5- Sunburn (healing slave / heatstroke / if my pain will strech that far)
Carlos was relieved when two men passed among the bleachers to hand out water and sandwiches. His head was aching from sitting so still in the autumn sun, but he also knew that he was becoming dehydrated. His wound had caused him to lose a lot of blood, and his sitting position, lack of water and fatigue were making his condition worse. The insalubrity of the place made him fear an infection in his leg. No one had been able to move for hours, and people who couldn't hold their urine were taking it out on themselves, if not worse.
His hunger and thirst enabled him to get past the smells. He devoured the chicken sandwich in two bites, but was reasonable about the water, taking only two sips and keeping each one in his mouth for a long time. In his part of the stands, everyone ate without difficulty, but a few retches were heard in other sections and the smells got worse.
As night fell, all the stadium's spotlights came on, and a third of the stands were emptied. Around fifty men and women were taken to the middle of the stadium under heavy guard. There had to be at least one armed man for every prisoner. From the uniforms some of them wore, Carlos realized that these men and women were colleagues of his, police or military. A lump formed in his stomach.
The guards forced their prisoners to line up with their backs to them. One rifle for one target. A voice rang out over the stadium's loudspeakers.
"For the integrity of our country!"
"Glory to the leader!" replied all the armed men.
The rifles fired, one bullet at a time, and the bodies fell.
Cries rang out, but no one moved: the threat was clear, the demonstration effective. Carlos refrained from reacting; if he hadn't lied, he might already be dead. His profession was not to be revealed at any cost. He knew few people in New York, so there was little risk of any of them ending up locked up with him, but nothing was certain.
After the executions, the bleachers began to empty, section by section. When it came to the farmers' section, Adam offered Carlos his shoulder to lean on. The initiative was not rebuffed by the guards, and the Texan accepted it with relief.
Carlos wondered whether they too would be shot in the back in the middle of the stadium, but instead of heading for the pitch, they were led through the corridors to the changing rooms. The thirty or so men and three women who made up his group were locked in one of them, equipped with toilets and showers. The light was white and bright, and a window had been cut in the door. Adam helped the wounded man to the floor and sat down beside him. He helped him change his bandage by tearing off another piece of his shirt. Silence settled in despite their numbers. They soon discovered that there was no water in the showers or sinks. Only the toilets worked, but they soon became filthy. The room's air vents were opened, but not enough to disperse the pestilential odors that perfumed the room shortly after their arrival. Carlos went to the bathroom with a grimace of disgust, praying that the bacteria wouldn't attack his leg, then lay down beside Adam.
Eventually, the prisoners fell asleep, exhausted, on the floor, without any comfort, the window wells open and the cold of that first November night entering the room. No one slept well, and everyone was awakened by their own or each other's nightmares. Carlos hardly slept a wink all night, because of the pain in his leg and his worries.