The Stranded Soldier

Stranded Soldier

By Journey Moone and Nebula Balyrd

This work of fiction references fictional events and fictional characters in a future international catastrophe.

It is 2035, and America is now a shadow of the country it once was, after suffering two serious nuclear attacks that destroyed the government and killed millions of people five years prior. Russia had split into two separate countries, communications outside America were now only restricted to what was left of military forces, and anyone who was left was simply struggling to survive. Among them is Dante Morelli, a boarding student from Milan, Italy, who found himself amid the disaster after living in America and starting a job at his father’s office in Washington State. Instead of working his way up in the world, he found himself in a survivor camp where he only cared about going home. But now cut off from his family, he needs to survive and build connections to get him back. But as always, when you’re the main character of a story, it’s never that easy, especially when you find yourself in the hands of the enemy.

This work is dedicated to any author starting with their first, just as we are.

Prologue

The lungs of the prisoner burned as his torturer leaned him back in the iron cold chair; tied down and with a decaying wet rag over his face. He could only choke and sputter as the man poured water over his face. He tried to breathe, his body desperate for air as he became lightheaded. The water closed any chance of a fresh breath, which he rarely felt the past few days. On the verge of blacking out, the man roughly yanked his prisoner upright and tore the rotten rag from his face. He shivered as he coughed, gasping for a stale breath. He filled his lungs with life-sustaining air, and his vision began to clear again. The water was cold and made him feel weak and tired, especially as this was the frequent routine the past few days. They denied him dry clothing, and by now he stunk from the odors of his own body, transferred to his clothes.

The man responsible for his torture was no gentleman. He wore a permanent scowl, his expression hardened with evidence of late nights and stressors that most people don’t typically face, at least outside of war. The main stressor of the evening was himself; tight-lipped and trained to handle the harshest conditions to resist any interrogation. Not saying a single word was crucial. Taunting or even talking to himself was all it would take to bleed words out of him. He used a silent mindset, never once speaking since his capture. Once you know the luxury of speaking your mind or even a single word, it’s hard to stop. There had been times where he had felt tempted to growl curses at his captors. He settled for spitting instead, which earned him a few backhands and beatings. Through death or simple imprisonment, they could let him waste away once they have what they want. He knows he’s more valuable as long as he keeps his secret. However...how long will they tolerate his disobedience before they give up and dispose of him permanently..? His value is slowly wasting away.

He should have listened to Axel, telling him that going undercover was too risky and could end up with his capture, maybe even death. He was confident given his infiltration history into enemy bases from the war the past five years, ever since the disaster that threw The United States of America into absolute chaos. It was the event that shocked the world and destroyed the Federal Government, ending in millions of deaths and the absolute destruction of three major American cities, making them uninhabitable for hundreds of thousands of years. This event led into a chain reaction, other cities and populations falling against the wicked hands of the enemy. Disasters created international laws banning nuclear weapons, only to be broken years later to the present day, causing the current chaos.

His interrogator’s punch to his stomach snapped him out of his thoughts, though he was a tough man, the punch knocked the wind out of him, causing him to dry heave as his light-headedness returned. The man spoke, his voice rough and thick with an all too familiar accent. “Let me ask you again, American scum. What information was sent to your comrades? Think very carefully before you give me the silent treatment again...”

He had information vital to the enemy's current plans, locked in his head. He had actually been unable to share it with his comrades, caught before he could send any message or word about what he discovered. Information that could kill all his friends if it died with him. If they knew it had not been transmitted, killing him would come all too easily.

Yes, it's best if they thought he shared the information. For now at least.

Even through the pain, he remained silent, that very thought encouraging him to keep his mouth shut. That earned him a punch to the face, and another and another, the man growling curses in his native language with each one. He felt the sharp stings and mean throbs as his cheek and eye swelled from the reaction of the beating. They’d been going at him for several days, and by now he was covered in bruises, tired of water logging and firm hits to his face and torso. His jaw throbbed as blood leaked from where his canine pierced his lip. His lungs still burned from dry heaving and he was left rather short of breath, even shorter as his beating continued. He could not allow even a moment of weakness and ignored the pain, but now and then he wondered how long it would be before his squad saved him. It was something they had a special talent in. He’d seen it firsthand on many occasions, the many occasions where they worked through operations together. And they trusted one another with absolute faith. They would never leave one of their own behind, no matter how difficult rescue would be.

