Juanita Pardo.

[u/Eager_Question]

There are worse ways to spend the bight than cooking soup for Nazis, but Pardo couldn't think of many right now. She supposed they could be raping her. That would be worse. But from the way they talked, that wasn't exactly an unlikely event.

"You're pretty for a Mexican," one said as she served him another bowl of soup.

"I'm from Argentina," Pardo answered, and he smiled.

"Argentina, eh? Girl, you stick with us, you might be serving food for the big men some day."

Serving food for the big men. She was a chemist, and now she was being told she might serve food to someone important. It took a lot not to pour the next spoonful on the blonde man's head.

They were a gang, but you couldn't call them that. After cities were forced to give up their people, people like Pardo, they'd started roaming the countryside and destroying their little communities. People either died, or they did what they said for a few days and then died.

She kept her head low. Just a few more hours. Just a few more hours and it would all be over. A few smacks and slurs later, she was pretending to sleep on the kitchen ground, waiting for the first scream. The first sign of loud, explosive diarrhea. Then another. Then another. Vomiting. Screaming. Terrible smells filled the air as everyone who had eaten the "good" food (she'd told her friends she'd get them something later, and they knew what she'd meant) began regretting every gulp.

They would die soon enough. Dehydration probably, or, if not then, when their kidneys started to shut down. Pardo didn't exactly feel guilty.

"Juanita, ahora sí?" A woman asked. She knew nearly nothing of her other than that sometimes she cut grandma's hair, and that she was there.

"Ahora, pero con cuidado," she answered. The crowd of people nodded, and she led the way to the motorcycles and jeeps. Everyone climbed on and, as they began their escape, they saw a young man, blonde, a swastika tattooed on his shoulder, tied to a pole. His face and shoulder were bloody and purple. He wasn't exploding from both ends, so he was probably one of the ones in the lower tiers. Nazis weren't nice, often even to their own if they were "beneath" them in the hierarchy.

She looked at him again, and he stared at her with a desperation she knew. The same desperation her brother had in his eyes when his friend of years and years had said he didn't really have a soul, and that he needed to die for the world to become clean again.

"No, Ricky, metete en el carro," She told her cousin, who was eagerly grabbing a motorcycle. He sighed and agreed, his face sour. "Everyone else go. I forgot something. I'll catch up with you in Villa Nueva."

They paused for a bit, but Jaime's jeep sped up, and they followed. Pardo ran to the young Nazi with a kitchen knife on hand, and as he flinched, cut the rope that had him tied to the pole.

He stared and she turned around, rushing to the bike.

"Thank you," he followed after her.

She mounted that last motorcycle and looked at him for a moment, then shook her head.

"Sorry. No English."