Seized
"Done?" Dr. Zimmermann emerged from his private space; clean white coat neatly buttoned all the way up.
"Yes, sir. Well, we finished that plasma. Got two bottles in him. We were just getting him ready for the move," the medic replied.
"We need to get started." The Major commanded, "Get him up on that table. You can finish what needs to be done up there. It's a lot higher, so that will make it easier." Looking at the soldier, he sized up his mass. Zimmerman said, "Dupree, go get another orderly in here to help. He's mostly muscle." The doctor did a quick tally in his head of the staff. If he had two orderlies and the medic, that would still leave an orderly to take care of anyone that might come in, plus the one he'd sent off to find out about MIAs.
"Did he wake up? I thought I heard him in here talking." The doctor stepped back to let the orderlies move the patient to the exam table.
"No, sir, that was just me, Dupree, and Baumer. This guy," pointing down at the restless, but hopefully asleep, soldier, "was having a hard time. We had to calm him."
"Doctor, wouldn't it be better to leave that boot on until we get him up? It could be supporting a broken bone." The medic did not want this man to be hurt any more than necessary. He'd been through the wringer and just finished a fight, no other words for that episode. Arndt wasn't sure how much more he could stand.
"Oh. Well, then. Go ahead and get him up as is. We need to get this going. He doesn't look good." Succinct summary.
Again, hands. Unwanted, unwelcome. He just wanted to be left alone. They kept bothering him, touching him, but he didn't have the energy to ward them off. Sensations of motion as he felt himself being lifted. Somebody lost hold and dropped his leg. Something hit it hard, he didn't know what, striking the very spots where it already hurt so much. Oh, God! The agony! Searing pain, as if he'd been hit with a blowtorch, made him gasp. It flared and pulsed through every fiber of his being.
He flashed into a recent encounter when he had been mercilessly treated by strangers. Those men had come back to finish him off. No, it had to be Robertson. He'd promised to find him if he survived, give him to the Gestapo or play with him some more. He knew too much. Now Robertson had him, would torture him, again. He could not last through another session. He had to get away. That is all he knew. Adrenaline surged through him. He jerked his legs and body side to side, regardless of the pain he caused himself, trying to evade his captors. The hands clamped down tighter. They manhandled him, grabbing whatever and wherever they could, to keep him from falling all the way down to the floor.
"Ahhhh! O!" A muffled cry escaped. He knew he'd lost. He was on another surface, hard, cold, and moving. Hands still held him. I can't get loose. He fought to tamp down his reactions, his emotions, the dread that threatened to overwhelm. The pain that he'd not felt during the struggle roared back over him. A solitary, involuntary tear of agony, and exhaustion slipped out from under lashes that guarded his tightly closed eyes. He might not be able to escape, but he knew how to resist, to withstand with every bit of his being. He wasn't going to give them anything. Not a single word.
Then, completely spent, he would die.
He let the merciful arms of Morpheus wrap him securely and knew nothing as the table was rolled into a different, brightly lit area.