We're The Ones Who Live | The Walking Dead (2)

Part 32 - Never Letting Go Again

The scratchy materiel of the sack over her head did nothing to stop the heavy water from cutting off her air supply. Her body convulsed as she clenched her fists, desperately trying to break out of the bonds that had her secured to the wooden chair as it was tilted back. 

The cold water was filling her lungs and making her chest feel like it was on fire. Right as she was on the brink of passing out, she barely managed to hear the man in front of her speak.

"That's enough."

The water finally stopped, and the bag was ripped from her face. The chair was shoved down, and her body flung forwards, her head bowed as she choked on the water she'd inhaled. Her red hair was soaked as it hung down in front of her, hiding her face from the group surrounding her. She grunted when someone beside her grabbed her by her hair, forcing her to lift her head and face the tall man stood in front of her. 

His glasses had a clear frame and were perched on the end of his nose. He wore a dark grey, slightly torn beanie that hid his bald head. He had a thick brown moustache and a stubbly beard. His eyes were filled with hatred and curiosity as he bore his gaze down on the woman before him. Wearing all-black military gear, he had his hands clenched by his sides. 

"Wanna rethink your answer?" he tilted his head. 

There was a deep southern twang to his accent. His voice was low and menacing, and CJ had become almost immune to it in the three weeks since she had been taken by his people. 

"I told you al-already," CJ hiccupped, breathing heavily as she recovered from almost drowning. "I don't know shit about your enemy... I've been alone for months."

It was a half-lie. Even though her head injury from her fall in the cave was pretty much healed, her time since then was a total blur in her mind. She truly had no idea what these people expected from her as they hadn't really told her anything about who, or where they were. 

All she knew was that there was a group somewhere that they wanted dead. They only called them 'The Enemy' and they seemed to think that CJ was a part of it, considering she was in the area, even if she was alone. 

"So, you're stickin' with your story," the leader concluded, sounding almost bored. "You lost your husband, then you were alone. You hurt your head and leg when you fell from a low cliff, and you got no idea where you are?"

"It's the truth, alright?" she breathed out. "I got no reason to lie."

The military man pushed his round glasses up his nose, and CJ made sure to keep eye contact with him as best she could through the water that was stuck to her eyelashes. After a long moment, the man looked around at the three of his men surrounding CJ's chair. 

"Take her back. This is gettin' us nowhere."

"You sure, Pope?" one of the men asked. "It's still early. There are other ways of getting her to talk."

"I didn't ask for your opinion, Jensen," Pope snapped, his gloved hands firmly on his hips. "Take her back to the cell, give her dry clothes. She's no good to us if she dies of hypothermia."

"I'm no good to you anyway," CJ sighed with a small cough, finally managing to catch her breath. "Just let me go."

Pope scoffed. "I don't think so. Whether you're telling us the truth or not, I have ideas and plans for you. You aren't going anywhere." He looked to his men again. "Jensen."

"On it," Jensen nodded. 

He and his colleague, Boone, cut the ropes that had CJ bound to the chair. The wooden floor, much like her clothes, was soaked from the water they had just wasted on trying to torture her for information she didn't even have. And this wasn't the first time.