Author's Note: Jack tells the story in 3rd person for a while, you can draw your own conclusions as to why.
Chapter 4
Nobody talks to him. There's nothing to say. The man doesn't speak.
Nothing else has changed though. He still throws his body between the victim and assailant, good and evil. He takes it quietly, afraid that the smallest whimper could be mistaken for a word. He doesn't cry out at the pain. He doesn't fight off his attackers.
He doesn't rest.
He's been like that for years, now. The others don't know how he does it. He shouldn't have the strength to stand, yet every day he gets up and does his work, helping others who are too sick or tired or hungry to get through the day. He takes care of the sick. He treats the wounded. He shares what little food he has with the children and with those who sleep through the meal.
He knows and cares for everyone.
And they do nothing in return.
They may share their food with him when he misses the meal because he's been beaten unconscious or is too sick to move, and they may treat the lacerations he can't reach on his back, but they do nothing to ease his burden. They have learned nothing from him. He's been trying to tell them for years.
It's about survival. For them, it's getting through the day alive. You do what you must to keep your body nourished and functional. There's no long term plan. They don't care how they live, just as long as they continue breathing.
For him it's about getting home and being able to live with himself when he finally gets out of there. Because he is going to get out of there. This is just a step along the way, a very tall step, one which he must climb alone, without a safety net.
In his heart, he is a good man. He is a killer, yes, an assassin, perhaps, but a good man nonetheless. He does the right thing, whether the others think so or not. He is decent, and kind, and good in a place that does not tolerate such humanity. And so he is an outcast. And nobody listens.
Because he cannot speak with words. And in this place, this Hell, his actions have no meaning. He is one man whispering in a crowded room, he is only one man.
On the outside, he does not stand out. There is nothing special about his appearance that would target him as someone different. He is older than the rest, his face is lined with years of hardship and suffering, some of which he had before he came to this place. His silver hair has turned to white. His upper body is ravaged by old scars and new cuts, and there's hardly a fraction of skin left untouched from his shoulders to his waist. He conceals this with an old tattered shirt, his clothes like all the others, a bit more worn, more dirty, more ripped. His shirt does not protect him from the whip, but it hides his condition from the others. No different from the others.
And yet he has a presence. His eyes are not lifeless, they still hold the glint of freedom, because he is getting out of here someday. Dead or alive. All that matters is what he does along the way. For there is really only one thing in this Universe which we can control: whether we are good or evil. And he is good, so he helps the others.
And they do not listen to his silent words.
Sometimes they find him staring at nothing as though there is someone there. They think he's crazy, he's finally lost it. He interacts with the nothing, shaking his head, turning away from it, hiding himself from it. Sometimes he almost smiles, with only his eyes. His mouth moves only to eat.
He doesn't cringe at the pain anymore. He almost doesn't feel it. The scars on his back, his chest, his arms protect him from the worst of it, and he can stand unperturbed as they lash him repeatedly, trying to evoke some reaction. He gives them none but apathy. He does not bother to fall to the ground and protect himself anymore. He stands tall, ever defiant, his miserably emaciated body revealing his cracked rib after the last beating, his broken fingers, his poor health. He should not be so strong, and yet, he never falters, he never stumbles.
He never rests.
His work is never done. It will never be over. He clings to his hope of freedom, and he survives, and he helps the others. It's all he can do. It's all he ever does. There is nothing for him but hope. Hope and humanity.
Hope and Carter.
SJSJSJSJSJ
It's the winter season, and it's cold. Not Minnesota cold, just cold enough that a single blanket isn't really sufficient to combat the chill. He gathers everyone together to conserve body heat and they find the wisdom of working together to survive. He sleeps at the edge, not bothering to cover himself with a blanket. The cold doesn't seem to bother him. He welcomes it every year.
He sits up and stares at nothing again. Those who are nearby watch his expression change from his typical blank mask to one of determination. He glances around shrewdly at the guards, thoughtfully, then with a silent stealth that belies his aged and tattered body he approaches the cliff wall.
He begins to climb. The others who have seen him sit up in alarm but make no move to give him up to the guards. They watch his steady progress as he works his way up skillfully, awed by his strength of will which alone must have allowed him to get so far.
He's going to make it.
"Hey!"
One of the guards spots him when he is fifty meters up. A handgun is fired, sending a spray of bullets and debris against the rock walls. One bullet rips through the silent man's thigh and his foot gives up its grip on the rock wall. He dangles painfully by his arms, struggling to regain a foothold as his right leg hangs uselessly.
