Back to the present. The room was tense, the silence thick as fog after Peter's confession.
Dean leaned forward, his elbows resting on the table, staring hard into Peter's trembling eyes. "So… you never knew those guys were fakes?"
Peter shook his head slowly, the weight of guilt sagging his shoulders. "No," he whispered. "I knew. I knew they weren't part of the real army. But by the time I figured it out, it was too late. They'd already taken over most of what was left… what little was left. Any command structure collapsed. They acted like leaders at first. Talked unity. Order. But after a while…"
His voice faltered.
"They showed their true faces."
Everyone in the room stiffened as Peter's voice dropped into a bitter growl.
"Any women survivor we encountered? They'd be taken—claimed. Beaten if they resisted. Turned into… prisoners. Some didn't survive. The men? Sent out to scout, knowing full well they wouldn't come back. No food. No weapons. They were just… thrown away."
Gasps echoed through the room. Sister Agnes held a hand to her mouth in horror. Robert looked ready to lunge across the table.
Malcom suddenly snarled, his voice rising in fury. "What?! Stop spouting that bullshit, Peter!"
John jumped in, slamming his palm on the ground. "You think these people are gonna believe the word of a broken, soft mechanic over actual soldiers? You're a coward! You couldn't handle the world falling apart!"
Dean held up a hand, shutting them down with a single gesture.
"Enough," he said. His voice wasn't loud, but it cut through the shouting like a blade. He turned back to Peter. "What happened to this Carl fellow?"
Peter's eyes dropped to the floor. He didn't speak at first. His jaw trembled.
"He died," Peter finally said, voice cracking. "They killed him."
Dean's eyes narrowed. "These two?"
Peter nodded, and everyone felt the shift in Dean's demeanor—the subtle tension in his shoulders, the tightening of his jaw.
"Tell me what happened."
Peter took a breath, shaky, remembering.
"A month had passed since we took in what remained of a survivor group. We'd formed a small stronghold, barricaded a post office. Food was running out. Morale was worse. Carl—he'd always been a fighter. He suggested we take a small group and search the outskirts for supplies."
"And Malcom?" Dean asked, already guessing the answer.
Peter's voice hardened. "He shot it down. Said civilians should be the ones to go out. Said it was beneath the 'chain of command' for 'officers' to risk themselves."
Peter's expression darkened.
"Carl snapped. Yelled. Told them this wasn't what the army stood for. He walked out of that room with fire in his eyes… and I saw them. Malcom and John. They just stared at each other… and nodded. That kind of nod you don't forget."
The room listened in chilling silence.
"That night, I found Carl packing a bag. Just some biscuits and water."
'Where you going?' I asked.
'Out,' he said. 'Away from this hell. Pete, we're not real soldiers, we're just grease monkeys. Mechanics. But I'm not watching them treat civilians like dirt while we eat scraps and pretend we're in charge. And the girls… You know what's happening.'
"I clenched my fists. I couldn't deny it. He asked me to come with him. And I… I did. I grabbed my bag. We made for the back door. Slipped into the jeep."
Peter's hands clenched.
"And then… the lights came on."
He paused.
"'Well, well, well,' Malcom said. 'Look at the rats.' John and some of the others surrounded us. 'Stealing food and a jeep now?'"
"'It's my idea!' Carl yelled. 'Pete had nothing to do with it!' He looked at me—right in the eyes—and I knew what he wanted. So I told them… yeah. He forced me."
Dean's brows furrowed.
Peter's voice dropped again. "They dragged Carl out. Malcom smirked. 'Beat him.' That's all he said."
He stopped. His breath caught in his throat.
"They didn't stop. Five or six of them. Kicking. Punching. One with a pipe. Carl… he tried to speak. But… the sounds…" Peter shut his eyes, fists trembling. "I didn't move. Just like with my brother. I just watched."
The room was dead quiet. The only sound was the faint hum of the generator in the distance.
"Afterward," Peter continued, "they dumped his body in the ditch behind the barricade. Like he was trash. And from that day on… I just followed orders. I wasn't alive anymore. Just… waiting."
Malcom and John snapped.
"You liar!" John barked. "That's not how it happened! You don't know what pressure we were under!"
Malcom yelled, "Don't listen to this coward! He's trying to twist the truth—"
Dean rose from his seat, casting a long shadow across the table. "Shut it."
They did.
Dean looked at Peter. "So. Now what do you want to do?"
Peter glanced toward the window, where his fellow troops waited unknowingly beyond the gate.
"Are there any men out there… that'll listen to you? That aren't scum like them?"
Peter hesitated. Then nodded. "Two. Bruce and Will. They were part of my old squad a fellow army mechanic. Good men. They just kept their heads down."
Dean slowly turned his gaze to Malcom and John, and this time, there was no warmth in his expression—only cold calculation.
He grinned.
But it wasn't friendly.
It was the grin of a man who just realized checkmate was two moves away.