moment he was tempted to punch the man himself.
But he wouldn't. He turned to Chavez. “Sarge, executing slavers is one thing, but we do have a code of conduct.”
The sergeant turned to glare at him. “If this makes you squeamish then go get the squad moving on everything we need to do.”
“It's not about squeamishness,” Pete insisted. “There are rules against mistreating prisoners.”
“Even slavers?” Torm demanded.
“Especially slavers.” Pete remembered what Matt had told him so long ago. “We do what we have to to deal with them, but we don't stoop to their level.”
Chavez was quiet for a frightening ten seconds, eyes boring into Pete's. “You a snitch, Childress?”
Pete stiffened. “If I see misconduct-”
“The entire 103rd company does this,” the sergeant snapped. “The entire Canadian military, and US and Mexico too. We don't go farther than we have to, but we do what we need to do.” The man gave Pete a close look, obviously seeing he wasn't swayed by this argument. “You can report us but it won't do any good. It'll just put a target on your own back.”
That was unfortunately probably true, but Pete didn't have to like it. “I'll go see to the freed slaves,” he said stiffly.
Outside Jack had got the slaves freed of their leg chains. The emaciated loggers had joined the available soldiers of Epsilon squad in the dining hall, gorging themselves on food that had been meant for the slaver guards and camp residents with the enthusiasm of long deprivation.
Pete told Jack the situation, and while his friend obviously wasn't pleased about being sent running ahead he grudgingly gathered his gear and got ready to leave, grumbling all the while. Once Jack was gone Pete headed into the dining hall, about to grab some food and join everyone else enjoying their meal.
Which was when he heard a muted scream coming from the direction of the overseer's quarters.
He visibly flinched, and he noticed the freed slaves also looked alarmed. As the screams continued the starving men began to look squeamish about their meals, and a few even set aside their bowls of watery stew.
It didn't escape Pete's attention that the rest of Epsilon kept eating and joking as if they hadn't heard anything.
Torture. In the five days since transferring into Epsilon he hadn't had a chance to track down any rumors going around about the Chainbreakers, and he hadn't seen Lily again to ask her about them. But if this was what his company was doing he could see why they'd developed a horrible reputation.
Or maybe it was just this squad. Was this why Renault had plopped him in the middle of this where he didn't belong? Was he expecting Pete to snitch on his squad mates, like Chavez had accused him of? If so, what was Pete going to do?
He was ashamed to admit that even though he knew it was wrong, it was hard to dredge up much sympathy for the overseer. The man was reaping only a fraction of the suffering he'd sown on the poor slaves under his control. All the murders, the rapes, the beatings, the starvation and humiliation and deprivation and overwork. The years of hardship and despair he'd supervised all spoke against him.
Anyone but a slaver and Pete would've been compelled to immediately report it. But here and now, when he'd just got back into the Chainbreakers and his position in the squad was tenuous? Was he really willing to torpedo his career over this, especially when it wouldn't do any good?
He . . . wasn't sure.
Although he knew one thing he could do, at least. Slavers were usually executed without ceremony during raids like this, but one aspect of procedure was to gather the testimonies of the freed slaves and collect evidence to support the death sentences. It was usually just a salve on the consciences of soldiers doing something unpleasant that needed to be done, one that more experienced veterans stopped doing as a waste of time.
Pete decided to do it here anyway, to remind his squad mates who they were and what they'd abandoned. Maybe it could provide a good example, or at least something to think about.
So he began quietly going around to the eating woodcutters and collected their testimonies on the crimes of the slaver guards and the overseer. When the other soldiers saw what he was doing many of them smirked and sneered, but no one said anything.
Most of the freed slaves were only too happy to give their testimonies. A chance to recount the horror and suffering they'd endured, and point the finger at the monsters who'd caused it, provided some catharsis. In fact, some insisted on going the extra mile, maybe to escape the sounds of the overseer's screams still coming from the other building. They abandoned their meal and led Pete out away from camp to the graveyard.
It was separated into two distinct parts. On a slight rise stood three carefully dug and maintained graves with wooden markers, and one even had a few scraggly wildflowers in a bunch resting atop it. Obviously where the camp's CCZ guards or civilians had been buried.
Which was a stark contrast to the part where the slave
rs had buried those slaves who'd perished under the brutal conditions, where the earth was torn by dozens of ugly holes carelessly piled high with stomped down dirt.
