Last Dawn of a Horde

Chapter Eleven: The Final Assault ~3 John

~John~

When the whole room was slightly shook by something disturbing, it didn't give the tall man watching us a good time. In anger-probably it was just somewhere adjacent to us-he slapped James hard on the face.

My best friend managed not to flinch or say anything. His right eye was swollen from multiple punches he'd suffered, and his face was blossoming with purplish bruises. I somehow thought he was numb already he can't feel a thing.

When I woke up and found out we're hanged by the wrists, it's never been until I was wishing I want to die. Like right now. Other than there was an excruciating pain coming from my back, I just can't stand what I was seeing. I wanted to cry, but no tear came. It's not because of my eyes turned dry, or it wasn't because I'm senseless. I felt tired. Really tired.

While hanging shirtless like me, James' eyes were on the floor. It's always been on the dirty, bloody floor. Across the room, there were two posts that had people hanging on them. And those people are the ones I care most about.

A table nearby had blades and knives and silver stuff, which I think I knew what was for.

I counted, and there are five of us inside this room; we're four and hanged, while the other one was a scowling grown-up I guess to have an age of thirty-something. There wasn't a fatherly image in him. From the circular room, Prince was hanging next to me, and across to us were James and Stanley.

When James was looking obnoxious, Stanley was the opposite. When the man was passing him, Stanley would mouth very bad words against him that I figured out he won't like.

As far as I'm wondering why he was alone, or what is he doing here, or what have we done and we're chained wearing nothing but undergarments, I was greatly puzzled to the fact we're still alive. And if I were to choose, I'd wished I had died with the others who had died peacefully and earlier.

And now I'm limping with the feel of my legs having cracked bones. I was savoring the fact I will die soon-and I will be thrown out from this unworldly torture.

That's the word. They're torturing us-emotionally and physically and mentally.

A part of me was certain that the others not with us are either in the same state as we are in, escaped, or died the night we escaped the drugstore. It is reality, but I felt like I wanted to explode and just vanish away.

Then a sudden laugh broke my monologue, and it was the sinister, amused laughter I refuse to hear any longer. It was the terrorist.

I wanted to ask them in their faces so badly what we have done for them to do this to us. We killed their pet zombies? We managed to stay alive longer than their estimate? We got out of the school alive? We got to their base? We got the cure? Or was it because we're born?

The moment I knew it was because of James that the terrorist uttered his maniacal laugh again I knew my best friend wasn't doing a good job.

"You're really amusing, you brat," said the terrorist. He was wearing casual clothes of red checkered button-up shirt and jeans, but there was something fishy from him. I wouldn't be safe about myself if I ever see someone like him again.

Will I?

James looked up at him, his other eye glaring. "You have no sense of humor yourself."

Diverted, the man slapped him so hard again. It was so hard the sound reverberated around the room, and James's face was stuck on the right side.