Like cattle, the seven surviving Bolivians and one surviving Adventist marched out from the church and began a long ascent up the hill. The transport vans were more than large enough to hold all eight, though no one expected more than five. They began to secure the site, which mostly involved looking for runners. Snipers were set up at every corner and even began installing video traps in the highest sections of the trees. As they did all this, both Sorenson and Atlas returned from their chase. To the bewilderment of the soldiers, they returned with no prisoner.
“Sir,” said Szekely, “I am not of the rank to question you, but we were unable to receive your transmissions and I would like to know where the Adventist is.”
“Well I’m sorry Corporal, was too busy doing my job,” he said as he walked past him and over to two of the Bolivians. They were thoroughly bound and placed next to one of the larger boxes, which had been opened. Inside were dozens of smaller boxes, all filled with food, ammunition, and bibles. However, it was the two guards he was most concerned about, leading him to ask in a bewildered tone, “Why are these men still alive? I respect your clemency, Szekely, but we have a No Prisoner Order.”
The corporal did not respond. He had no reason to and, now that the Bolivians were bound, he knew that Sorenson could not execute them without reason. Granted, the corporal knew little of what had just occurred on the dirt road only half a mile away. And, as if trying to reestablish himself, Sorenson walked within a few feet on the two and knelt down.
“What are you names?” he asked, only to hear Szekely come up from behind.
“Sir,” he said, “we should hurry, we do have wounded men.”
“What are you names?” he asked once more, ignoring the corporal altogether.
The silence, which had surrounded the four men, became alarming. Atlas was certain the captain would lose his temper once more and further embarrass himself. Either way, though, he already knew what he was going to do. All members of Black Sun were brothers, that was something he was certain of. Nevertheless, the ruthless execution of a valued target was little more than sheer idiocy. Atlas wanted to consider it simply the folly of youth, but as he stood there and waited for either Szekely or Sorenson to react, he realized it was far beyond his age or maturity. In all ways, Sorenson was the brutalized dog who bit everyone who passed by except those who he considered his owners, for he was too afraid of them.
“Sir,” said Szekely, “they may not speak English.”
He let out a laugh before turning to the corporal and asking, “Who doesn’t speak English? We’re not in the Middle Ages, corporal.”
“The South American countries who have united have banned English from their dialect. For all we know he never learned it because he was a farmer or…”
Sorenson interrupted his corporal with no words but actions. He had pulled out his pistol and aimed down towards one of the Bolivians. The man’s eyes grew horribly wide and his mouth slung open. Turning back around to him, Sorenson asked in a calm voice, “What is your name, señor?”
The man, whose face was as close to petrified as one could get, replied in a stuttering fashion, “Alejandro Matos…”
“See!” Sorenson shouted, jumping to his feet with a spring and hearty laugh. “He speaks fantastic English. Hell, if it weren’t for his skin I probably wouldn’t even know he was a foreigner.” He stopped for a moment and holstered his gun, then ushering the soldiers standing around them to begin taking them up the hill like the others.
“Do you know your biggest setback is, corporal?” he asked as they both watched the Bolivians. “You’re too nice… too womanly. These men, these Mexicans and South Americans, are little more than rats without homes. They should be happy with their own country, but they’re not, so they infest ours. The Bolivians have no right to be here, corporal. Yet you give them mercy and let these invaders live. That is your biggest setback, your compassion.”
It was with that parting message that the scene suddenly died down. The only tension still standing was the fear Atlas had in regards to how the Bolivians would survive the trip back. Then again, they were little more than dead no matter what. Black Sun had only a few rules when it came to foreigners and none of them fell in their favor.
It didn’t take long for the soldiers to pack up. They were like ants and all moved in the same direction at the same time, only reacting when the entirety of them did. By the time the afternoon came and the sun reached a point where it was simply inescapable by all those not covered by a roof, the soldiers finished their work and hastily left the scene.
By the time that they had gotten back to OC:3, Atlas had fallen asleep. Though, the sudden rattling of the transport van shook him awake just as it had before. Most of the other soldiers were in the same position, falling asleep every now and then and trying their best to not snore. Once the vehicle came to a thundering halt at the bottom of the vehicle depot, the doors unlocked and popped open. The terrible light came in with a sudden burst, forcing their eyes to dilate.
One by one the men began to lackadaisically climb out. They had all removed their helmets and their gloves, some even going as far to take off their boots. The sudden cold which came through the garage startled them all, though. It felt as if the whole room had begun to freeze and, surely enough, it had. A soldier quickly shot over to one of the depot computers, which controlled the entire room.
“It’s set at thirty-two, sir…”
“I wanted each of you to feel what it is like to fall into the embrace of your inevitable death,” said a man who walked in from the side of the room. He was finely dressed, though his suit was more of a uniform. It was dark green and he wore a tan tie which sat expertly tied. Several awards and strips sat on his chest and his arm was covered in multiple corresponding marks and patches. “Captain Sorenson,” he continued on as he walked over to the men “unfortunately I haven’t the time to convey my displeasure with your incapability to accept the orders Commander Helios had given you. As for you, Atlas, I will be promoting you once you have found Evelyn. Your empathy is laudable.”
And with that he walked out, ignoring the sound of soldiers whispering to one another. Even though most weren’t aware of it, they had all just met personally with the Black Sun Commander General, Apollo. He was the fabled soldier who led the campaign in the Korean Conflict. He was the one who had essentially started the entire Black Sun organization.
The soldiers accepted the negative report on their mission and began to unload the dead. Over the course of the entire fight, three Black Sun soldiers fell in combat. While they honored them by sending their remains to the mortuary, the dead Bolivians were left to rot by the church. Some of the soldiers had taken their corpses and knifed them or strung them up from the bell, which had fallen down and into the lower sections of the church. The crosses were broken off from around their neck and tossed into the lake, forever forgotten from the scene.
In regards to the prisoners, they were each taken into the holding rooms two floors above the depot. Like most jails, it was little more than three walls and a heavily secured door. Each man, before entering the room, was stripped and cleaned with a hose they would normally use in case of a fire. The men were then thoroughly searched by doctors for hidden weapons and finally they were placed in the holding room.
And then there was the Adventist, the single survivor of the entire congregation. He was immediately placed in a room with scarlet walls and a white ceiling and floor. The man knew as soon as he was put into the room that others were watching. On each side of the wall, with the exception of the entrance’s, sat a window that stretched all the way across the three remaining. Strangely, they were openly exposed and he could see the group of five individuals standing and staring at him.
As for what was actually in the room, it was quite inauspicious. The only bit of furniture was a meek looking sink in the right corner, right in front of one of the windows. In the middle of the room sat a small drain and, as he took notice to it, he also realized the entire floor was beveled down so that everything would eventually move down to it.
For hours he waited. At first he stood and watched the men just sitting there, doing paperwork. As time went on, he gave into the idea that he would be waiting there for quite some time. None of the men behind the windows were very rushed, they even looked quite comfortable, all the while he stood looking foolish. So, after about forty minutes of pacing, his hands stuffed angrily in the pockets of his hooded sweatshirt, he took a deep breath and let it all go in a torrent. It gave him enough bravery to go and sit down next to the sink. For whatever reason, it seemed better to be with something, even if it were a sink and little more, than be all alone in the bowels of misery.