Then he continues his ascent. The others stand up to watch his progress, overwhelmed by his desire for freedom.
"Stop, or I'll shoot the others."
The man stops. He ducks his head and swings around to look down at them all, clinging to the wall. He waves a hand, telling them he is coming down, and slowly and painfully he makes his descent. His grip gives in the last three meters and he crashes to the ground, twisting his knee beneath him.
He sits there on the ground, his face expressionless but for his eyes screaming his pain. He carefully removes his shirt and rips a piece off the bottom, wrapping it tightly around his leg just over the bullet wound. A clean through and through. When he is done he leans his head back against the rock wall tiredly, taking deep breaths as he fights the pain.
"You did the right thing, sir."
Her words float to him from afar, like a whisper on the breeze. Sometimes doing the right thing sucks.
He doesn't know what possessed him to make a break for it after so long. It just felt right. He could have sworn he felt the presence of his friends nearby, calling him home, showing him the way. They were there with him.
"You try that again and we'll kill the children." The guard threatens.
He doesn't bother to acknowledge the threat. He's too tired. Of everything. He just wants to sleep.
He feels a blanket being tucked around him and he opens his eyes as a cup of water is held to his lips. He lets the woman pour the water down his throat and submits to their grateful hands as they carry him to the warmth of the group, stretching him out on his back.
They pool their water together and use it to clean his wound, pouring some over his torn and bloody fingers and bandaging him up as best they can with any available scraps of cloth.
They work together in silence, not knowing what to say, knowing they owe him for his sacrifice, not because he could have gotten away but because he changed everything for them.
He gave them hope.
He has sacrificed his freedom to save their lives and knowing he would do that for them, that the man who fought so hard to be free would willingly give himself up, gave them hope.
If he was getting out he was taking them with him. And he was getting out.
Eventually.
SJSJSJSJSJ
The next couple years go by quickly and life is good. Relatively speaking. Carter would be proud.
They're finally listening to the old man and his message. The General is a leader again, and they would follow him to the ends of the earth. No longer are they an isolated bunch of family units, fending for their own. They become a community, working together to help each other. Fathers protect their sons and women, strangers become friends, friends help each other, and all are united by one man's dream, an idea, a hope that he would be free.
It has taken him a long time to recover. The bullet itself had caused some serious damage and the fall hadn't helped matters. It had taken nearly two months to be able to put his weight on it, and another month to take even a few steps.
The others help him. Whenever he stands someone drops whatever they are doing and offers him a shoulder to lean on. He accepts their help graciously, understanding what it means for them to offer.
And now, two years later, his walk is marred by a heavy limp. He has just as much strength as the others, he can stand and walk as long as the others, it just hurts. He keeps as much of his small weight off of it as he can, favoring it heavily, so if his shockingly white hair doesn't set him apart immediately, the excruciatingly painful limp does.
But he never says a word.
SJSJSJSJSJ
Death is not uncommon in the camps, but it is still a tragedy every time. A mining accident had resulted in the death of a man and woman, a couple, parents of twins, a boy and a girl.
He had witnessed their birth, had helped in their delivery, and even though he knew what life awaited them, he had smiled at the two perfect little children.
Their mother had been pregnant when she arrived, delivering her babies just weeks later. He had given her a large share of his food, far too much, really, and he had paid for it, but seeing the two perfect children in her arms was worth it.
But now she is gone and her four-year old children are left alone. He finds them sobbing in each others arms over the dead bodies of their parents. He waves at a nearby woman to cover the bodies with a blanket and she immediately complies. He kneels down beside the children and pulls them against his chest, offering them what comfort he can give.
They are his shadow from then on, and he becomes a father again. He swears he won't fail this time. These children will never be hurt, they will never know the pain of torture.
He teaches them games. Tic-tac-toe. It takes a while for them to understand but eventually they are beating him. Patty cake. They like that one. He encourages them to talk with others, to learn to communicate. He sits with them for hours, watches them sleep as they curl up against his bony sides, their little heads tucked up against his chest. He loves them.
Carter sits with them sometimes. She gazes at her loving CO as he dotes on the small children. She reminds him of simple children's games, and smiles with him as they watch the Twins sleep. She tells him to come home, that his children need a mother. He agrees.
And one year later he gets his chance.
TBC