It was simply who they were, he would do whatever he could if one of them were in his place. Especially when it came to his best friend, the only brother he had in this screwed-up world. A tear came to his eye, not from the pain of his injuries, but the pain that he may not make it out of here to see his brethren again.

The beating eventually stopped and the interrogator huffed a growl in frustration. That brought him some satisfaction. However, before he could make the feeling last, the door to the interrogation room opened as a man in a decorated uniform stepped through. Dark green and finely ironed, pressed, and decorated in medals was his uniform. He had an orange and red band around his right bicep, very similar to one worn by Nazis in the second world war, but instead of a swastika, it was a phoenix. It complimented the sparkling golden rope hanging from his shoulder to his side. He was well-groomed and had an air of absolute authority around him. A stereotypical Russian fur hat was on his head, bearing the phoenix symbol also. The imprisoned soldier immediately knew who this man was, and it sent a shiver down his spine. He was the one man who was responsible for the enemy’s presence in his homeland, and anger burned in his chest. An intense anger that once again brought tears to his unswollen eye.

The man selected a hand-held axe off a wall, running his thumb along the blade. He turned, and his eyes met his prisoner as he slowly smiled. It wasn’t menacing, or particularly expressive, but it was cold and made goosebumps spread through his skin. The shiver that shot down his spine made his eyes blur for a moment, the shock of the mans presence burned his with fear along with his rage.

“Good evening Lieutenant Graham, I hear you’ve been rather quiet, perhaps you would be much more open to talking to me instead?”

His voice was smooth and deep, and it fit very well with his Russian accent, as thick as it was. He spoke clearly, as if he often made his point clear from the start, further strengthening the regal air around him.

Lieutenant Graham remained silent through his discomfort. The sight of the tool further inspiring his fear. The man stepped forward, making sure he could see the axe, the cold glint of the metal reflecting its sharpness. “So let’s get started with our conversation, shall we? I think I’ll enjoy talking to you.”

Graham cast his eyes down, gritting his jaw as he spoke for the first time. To hell with keeping silent now.

"You can go to hell, I've nothing to say to you."

He laughed, "So you assume, I've heard reports of you refusing to say a single word. I commend you for your loyalty to your fallen nation. I'd say it were foolish for you to keep defending since it's clear you and your nation will never rise again."

He crouched down to Graham's level, his icy blue eyes as cold as the winter snow outside, "So tell me...are you going to keep up such foolishness...? Continue living life as a dog waiting for his master who will never come..? Who will die all alone feeling abandoned and useless..?"

Graham glared, meeting his eyes. "I am no dog...I am a Marine. A Marine that will see you die either from here or Heaven! You won't get anything from me!"

He spat on the man's perfect uniform, earning a backhand so hard his chair toppled over to the floor, and he hit the side of his head into the rough wood. The strength of the hit surprised him as pain shot across his face...

His enemy took a kerchief from his pocket and wiped away the spit as his tormentor from before yanked his chair back up. His head was spinning, dazed from the hit. Nikolai, the man in uniform, grabbed him by his hair and forced his head up, his eyes somehow even colder than before.

"I will get the information from you that I want, even if I have to tear you apart piece by piece..."

He shoved Graham's face away as he held the axe ready. "This is your last chance before you start feeling the worst pain of your life." He snapped, his voice chilly. However, his voice suddenly changed into something soft and reassuring. "If you speak you could be in a soft warm bed by tonight...ice and medicine for your wounds and fresh clothing. A warm meal for your belly, and I'll perhaps even let you have a second chance of life. A prisoner, yes. But a prisoner who will one day die comfortable, not a single responsibility on his shoulders..."

When Graham was able to feel the pain fading again, he looked up at Nikolai. He regarded the smile on his face, but the stone cold and evil look that remained in his eyes. He would be a fool to reject the offer, but as his father always said...

If you receive an offer that's too good to be true, it usually is.

Even if that was the truth Nikolai spoke, the love and loyalty he had for his country was second to none.

He spat again, this time hitting one of the medals on Nikolai's chest. His eye twitched, but sighed this time as he raised the axe. "Very well..." he said, and the axe came down.