My apologies to anyone named Belial reading this, although I doubt anyone would name their child for a demon or Satan. This name is a nom de guerre.
Warning: this chapter is painful and vivid. If that is upsetting, skip to Chapter 14 (Alone). You can find a brief summary there of Chapter 12 and 13.
Belial is about as unsavory a character that one can imagine. To put it bluntly, he is a psychopath. I learned about this type of personality in a class on criminal minds. Sometimes there just is no getting around the fact that some people are just plain evil.
Belial
Eliminating the wounded was not a problem for Belial. The leader had left it to Belial to decide what to do. After all, it was his turn.
With the weather as nasty as it was, and this man already injured, he'd probably die of exposure soon, especially since he was half-naked. The soldier might have thought the men moved on, but one, the foul-breathed, knife wielding Pinchy-hands remained. The soldier belonged to this man, Belial.
That stupid American wasn't dead, but he, Belial, would finish him off. He'd been promised all the loot off this soldier and he hadn't a thing. Not even good American boots. Just those cheap boche boots that nobody wanted. Not worth the taking.
Now Belial was angry, close to furious. Leaving him to the elements was too easy. The lousy American just might survive, even though they'd taken his shirt and undershirt. Belial had used his knife to roughly slice through the undershirt to reach bare skin. His cohorts bared the man's torso, so he had an unobstructed view for his knife to carve a lovely path on him. He trailed the knife all the way up from the man's abdomen almost to his throat, letting it slither along under his skin, down into flesh, but not too far. It was the same slice he used to gut any animal, just not as deep. He enjoyed leaving that thin line of blood to mark the knife's travel. Occasionally he dug the point in deep, to create more pain, more fear. He prided himself on being able to do this little trick with great skill. He'd had plenty of practice. And several in his group appreciated the show. It rarely failed to get a panicked response from the victim. Then Belial just might drive the knife home or not. He hoped for such a reaction from this American, but the man remained inert, suspended between his companions. Belial knew the American could feel it; his breathing accelerated, he saw his stomach muscles tighten, and he watched him quiver. Frustrated, he ripped the remnants of the undershirt off the American. He hoped it hurt and left burns on his skin. Even a second, more brutal and personal search through his pants pockets hadn't been enough to get more than a couple of gasping breaths from this soldier. But Belial knew he'd hurt him there.
Belial finally got a real reaction after some well-placed and satisfying kicks. He heard the groans and watched with great interest as the soldier rolled over onto his back to what? To fight him? Well, that would be something that he would enjoy. He'd expected the soldier to come up on hands and knees to fight him. He only lay there on that mound of mud that supported his back a bit. Maybe the man was too afraid to fight. Belial liked that notion. Or perhaps he was just waiting for Belial to go away. The steady look that soldier was giving him was a bit unusual. I'll give him something to watch and, hmmm, dread.
For now, that American was watching him through eyes narrowed to a slit. He looked dangerous. Not just dangerous, but vigilant. Like a cornered lion, Belial thought. No, not a lion, those came from Africa; a cougar, that was American. Not that he'd ever seen a cougar in real life, but he'd watched those serial cowboy movies. They'd even shown them in France. There was an occasional cougar in them, staring down some hapless person. But Belial was not hapless. He had all the power. And the cougar always died.
A bullet? Too fast, too clean, not personal enough, Belial decided. No, he'd slice him. That was nice and personal. Not an immediately fatal wound, though. Like exposure, that would be too easy. He wanted to make sure this American's last hours would be full of agonizing pain and pitiful thoughts. He wanted the man to know he was dying. He moved around to stand at the soldier's side near his hips, far enough above his legs to avoid a sweep, and just out of reach of the man's hands. The American attempted to maneuver his body to face Belial, but he was awkward, very slow. He looked as if every motion was painful. Perfect. Belial played with the knife in his hand, making sure the American saw. Belial even said a few words, telling the soldier exactly what he was going to do with his beautiful knife, mon beau couteau. Too bad the American didn't understand. Such a lovely knife and so deadly. Then Belial thought, better, so much better, that old bayonet. It was dull and wouldn't cut cleanly. Its blade was jagged, with plenty of burrs, nicks, and gouges, the tip blunted and a bit bent. He put the knife back in its scabbard and noticed the American let out a breath. Even better, he'd catch him off-guard.
