The Last Run by David Archer

Author:David Archer [Archer, David & Vogel, Vince]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2023-10-23T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twenty-Three

Abri POW Camp, Sudan.

17th April, 18:32 (EAT).

In the scarcely furnished room that makes up the main part of his quarters, lit by a single dangling bulb, sits Semyon Mikhailovich the Hunter. His boots resting up on an oak table with a casual air of authority, he leans back as though upon a throne. His unfathomable eyes glint with cold, dark amusement as his mind works away behind them. The man they call the Hunter is not like other men; the rules of human empathy, dignity, and decency do not apply to him.

Flanking him along the table are two corporals, his selected accomplices, their main qualifications being their brutality. They sit there eating, basking in their borrowed authority. The table before them is a decadent display of food, a clear contrast to the destitution just beyond the door of their little hovel. As they eat, their laughter echoes off the stark concrete walls, a grotesque soundtrack to their revelry.

They are not alone. Shuffling about the room is the figure of a man, or what used to be one. His once proud stature has been reduced to a stoop, his eyes hollow from enduring the unendurable within this place. His feet shackled, chains clank with his every movement, a constant reminder of his imprisoned state.

The corporals, gorged on power and the bounty before them, turn their twisted humor onto the chained man. A smirk etched on their faces, one of them hooks a foot through his chains, sending him sprawling across the cold stone floor. The men laugh, Semyon merely smiling as the prisoner pulls himself upright. Food is then tossed deliberately onto the ground, the mirth in the corporals’ eyes shining brighter as the beaten man stoops to pick up the scraps.

Through it all, he endures, his spirit flickering like an undying flame within his weary eyes.

As the revelry continues within the room, the world outside seems to shudder and quake. The distant thud of an explosion serves as a haunting warning, the blast vibrating through the walls, the floor, and into their bones.

The men pause to listen, looking up from the food and the chained man.

“Eat,” Semyon tells them. “It’s still far away.”

The men look at him, then turn back to their meals. Despite the bleakness that surrounds them, the feast continues. Semyon, immovable in his seat of power, looks on with his steel-cold gaze.

“Mutt?” His voice cuts through the room.

The beaten man turns, his chains jangling, his eyes meeting the icy stare of the Hunter. There is a tension between the two men, a twisted bond formed in the crucible of torture.

“We’re about to have a visitor.” Semyon’s voice hangs heavy in the air. “Now is the time to see how truthful you were being.”

“Mutt” nods, a meek acknowledgement of some unspoken pact.

“Okay,” Semyon grunts, turning his attention to one of his henchmen. “Go fetch Iqbal.”

The man leaves, and moments later, the door creaks open, and Hashim is thrust inside. The sudden transition from bright daylight to the

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