Ghosts of the Past (A Call Of Duty: Ghosts Fanfiction)

Chapter Twenty Two

Sitting with my back against the rough stone wall, I tossed the balled-up wrapper for a tenth time. Riley scrambled after it, panting and growling in playfulness. He picked up the food wrapper and then shook it, bringing it my direction again. I rubbed the top of his head, managing a smile. 

    I had been put in a cell with Riley and held there for approximately two weeks. They had stripped me of anything I had to use against them, except for the hidden, useless comm piece in my ear and the trinket in my breast pocket.

    "Good boy," I praised quietly as he settled between my legs, resting his chin across my thigh. His dark eyes looked at me as I sighed and rested my head back. "You're a good dog."

    My face felt puffy from the amount of frustrated tears that had torn their way down my face over the days; being stuck alone with a dog gave too much opportunity for one to think. I was exhausted, dehydrated, and hungry. 

    We were barely brought food and anything that did come I gave to Riley; I refused to let him starve. I knew it was probably stupid to put a dog before myself, but I felt it was an indirect way of attempting to make up for the things I'd caused. 

    There was no doubt Kick was dead; I had tried endlessly to peel the scene from my mind with no luck. Merrick and Hesh were likely gone too, but I tried to not confirm it in my head. All three were unnecessary deaths caused by my decisions and it made the hole of grief in my stomach twinge worse thinking about it.

    For the millionth time, the same thought entered my head: I should've let Kick say what he needed to before we left.

    "Jesus, it reeks down here." 

    Riley perked up, growling lowly. I snapped my fingers once and the German Shepherd shut his jaw in obedience. As I braced, Riley got up and out of my way.

    "Rorke had it built quickly for the prisoner," another voice echoed the first. "No time to consider cleanliness—not that it matters for this bitch." 

    I had to agree with them to a point. The cell was horrid after the first week due to the dog's passing of fluids. I had given up trying to flush it down the makeshift pipes once we started running out of the limited supplies they'd allowed. I grew uncomfortable with the smell and feel of myself too. I was sure between Riley's matted fur and my greasy hair we were a disgusting sight.

    The two English-speaking soldiers rounded the corner to our cell. I didn't look at them and Riley growled again. 

    "Don't growl at me, you filthy mutt. If it were me, you'd be a course with dinner upstairs."

    I finally shifted my head, eyes blazing, to look at the two soldiers. There was the slightest twinge as they recoiled to my action. 

    "Have a problem?"

    I blinked. "Not yet...we can."

    One of the men, the slightly more impatient one stepped forward in high testosterone. The other placed an arm across his chest. 

    "Not now Silas." 

    I made a mental note of that name and looked back to the wall, drawing my knees up so I could rest my arms over them. My arm that had once been casted was bare and swollen. The left wrist was still healing and I knew it was fragile. Luckily, my right ankle was close to as healed as it could be. 

    There was a slam of a door and loud footsteps approached. The two soldiers immediately straightened, moving back from the bars of my prison. My primal instinct kicked in when I felt a harsh gaze slap the side of my face and I stood up.