Then the English Speaking captor would return. He would ask the same question, over and over again, and still he did not know the answer.
“Are you ready to choose?”
Other days he was laid on the ground face down, he would feel the tire of the truck press against his head, the engine would sound as if someone had given it more gas and the tire would rock against his face. He knew this was a trick though, they had left the hood on too long, and he was now familiar with the sound and distance of the truck. It was obviously a spare wheel; a trick for the amusement of the guards. When he had stopped screaming in terror they had beaten him more.
Some nights they would place him in a metal locker, and every +time he fell asleep they would hit the shell with hammers, chains and other blunt objects. The noise was as frustrating as the pain.
He was also aware that he smelled like a third world sewer. Covered in his own sweat, urine and filth, they had kept him tied up and not allowed him to visit a bathroom. He had held off as long as he could, but was forced to soil himself. He had been beaten for this too, but they had not allowed him to wash up. The sores were another source of pain and discomfort, and the anger, the fight within him had become a feeling of self- loathing and depression. He prayed for death, but it would not come.
It was obvious they wanted to take away any self-respect that he had once held, and he had reached that point, he admitted it to himself. He was broken down and he had no more reserves of strength left.
On the sixth day, barely able to walk, he had been dragged into a courtyard and thrown onto the blacktop. It grazed his skin and the pain in his ribs felt like a spear had penetrated him. He screamed. It was simply too painful to be strong anymore. He tried to get himself into a fetal position and protect himself from what would surely be another beating, but none came. The guards simply pulled him to his knees and he slumped forward.
A car door opened and he heard the familiar voice of the English speaking captor that asked the same question over and over.
“Are you ready to make a choice?”
This man then switched from English to a foreign language. However, it was not Serb, like most of the guards spoke. This was another language. It was one that he recognized but could not speak.
“Kali Miera” he said, and the man recognized the sound of a cell phone call ending. The man had spoken Greek, and this was something that surprised him.
The man’s breathing was clear and he heard his tormentor squat down in front of him. He winced and drew back as the man’s hands reached for the sandbag over his head, but the man whispered for him to calm down. Light burned brightly as he saw daylight for the first time in a week.
“Are you ready to make a choice Englishman?” he said softly, that same sentence.
“I am Scottish” he replied, he had no self-respect remaining, but he said it almost as an automatic reaction. “I don’t understand! What choice?” He added. The weakness in his voice made it little more than a dry raspy whisper.
He expected a familiar follow up, a punch to the face, a kick to the groin, a stick to the ribs or some other beating device across his legs, but this time none came.
“Are you ready to make a choice?” Was the only response he got this time.
“I do not know…”
This time it was the rubber hose filled with sand, this one hurt most because the sting overtook all of the numbness and burned forever, or so it seemed. The beatings were getting more violent, and he knew he would break soon. He had lasted longer than he had ever been trained for, and it was now time to save his own life.
“Are you ready to make a choice?” The question came, as he knew it would.
“Please, I want to go home, I am just a driver, I want to go home but I do not know.” He sobbed to himself. This was not a front to look weaker than he actually was. This was genuine. He was broken and he could not say anything or do anything to stop the tears of complete resignation flowing. Yet he knew what would come now.
This beating went on for a while, they tore away his pants and shirt, leaving him naked except for the sandbag that covered his face, the captors beat his bare skin with the hoses. He wanted to pass out and began to bang his own head against the post, but unconsciousness would not come.
“Are you ready to make a choice?” His tone never changed and the simple soft spoken question was repeated.
“Please tell me the choice and I can answer.” He pleaded, but this was not the response his captors wanted.
The first struck the side of his head and the pain shot through his head, he let his legs go beneath him. He heard laughter as the relentless beating continued and he knew he had to make the one response he knew he would regret.
“Are you ready to make a choice?”
“Yes” he whimpered, he had been broken. “Yes!” he screamed, more as a pleading for the beating and the pain to stop than a response. The beating stopped and he seized what he felt was a victory. He had stopped the beating, he had said a single word and they had stopped. It was obvious they wanted that answer more than he wanted to give it, but for the first time in a week, he had made them stop hurting him.
I’ll make your fucking choice!” he sobbed and rolled to the ground.
One of his guards pulled away the hood and smiled down at him.
“Jebo ti pas mater!” he said and spat in his face. He heard the man who spoke English speak in the language he knew was Serbian. “You will choose in an hour” he said to him and walked away. Then he said in English.
“Clean him up!”
He woke with a start. The pain remained in his wrists and the scars from the plastic ties where still evident after almost a quarter century. He let out a grunt that would have passed as a word in his homeland followed by “Ye Bastard!” as he tried to place some weight on his hand to get up from his bed. It was getting dark. He had slept through the entire day. He pulled on his shirt and pea coat and stumbled to his feet.
He was becoming more and more aware of his age these days, and cold damp nights had become as much an enemy to him as that old familiar question.
“Are you ready to make a choice?”