In a swift, practiced motion, Belial drew out his rusty bayonet and stabbed down towards the man's crotch. Merde. Fils de pute. That cursed American moved away at the last second and threw off his aim. The bayonet pierced the soldier's thigh. He cried out in pain as Belial slowly, maliciously carved a deep undulating path down his thigh, a good six inches or more before finally lifting the bayonet out. The soldier knew that if he tried to resist, the scavenger would not hesitate to cut him again. Better to pretend as if he had no heart left for a fight.
Belial enjoyed seeing a person cower in pain before him. Better yet, he liked the feeble attempts his victims made to fight back. Disappointedly, this soldier did not seem to want to fight. Maybe I hurt him a little too much. Belial wanted to do it again, try another spot, slice right up this man's belly, but that might let him die too fast. He wanted this soldier to die slowly. The memory of cutting him and watching his pants darken with blood; he could relive again and again. Imagining a slow and excruciating death as infection worked its magic would have to do. That wound was sure to get infected; that rusty blade carried death. And with luck, he just might have nicked his privates. The thought excited him. Exposure, blood loss, and infection. Yes, this American will die.
Belial jerked his thoughts back to the present. He looked at the man laying at his feet. Good, he was still watching, his eyes open but glazed with pain. He'd only gotten what he deserved. No booty from him and not even good sport. He hurled a few vile curses down at him in a language that the soldier couldn't understand. Belial lost his audience as the man's eyes fluttered closed. He stooped to wipe the bayonet off on the soldier's abdomen. Oh, such a temptation for one last deep cut, but the soldier wouldn't feel it. The shallow slices and snagged flesh the bayonet left behind as he wiped the blood off would have to do. He cleaned off some of the bloodied mud from the man's torso. He wanted to see that blood trail that he'd made down the soldier's front and see the new blood rise. Too bad it was raining, that would smear things more than he liked.
He drew the sides of the bayonet five or six times across the man's lower belly, pressing down extra hard, leaving several cuts and deep scores. He could see the beautiful red blood bubbling through the man's skin. In his mind's eye he saw the infection burrowing deep, adding to the evil magic he'd already put into the soldier. How he wanted to go deeper, so deep, but this soldier didn't deserve the escape of a fast death. He pushed himself up, using the soldier's ribcage as a convenient place to put his hand. He felt the crackle of ribs under his hand, sure he'd cracked, if not broke one or more ribs. Almost as good as another cut. Belial hurried to catch up with the group. There were other bodies to check not too far away, he didn't want to miss his next chance at loot. And there just might be another soldier, more willing to play Belial's game. Belial was going to be unhappy when the war left his part of France; he might just have to follow it.
The sound of squelching boots faded as the group moved away, but the soldier barely noticed. He was dazed with pain. He'd felt those cuts as the bayonet ripped into his abdomen, but he did not have the wherewithal to react. He could only hope they would not go too much deeper. His mind wavered at the edge of unconsciousness. This would not do. He had a mission, had to get back to HQ, had to let them know what he saw. Stiffening his resolve, the soldier fought to stay alert. He remained quiet and still. The band of marauders just might come back this way and finish him off. After several minutes with no noise, he ventured a look through barely opened eyes. He could see nothing, at least no people, so he cautiously lifted his head to look around. It looked safe, as if this little piece of hell could be safe.
His leg was wet with blood. If he didn't get that bleeding stopped, dead man for certain. They'd taken everything but his belt, so off that came to wrap around his leg as high as he could get it. Hopefully it put enough pressure on the blood vessels so it would slow down or maybe stop the bleeding. That's all he could do. That one action cost him more in effort than he could stand. His head drooped onto the ground and his hands flopped nervelessly to his side, losing their grip on his belt.