There looked to be even more graves here than there were living slaves.
It turned out there were, by almost half again. The freed slaves sadly told of friends and comrades worked to death, executed for some infraction, or during the long winters dying of starvation, cold, and sickness when a little help could've saved them.
It was a sickening tale of suffering and inhumanity, one Pete had heard far too often. It also made the inevitable executions of the camp's slavers easier to contemplate.
Pete led the emaciated men back to camp, passing the bound residents who were off separate from the camp's guards; those men and a couple women were probably guilty of atrocities every bit as bad as the slavers, but they were civilians and only the CCZ went after those, so they'd be left alive when Epsilon departed. With all their supplies gone, sure, and facing difficult conditions unless help arrived, but considering that everything they'd had was either stolen or produced by slave labor Pete had trouble pitying them.
Some of the civilians shouted at Pete and the slaves as they passed. Pete knew enough Chinese, especially the cursing, to get most of what they were saying. He knew more Russian, since that's who he'd run into more up in Saskatoon, but given how often he had to interact with people from the former Gold Bloc nations he'd done his best to at least learn some of their languages.
From what he heard these civilians really hated him and the other Chainbreakers, considered them the bad guys. It made Pete think uncomfortably of what the overseer had said.
He just didn't get it. Sure, he knew how people could blind themselves with loyalty to a group or a cause, twisting rationality around in their head until they could justify their actions and still consider themselves the good guys. It was pretty much mandatory for CCZ citizens.
Still, didn't anything crack that shell of irrational hatred? The very fact that they could cuss out his squad, knowing full well they'd be unharmed as long as they didn't try anything, should be a hint. It was darned sure if the roles were reversed any show of defiance would've earned a severe beating or worse from slaver guards.
Or if the civilians refused to consider that, how about the fact that they were on the side that sent armed men to steal from innocents, then kidnap those innocents into a life of brutal slavery. That they themselves had been part of a camp that had worked over thirty of those innocents to death.
Weren't CCZ citizens who met the Chainbreakers and other US and Canadian soldiers, the ones who saw firsthand how those soldiers acted, able to see the difference? The Chainbreakers killed no one they didn't have to, their entire purpose entering CCZ territory to free the slaves they found and take them back home.
How could the overseer and his people compare that to the slavers who robbed, raped, and burned their way through lands filled with innocent people who'd done nothing to them, murdering anyone who wouldn't make a useful slave and consigning the victims they took back with them to a short and miserable life of backbreaking labor and unspeakable degradation?
The civilians may not be slavers themselves, but they fully supported the atrocities they saw committed by them. Pete didn't think that meant they deserved death, but sometimes it was really hard not to want to slap some of them.
It was frightening to realize how little it would take for those feelings to morph into what Torm was.
Easy, Pete. With effort he reluctantly got his anger under control. A lot of these people were probably about to lose friends or loved ones among the camp guards awaiting execution, and had likely even lost some already in those who'd died during the attack. Sure, their friends and loved ones were slaver scum, but that wouldn't change their grief.
Once inside the dining hall the freed slaves insisted Pete join them. He was relieved to hear the screams had died down, and reluctantly grabbed some food and sat beside the emaciated men as they settled in to eat their fill. Probably the first good meal they'd had in a long, long time.
But even though Pete was hungry, and he knew he'd need his strength if Epsilon was going to be hoofing back to the truck hauling loot from the camp and helping weak, sickly men go the distance, he couldn't bring himself to take the first bite.
“What's the matter, Corp, don't like the cooking?”
Pete jumped and whirled to find Torm standing behind him holding his own bowl of stew. He hadn't realized the man had finished his unpleasant business, and definitely hadn't heard him enter the dining hall. From the surprise on the faces of the men around him, even many of his squad mates, they hadn't either.
His surprise turned to annoyance and he scowled. The interrogator looked as if he'd washed his hands before grabbing some food, but a few streaks of red could still be seen around his fingernails and in the cracks along his palms. Pete was no stranger to blood, but considering where this had come from the sight of it made his stomach churn.
“Cooking's fine,” he said, turning to face forward again. He really didn't want to talk to the man.
