Twisted All To Hell

by J E Moore

passenger compartment scanning the shaft walls with the portable light. Clare wrinkled her nose, "What's that smell?"

  "I don't know," responded Warren. "I hope it's not the air from above." Then his foot struck something soft - forgiving. He swung the beam on it. A clump of dusty clothes? The mound took form. Why, it... it was a man's body... and clearly a dead one judging by the stench. Not wanting to touch the corpse with his hand, Ironsmith turned the man's head with his flashlight to examine the face. Studying the decomposing leathery skin and eaten-out eye sockets, he announced, "It's Jackson."

  Clare gasped and turned away from the ghastly sight. "Paul? Are you sure?" Paul Jackson had been the last dispatched, six months ago. Apparently, he had slipped and fallen to his death - unknown whether it had occurred on his departure or his return.

  "Of course, I'm sure," rebuked Ironsmith. With an air of sarcasm, "Feel free to examine him for yourself if you wish. Perhaps I missed something." She folded her arms across her stomach and cringed.

  Being practical and no stranger to the deceased, having served as a three-star Army general prior to his election, Warren proceeded to roll Paul over with his foot in hope of salvaging the flashlight he had been issued (the scouts had taken all of them but the President's).

  Roaches! A hundred grotesque brown roaches scurried from under the body - scampering in all directions, including Clare's. She screamed. The one hundred bugs became five hundred; Paul's body cavity was filled with them! The President and Miss Hightower jumped up and down to keep the insects from crawling up their legs. "Up there!" shouted Warren while pointing at the iron rungs attached to the shaft's wall. Clare clambered up the workman's ladder as fast as she could, squealing with each step. Thirty feet up and far enough away from their immediate insect threat, he cast his light down on the elevator's roof - the surface had transformed into a brown, shining sea of movement. "Aggh. Apparently we made it up here just in time," declared Ironsmith. Sweeping the area above, he coaxed, "Easy does it." Adding, "We're okay now, but be careful. Jackson may have slipped on one of these rungs."

  Sure enough, no sooner than he had finished uttering the words, Clare grabbed a swinging iron U bracket. She called to him, "You were right; this one's broken. Paul must have fallen from here," as she stepped over the rung hanging by a single bolt on the left side. And thinking caustically, "But then, you're always right aren't you, Mister President?"

  Arm weary and winded by their efforts of hard climbing coupled with multiple rest stops the pair finally crawled through the open first floor doorway. Clear of the shaft and its pungent odor, Ironsmith sniffed the air and declared, "Not so bad. Better than I thought it would be." He then began searching for the compound's maintenance shop. As Clare trailed in the semidarkness, Jackson's body caused her to recall a particularly disturbing incident of six months earlier. She touched Warren's arm; he stopped. "Do you remember the banging we heard coming from the elevator a few days after Paul left? That must have been him trying to signal us he was hurt."

  "Possibly," returned Ironsmith.

  "Possibly...? What do you mean? It had to be. Don't you remember when I told you that noise could be Jackson?"

  In a terse voice, "I recall the incident distinctly. I couldn't see him with the video camera and he didn't give the password."

  "But..."

  "No buts, Miss Hightower. The rules were established to insure the safety of the group. No password, no recognition, no entry," and turned away to resume his search.

  Clare knew full well the conversation had been terminated; it was pointless to question the President on anything. He would never admit to making a mistake or listen to a mere woman. She stood there feeling belittled and cursed anew the day she had gotten herself into this predicament. She sadly recollected the excitement she had felt when she received the job offer call from his personal aide. Imagine, the President of the United States requesting her to join his staff. What an honor. She felt ecstatic and confident she could be a significant contributor and gladly accepted the position. Clare soon learned it was solely for appearances sake - she yielded no power nor influenced the President in any respect. Alas, she served as only a plug-in public relations prop to retain selected votes. Yes, she had been duped Big Time. The man had charisma, there was no denying it. Outwardly, Ironsmith catered to almost every influential group or organization of both Parties and won their overwhelming support with his American Pride and Tough on Crime campaign. Inwardly, he remained acutely close-minded and refused to place anyone in a position yielding authority who failed to meet his own narrow personal standards: women and minorities fell into this category. Therefore, even though she was highly qualified: an educated black woman (earning a doctorate at a prestigious Ivy League school) who had paid her dues with years of community service and state representation, Clare's true function was to be in the spotlight close to the President's side which kept 'them black folks happy.' She passed as window dressing, nothing more... until shortly after they entered the Hell-hole.

