Oh, they were dead, they were dead, they were all dead, bodies leaping out of windows and doors at him, faces contorted, leering, falling with blood and bruises and obscene grins.
I’m not going to die damn it, Ferguson told himself. Not today today today, and who cares about tomorrow?
A snatch of a song came into his head, then a memory of a mission, a flash-bang grenade going off almost in his ear.
He had to push on anyway.
Ferguson got up from the cot, shaking off the nightmare. He began pacing the cell.
He was hungry and cold and his legs hurt like hell, but the thing he couldn’t stand was his brain bouncing back and forth, gyrating with thoughts.
He couldn’t turn it off.
They hadn’t tortured him yet. They must believe that he was someone.
Or else they were saving all their fun for later.
The dank air pushed against his lungs. His body ached where he’d been pummeled. His knee felt as if it had snapped. But the worst thing was that he couldn’t think.
“I need to focus on something,” he said as he paced.
Belatedly, he remembered that his cell was probably bugged.
Better not to show them any sign of weakness.
Ferguson sat back on the cot, willing himself back into control.
He tried thinking of fun times with his dad, but that was no good; within seconds images of missions just came flooding in, the association too strong.
He pictured Maine, thinking of what it would look like now, an early snow on the ground.
Thanksgiving dinner.
That was a safe image, except it made him hungry.
Better to starve than go insane, he thought, picturing himself eating a large bowl of sausage stuffing.