experienced soldier had no desire to take off any more fingers either.
David had been looking over the prisoners while the debate about finger-surgery was taking place, and he’d noticed that there was a big difference in appearance and demeanor between the pilot and crew-chief, and the soldiers manning the roadblock. The Blackhawk crew was young, clean-shaven, and sporting traditional military haircuts, while the guards were older men with civilian grooming and ill-fitting uniforms. When he shared his observations with the rest of the team, they noticed the differences as well. After Jack inspected the prisoners himself, he was fairly certain that the guards were some type of militia force while the chopper crew was regular Army. He strongly suspected that the interrogations wouldn’t be as difficult as his team members thought they would be.
Jack chose the youngest of the guards to speak with, while Carter went off to talk with the crew chief. The night had grown colder, and after spending half an hour away from their fire and sleeping bags the prisoners were all shivering. Jack picked up a wool blanket lying on the bridge near the campfire and gently wrapped it around the shoulders of the prisoner he had chosen to speak with. The man nodded his thanks before whispering, “That scary-looking dude ain’t really gonna chop off our fingers is he?”
Jack just raised his eyebrows and shrugged, “We were Rangers in Afghanistan together; he’s removed fingers from prisoners before.” He then flat-out lied, “But fingers are just the beginning if he doesn’t get the cooperation he wants. There’s a few Taliban in the world who’ll never make babies again.” Jack pretended to shiver as if he vividly recalled a horrible memory before he upped the ante, “You ever seen a castration before?”
The scruffy soldier looked absolutely terrified and Jack attempted to calm him down by explaining, “Hey, he’s my buddy. If I tell him to lay off you, I’m pretty sure he will. Not many of us really want to see him go off, that’s why we’re trying to talk first.”
“Just tell me what you want to know, man, I ain’t got any secrets,” the prisoner quietly declared through chattering teeth.
“Why are guys here?” Jack demanded.
“We were sent here to see if this bridge was clear and set up a roadblock if it was.”
“Who sent you here to do that?”
The prisoner thought for a moment, “Well, my squad leader told me to get on the chopper, but I’m guessing that Major Jackson ordered the mission.”
“Why do you say that?” Jack asked gently. “Who is Major Jackson?”
“That’s a long story, dude.”
“Hey,” Jack explained, “we have time. Start from the beginning.”
The prisoner let out a long sigh before finally explaining, “I ended up with a group of survivors holed up on the edge of the Blue Ridge Mountains. My girlfriend was a nurse working in a D.C. hospital, and she came home a few days after they brought those Marines back with the virus and told me we were leaving town. She didn’t tell me that she’d been bitten. We headed south on I-81 and made it to a hotel in Waynesboro. Had to stop there ‘cause she was getting really sick. She wouldn’t go to a hospital . . . turned the next morning and I took off.
“I was in a panic and headed toward the mountains instead of the interstate, ended up on the Blue Ridge Parkway heading south. Ran out of gas and coasted into a scenic overlook where a bunch of people had parked their RVs. They had plenty of supplies and most of ‘em were elderly; they were more than happy to have a younger guy around to help out.
“Anyway, we watched the Shenandoah Valley burn for two weeks, then waited another month before heading out of the mountains. We found a huge, ancient farmhouse set on a pretty steep hill we could defend, and that’s where we stopped. Crops were already in the ground and we planted every seed we could get our hands on. By late July
David had been looking over the prisoners while the debate about finger-surgery was taking place, and he’d noticed that there was a big difference in appearance and demeanor between the pilot and crew-chief, and the soldiers manning the roadblock. The Blackhawk crew was young, clean-shaven, and sporting traditional military haircuts, while the guards were older men with civilian grooming and ill-fitting uniforms. When he shared his observations with the rest of the team, they noticed the differences as well. After Jack inspected the prisoners himself, he was fairly certain that the guards were some type of militia force while the chopper crew was regular Army. He strongly suspected that the interrogations wouldn’t be as difficult as his team members thought they would be.
Jack chose the youngest of the guards to speak with, while Carter went off to talk with the crew chief. The night had grown colder, and after spending half an hour away from their fire and sleeping bags the prisoners were all shivering. Jack picked up a wool blanket lying on the bridge near the campfire and gently wrapped it around the shoulders of the prisoner he had chosen to speak with. The man nodded his thanks before whispering, “That scary-looking dude ain’t really gonna chop off our fingers is he?”
Jack just raised his eyebrows and shrugged, “We were Rangers in Afghanistan together; he’s removed fingers from prisoners before.” He then flat-out lied, “But fingers are just the beginning if he doesn’t get the cooperation he wants. There’s a few Taliban in the world who’ll never make babies again.” Jack pretended to shiver as if he vividly recalled a horrible memory before he upped the ante, “You ever seen a castration before?”
The scruffy soldier looked absolutely terrified and Jack attempted to calm him down by explaining, “Hey, he’s my buddy. If I tell him to lay off you, I’m pretty sure he will. Not many of us really want to see him go off, that’s why we’re trying to talk first.”
“Just tell me what you want to know, man, I ain’t got any secrets,” the prisoner quietly declared through chattering teeth.
“Why are guys here?” Jack demanded.
“We were sent here to see if this bridge was clear and set up a roadblock if it was.”
“Who sent you here to do that?”
The prisoner thought for a moment, “Well, my squad leader told me to get on the chopper, but I’m guessing that Major Jackson ordered the mission.”
“Why do you say that?” Jack asked gently. “Who is Major Jackson?”
“That’s a long story, dude.”
“Hey,” Jack explained, “we have time. Start from the beginning.”
The prisoner let out a long sigh before finally explaining, “I ended up with a group of survivors holed up on the edge of the Blue Ridge Mountains. My girlfriend was a nurse working in a D.C. hospital, and she came home a few days after they brought those Marines back with the virus and told me we were leaving town. She didn’t tell me that she’d been bitten. We headed south on I-81 and made it to a hotel in Waynesboro. Had to stop there ‘cause she was getting really sick. She wouldn’t go to a hospital . . . turned the next morning and I took off.
“I was in a panic and headed toward the mountains instead of the interstate, ended up on the Blue Ridge Parkway heading south. Ran out of gas and coasted into a scenic overlook where a bunch of people had parked their RVs. They had plenty of supplies and most of ‘em were elderly; they were more than happy to have a younger guy around to help out.
“Anyway, we watched the Shenandoah Valley burn for two weeks, then waited another month before heading out of the mountains. We found a huge, ancient farmhouse set on a pretty steep hill we could defend, and that’s where we stopped. Crops were already in the ground and we planted every seed we could get our hands on. By late July
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