Three ThreeOfficer Burroughs lay on the cold, concrete floor in a pool of his own blood. He watched Colonel Fernau’s shiny, black boots pace around him. “Why are you doing this?” he asked. “I have always been a loyal party member.”
“It is of little consequence,” said Colonel Fernau. “You have become expendable.”
“But I don’t know anything.”
“We shall see.”
“I have rights.”
“You have been branded a terrorist. You’re rights are what I say they are. And I say that you have none.”
Colonel Fernau struck Officer Burroughs again. The man grunted each time the switch hit him.
Officer Burroughs coughed as he choked on his blood-filled spit. “I swear I know nothing.”
“So you keep claiming.”
“I don’t!”
Colonel Fernau kneeled beside Officer Burroughs, using his gloved hand to wipe the dribble from the man’s face. He picked up an electric baton. Maliciously, he rammed it into Officer Burroughs’ upturned side, reveling in the way the electricity caused the man to flop about like a dead fish.
Pain coursed through Officer Burroughs, his teeth chattering from the shock that surged through him. Blood and spit escaped his parted lips flying everywhere. “I—don’t—”
“Tell me!”
Colonel Fernau rammed the electric baton into Officer Burroughs again. Screams of agonizing pain bounced off the concrete walls of the interrogation room. Music to Colonel Fernau’s ears. He dug the baton deeper until the smell of burning flesh filled his nostrils.
“How many members of the resistance are in Waste Management?”
“I don’t have an exact number.”
“Pity.”
Colonel Fernau picked up Officer Burroughs and threw him across the room. A sickening crunch emanated from the man. Moaning, Officer Burroughs vainly tried to crawl across the concrete floor. Colonel Fernau straightened his pristine uniform. He casually walked over to his prey, his boots clacking against the hard surface with impending doom. With immense pressure, he dug the sharp heel of his boot on Officer Burroughs’ outstretched hand, digging into the flesh until blood oozed.
The door opened, and men marched in with a table, chairs, and a bunch of thin, long sticks. Officer Burroughs felt himself lifted off the floor and plopped into one of the metal chairs in front of the table.
“Know what this is?” asked Colonel Fernau as he waved one of the sticks in front of Officer Burroughs’ face. “In another part of the world, interrogators would insert one of these under the fingernails and light it. Then, as it slowly burned, they would wait for the person to talk or allow their fingers to be burned off.”
The officers seized Officer Burroughs’ hands and slammed them on the table. He struggled, but was too dazed to be a match for them. Colonel Fernau slowly approached. He took one of the sticks and inserted it under one of the nails. Sharp pain gripped Officer Burroughs.
“Whenever you wish to talk,” Colonel Fernau lit the slit of wood.
Squirming, Officer Burroughs watched in horror as the small flame burned, drawing closer. Slowly, it traveled down the slender stick, the heat intensifying.
“I don’t know anything.”
“Then I shall watch you suffer.”
Searing heat attacked Officer Burroughs’ fingers, forcing him to howl in pain. “Please, I know nothing.”
Colonel Fernau’s sadistic, icy stare showed that he didn’t care.
More agonizing pain gripped Officer Burroughs’ fingers. Desperately, he tried to pull the sticks out, but strong hands held him down.
“I grow tired of this,” Colonel Fernau said.
He stepped to the door of the interrogation room and yanked it open. “Get this filth out of here.”
Officers hauled Officer Burroughs to his feet. They dragged him out of the room.
“Take him back to the Waste Management plant,” ordered Colonel Fernau, “and see to it that he suffers an unfortunate accident.”
Officer Burroughs may not have aired that video, but someone did. Colonel Fernau was determined to find out who had.