  "Coming?" an order, not a request. Ironsmith had located what he'd been seeking: a work shop containing tools for building and landscaping maintenance. Four tall personnel lockers and a chest of drawers stood beside a three by ten foot long work-bench. At the opposite side of the room sat a parked golf cart and riding lawn mower. "Bingo," he beamed.

  Over the years their clothing had become stained and threadbare. The original architects and planners of the bunker had forgotten to provide a washer/dryer combo and cleaning their clothes in the kitchen sink hadn't quite cut it. Durable, fresh apparel would be a welcome find. Warren popped open the locker doors - nothing of value there. Next, he rummaged through the dresser drawers which rewarded his efforts: workman's coveralls, long-sleeved shirts and padded socks. Several pair of leather boots were lined-up in a row under the bench. "Aha." He selected large coveralls for himself and tossed a small pair to Clare. "There must have been a Greaser working here. Lucky for you."

  "Pardon?" she replied.

  "A Greaser. You know... Hispanic... Spanish. Petite build, same as yourself. Probably another damn, illegal immigrant who snuck his way into my country. I never did trust any of those assholes in the Border Patrol to do their job." After finishing his disparagement he began disrobing to change into the clean clothing.

  She frowned at his derogatory, ethnic bashing and turned her back to him. Her frayed blouse and skirt dropped to the floor. Clare felt a heavy, warm hand on her shoulder. Twisting her neck around, she found the President standing close; he had a crooked grin on his face. Ironsmith wore only an undershirt, no skivvies. Her countenance drooped, "Now? Here?" Clare shook her head in disbelief and made a low groan as she leaned over the work bench and submitted.

  Now, as in the past, she had steadfastly refused to face the men, especially Ironsmith, as they took their satisfaction in their alleged stress level correction. Clare was backed into a corner, one of which only a woman could feel. She thought by using mental disassociation she could cling to her last thread of dignity. But regrettably, it also had failed. The years of sexual abuse had taken an incalculable toll. She lost her witticism and her sharp mind dulled as her self-esteem drained while complying with the President's 'recommendation' she 'service the troops', for the common good.

  Clare remained silent with her eyes shut as Ironsmith partook of the official 'Program to maintain emotional stability,' which was to be performed by each man once a month, except for the President, who chose to partake much more often.

  The fresh image of Jackson, though decreased, had opened her mind for other ex-survivors to invade her mental torment. She consciously separated her thoughts from her defiled body and concentrated on remembering the chain of events which had led to each man's demise. There was Bruce, only twenty-five years old; he had always volunteered to be last in using 'The Program' and delayed with every excuse imaginable until he missed his turn. Ironsmith finally caught on and openly confronted him, "Don't you like women? Are you some kind of faggot
?" The youngster tried to side-step the accusation but the cat slipped out of the bag, or rather, the closet. He admitted to being gay even though he knew the President's viewpoint regarding homosexuality. In a bold effort to counter and make light of the uncomfortable situation he now was in, Bruce made an extremely ill-timed, reverse logic joke by suggesting perhaps one of the men could service him, as Clare had been doing for the rest. Ironsmith went ballistic. "I thought he was going to have a stroke," she recalled - too bad he didn't. No question about it, Warren would have killed him right then and there if he could have gotten away with it. In a sense he did kill him because Bruce became the first selected to be dispatched for reconnaissance even though the environmental monitors still showed dangerous radiation levels present. The young man had no choice: he had sworn his allegiance and couldn't refuse a direct order from the President. No one could. In retrospect, I sure wish Bruce had confided in me before his fateful run-in with Ironsmith. I may have been able to save his life or at least prolong it. We would have gone to 'the room' (behind closed restroom doors), just talked and been able to deceive them.

  Next, came John, an extremely