Then he remembered the dream and sat back on the bed hard, placed a hand over his face and bit back on the stinging sensation in his eyes.
“I’m sorry!” he said out loud, “Dear god I am so sorry!”
Sister Mary Jude
Sister Mary Jude had developed a sixth sense of when things were not right in her twenty four years. Growing up in the abused women's shelters and later the orphanage had taught her that the sudden noise and rumblings along a hallway were always a prelude to trouble. She was no stranger to great violence in her life. Those who had survived the abusive relationships and terrible torments of life’s horror stories could sense the presence of violence. She felt its familiar air tonight. The trick was to avoid it when possible. Stay quiet, stay out the way and become a shadow in the room. Any action that can attract the attention of a violence you are not equipped to handle would mean that you would inevitably suffer. It was not cowardice, but survival that had taught her to use this method. She had been brave many times in her short life, but sometimes bravery got you hurt and the only thing that was resolved was that you lost and the one committing the violence felt a victory. These were not the battles she chose to fight. Fighting a pointless battle is not brave, but simply the actions of someone who does not possess the strength to feel like a looser. In short, some fights were simply stupidity.
At the age of four her first foray into the evil humans can do came from within a circle of trust that she thought would never be broken. It was the ultimate betrayal. Her father was in one of his sweaty times. The picture she had drawn was one of early pride. As she sat in the back seat, her mother protested against something and her father, dripping in sweat and smelling awful had screamed at her in louder screams. Waving his hands violently, he had screamed that he needed something to fix, but her memory had let the exact wor
ds slip into time. Yet a daughter’s first love is her father, and he was upset, she wanted him to be happy and had decided that her drawing may help Mommy and Daddy stop fighting.
"Daddy" she had said, tapping his seat. "Daddy I made a picture" oblivious to her voice her father continued to scream at her mother. "You don't understand bitch! I need it!" he yelled slamming his hands on the wheel. "I will get a job once I get my head straight!"
"No!" her mother yelled in response, but her protests had simply made her father more angry.
"Daddy my picture” she said. Her father slammed on the breaks of the car and turned screaming at her
“I don't give a fuck!" he yelled as he snatched the paper from her and tore it into pieces. “I was going somewhere before you… now shut up!”
When the tears came so did his hands. The stinging against her face knocked her into the car door. Her Mother Screamed once more, punching her father and scratching at his face.
“You don’t ever fucking touch her!” the mother had yelled, punching and scratching at him. The father struck her mother and the child version of herself covered her ears and closed her eyes although she still heard her mother screaming as her Father pulled her mother from the car. She heard him punching and yelling and the dull thudding noises as her mother’s body was sent repeatedly into the bodywork.
When she opened her eyes again, her mother's face, covered in blood and tears was talking softly. The police had her father on the ground and in handcuffs.
A year later, the young Sister Mary June was woken by a rumbling down the hall. Screams and shouts and a man's angry voice filled the air. She had heard her Mother’s name and all of the bad words that some of the other children and women in the shelter used. Her mother present once again scooped her up.
"Come on Booboo" she whispered carrying her to the closet.
"Whenever things get bad Booboo, go to the smallest spot and hide. Stay there until it is quiet or until mommy or the police come.”
She had nodded to her Mother.
“Pinky Promise?” her mother had said, and as they linked thumbs she repeated her mother’s words.
When the gun shots started she snuggled down and began to pray. She kept her promise and stayed there. She found that her fear was gone while she prayed. The loudest shot came from the living room. She prayed harder and asked for the strength to keep her promise to her Mother, and it was found.
Although she never saw her mother again, she found God. As her mother had said, the police had come to help, and took her away. The woman had held her in her arms, and the red stained sheets that where in the living room, the hallway and on the stairs stuck with her, but there were no faces. Police said that there were fourteen of them.
At age fourteen she was in yet another shelter. This time it was a group foster home that was more of an Orphanage than a home itself. Sister Mary Jude as a child simply would not settle, and despite having heard of her Mother’s fate at the end of her Father’s gun, refused to believe it. She would run. Each time an opportunity presented itself she would be gone. She was always found close to one of the places that she had known when her mother was alive. It was a desperate attempt to relate to a life from which she had been robbed.
She met a boy named Peter who had lost his family also, and as they shared a tragic childhood, a friendship had blossomed. Others called him Pyro Peter. His family had died in an house fire and he having been the sole survivor had fallen victim to speculation and the rumor mill when an answer to how he had survive was sought out by the other children.
He was a strange boy that was bullied relentlessly by the others. The girl that would become Sister Mary June prayed for him and even loaned him $20 when he said he needed money for a padlock. She had protected him when she could, but she was a slight child and held little strength to fight off those that were bigger and stronger. When Peter did fight back the punishments for his having done so were worse. The staff of the home would tell him to toughen up, and occasionally move rooms.
After one particularly savage attack by the other boys, he had become violent in response. She had never seen Peter act in such a way, and the threats and words he used made her realize that he was more troubled than even she had thought.