He hadn't known Torm long, but if he had to use one word to describe him it would be “disconcerting”. From what he'd heard, since the man spoke Chinese and a bit of Russian on especially difficult raids Chavez sometimes had him sneak into slaver camps or CCZ towns to pick up intel.
That was why the interrogator always kept up a ragged appearance, a scruffy growth of midnight black beard and shaggy hair of the same color that was definitely longer than regulation. Peeking out beneath lank bangs his eyes were the same color, so it almost looked like they were nothing but pupils, as if he was wearing creepy contacts. And in spite of the fact that the squad was out in the sun a lot of the time, the man usually kept himself covered so he looked unnaturally pale.
Torm's appearance wouldn't have been all that bad if Pete hadn't just heard him torturing a man for information for almost a half hour. Pete found himself wondering if the interrogator was also the wackjob he'd heard laughing during the fighting earlier.
As if that wasn't enough to suggest the guy had serious issues, he seemed to take a perverse pleasure in creeping around, trying not to be seen or heard. Just in the five days Pete had been with the squad he'd seen enough of the man's behavior to label him a sneak. Or, well, not seen it, since the guy seemed to pop up out of nowhere; he always wore either his camo or clothes that blended into his surroundings, and he barely made a sound on terrain where it didn't seem possible to walk quietly.
And although Torm had been polite enough to announce himself to Pete this time, with his stealth he would often come up close to someone, then just wait silently until whoever it was noticed him and came within inches of a heart attack. Which was understandable: the last person you wanted sneaking up on you was the mentally unstable squad mate who tortured enemies. Torm had snuck up on Pete just like that a few times over the last few days, and even before Pete learned he was an interrogator it hadn't been a fun experience.
Actually forget disconcerting, the guy straight up creeped Pete out.
So he wasn't thrilled when Torm casually plopped down next to him, the freed slave already seated there seeming only too eager to get out of his way. The interrogator immediately took a huge bite of stew, grinned at Pete so wide he nearly drooled gravy, chewed a few times, then swallowed. “Wait, it wasn't my work interrupting your lunch, was it? You, the proud Chainbreaker veteran who's been through so much?”
Pete did his best not to scowl. “We're all veterans here.”
The interrogator laughed as he took another mouthful, apparently just so he could talk around it again. “You should enjoy the sound as much as the rest of us, since you've got to know what the slavers are and how much they deserve it. But obviously you disapprove.”
Pete wasn't about to let that stand. Not just because he did disapprove, but because Torm obviously resented the fact that Pete had been placed ahead of him in the squad, and was using this opportun
ity to go after him. “Why should I try to hide it?” he demanded. “You seriously think torturing someone is funny? Only a psycho laughs at someone else's suffering, especially when he's the one causing it.”
The interrogator's smile vanished with alarming abruptness. “You think so, huh?” he asked after swallowing. He pointed his spoon at Pete's nose. “Let me tell you something, Childress. When confronted by the horrors of the world day after day the way we are, we've only got two options: learn to laugh or go insane. And right now the world we live in is absolutely hilarious, if you catch my drift. The fact that I can get a kick out of watching it all fall apart means I'm the sane one, here.”
Yeah, the jury was definitely out on that one. Pete stood, leaving his bowl behind. “Well then call me crazy, but I'm going to go find somewhere else to hang out until we leave.”
As he walked away Torm called at his back. “I bet you love the smell of your own farts, Corp!”
A few squad mates chuckled. Pete ignored the jab and went outside.
It looked as if the interrogating really was done, since the overseer had been brought out to join the slaver guards. Pete did his best to avoid looking at the older man's battered, bloody face. In front of the condemned stood Chavez, mouth twisted in distaste.
For them, or for what came next? From what Pete had seen in the overseer's quarters he doubted it was the latter.
The sergeant nodded curtly at Pete, or more accurately his gun. “Give me a hand here.”
Pete came over. “I got testimony from the freed slaves, saw the camp's graveyard.”
Chavez perked up at that. “Did you? I guess even archaic rules can get dusted off sometimes.” He snorted. “So what's the verdict? These guys worthy of death?”
“And then some,” Pete replied, then winced when he realized torture could probably be included in that statement. He hastily continued. “Should I get a firing squad together?”
“Nah, no need to interrupt the boys at their meal. We can do this ourselves.” Chavez paused, giving him an appraising look. “Unless you're squeamish about this, too.”