It was a matter of weeks after he had been moved to the new rooms that a new set of noises awoke her. The screams in the night were Peter’s, and the next morning his eyes, bloodshot from tears seemed to have a distance about them.
His roommate started calling him “Bitch” after that, and Peter simply obeyed without question. The nights that followed the days he had not been obedient were once again filled with tortured screams. These screams were heard by all: except the staff. The noises down the hall continued and she would go to a small closet and pray that they would stop and that her friend would find courage to resist. Yet the bruises were constant and the distance Peter had from everyone else grew.
She did not remember how often or for how long Peter had screamed in the night nor could she remember how long it had been before a new set of noises in the hallway awoke her.
The noises of new screams, banging on doors and windows and panic in the voices all around. Smoke filled the room. She ran down the corridor and found a door chained shut from the outside. Looking through the small shatter proof window on the fire door she saw Peter sitting in a plastic chair. He just sat looking at a bunch of padlock keys. He appeared to be singing to himself. When he turned to face her he smiled and waved.
On the ground next to him lay his roommate: motionless. Two pools of deep, bright-red blood moved across the floor, one below the roommate’s waist and the other from the throat where a knife, that still penetrated his throat, had punctured an artery.
As she pulled at the door and screamed for him to help, Peter turned a bloody wave to her and slowly shook his head.
"I am helping" he said before turning back to his keys and singing something about a highway to hell. She could also see that the other doors on the corridor to the fire escape were bolted shut. She also saw the chains and padlocks, and, in a moment of horror remembered she had loaned peter the money to purchase one.
She ran back to her room and hid in the closet. "Our Father, who art in heaven....' she began but the smoke was getting thicker, and her words were interrupted by the involuntary urge to cough. God, it would seem did not want her prayers right now, he wanted actions. Then the Miracle happened.
Despite her terror, despite her desire to hide and despite her concerns of the padlock and her friend’s actions, a memory came to her. A memory of what lay in the play yard five floors below. She had a vision of a dumpster below, and the corrugated roof of the shed covering it. She had once thought of how to escape using it to jump the fence that surrounded the play yard.
She screamed for everyone to come to her and pointed to the dumpster. Yet before she spoke they heard Peter screaming as the flames had reached him and he began to burn, and all of the other children, like her, turned their heads to the noise. The hallway was taking on an orange glow in the dark and they knew time was running out.
“I need you to drop me onto the roof!” She said quickly, and once again pointed at the dumpster below. “I can fit through the small windows in the bathroom,” she pointed them out to the others “but I need to swing about twenty feet out and drop”.
“We should wait for the Fire Department” said one of the other children, but she cut him off quickly.
“Do you hear a siren?” she said, and with that one short sentence, they realized their fate was their own to decide.
If she swung out enough, she could make the drop, but it was a long one. With two sheets tied together, and the roof she estimated to be ten feet high, the drop would still be almost twenty feet, but she was sure she could. She was sure she had to.
The sheets held as she climbed from the window and seven of the children held on tight to allow her the security needed to swing. They could have tied more sheets together, but the kno
ts may not have held.
“Close the bathroom door,” She said, “and jam towels at the bottom.” Then with a pause she repeated the words of her mother. “Stay there until they come and get you.”
She was barely one hundred pounds, and swinging was easy. She went back and forth a few times to gain momentum, using her feet to run along the wall. She let go on the fourth swing and tried to turn her body to land on her feet. She did not make that turn in time, and as she hit the roof of the dumpster shed the nausea of the sound and pain as her leg broke was immediate.
She prayed for strength as she slid to the ground along the roof using the wall for support. The fence was only ten feet tall and made of chain-link, but she was no longer able to climb down it, her broken leg would not allow for it, so she simply hung, dropped and let her weight collapse as she hit the concreate of the sidewalk.
She was close to vomiting and fainting at the same time when she made it to the payphone. Only 50 feet away from the door of the home, but it felt like a mile as she reached it. Through blurred eyes she dialed nine-one-one and said only a few words before collapsing.
“Forty-ninth street orphanage, fire, trapped.”
Peters charred remains; still in his chair; keys in hand. He had taken 22 other souls with him. The three night staff workers had already been murdered according to the forensics report, as well as the other boy. The boy that had been attacking Peter was a juvenile sex offender, and should never have been in the home to begin with. The home itself was fined for having windows bolted shut and the owner, who later committed suicide, was left bankrupt by the damages paid to each of the children that had survived.
Yet, the child that would become Sister Mary Jude was to become a celebrity for a few weeks. The nine-one-one tape of her call, and the semi-conscious prayers she made for strength and protection was played all over the media, and became one of the first viral videos on the new You-tube website. God rewarded her bravery by sending her to a family in Boston. The family raised her, and the person that became her adopted father showed her to her room, a room that had no lock.
Zombie Outbreak Z1O5 (Book 2): Zed Dawn Page 5