Dead Lines [911]

by Grace Hamilton

  She felt the cold length of the knife slide down her flesh. She felt him twist the blade and then jerk once. Her skin split and blood ran hot down her flesh. She jerked her head up in outrage when his free hand began to caress the curve of her buttock.

  “I can only imagine how much it’s going to bleed when we pull our train on you,” he said, voice suddenly soft.

  Behind the gag, she half snarled, half sobbed in response.

  Rude fingers roamed her body. She began thrashing against her bonds, shaking her head back and forth, trying to shout. She was tied fast, though, and could barely budge, her cries of protest little more than inarticulate mewling.

  “That’s it!” Colson hissed.

  He snagged her hair holding tight at her nape and snatched her head back. She felt Colson press his face against her cheek, his fetid breath blowing in her ear.

  “Cry for me,” he whispered. His tongue lathed the side of her face like a dog licking gristle clean from a bone. “Washington!” he practically giggled the command.

  The wand whistled through the air. There was a sound like a slap across a face. The pain was blinding, white hot in its intensity. She jerked in her bonds, and tried screaming but the gag made her choke on the sound. Colson’s saliva rolled down her cheek in sticky streams as he pressed his face into hers, as if he were trying to taste her agony.

  Again the wand whistled. Blood painted the floor and what she now saw were CPU blade racks were splashed on the back stroke. Colson had been true to his word; Washington was not even close to being good enough to put the wand in exactly the same spot with each stroke. The thin stick beat her all over her backside. She felt the reverberations of her screams echoing back down her throat against the gag.

  All around her, crude, evil men laughed crude, evil laughs. Whatever the event had been, whatever it was, they saw it as a godsend, Finn understood. They loved the anarchy, the ability to be the unfettered predators they’d always been.

  Colson stood, his hand still knotted in Finn’s hair. He twisted her face upward. “Burn my man Washington’s face, bitch?” He snapped her head back and forth. “Burn his face? You’re suffering has only begun.”

  Blood ran down the back of Finn’s legs in scarlet rivulets. Her backside burned and throbbed from the abuse. She’d been hit very few times, but a few times was all that had been needed to bathe her trembling body in fiery agony. Washington dropped the wand to the floor at a nod from Colson.

  “Now, honey,” Colson said.

  He cupped her chin with a sweat-slimed hand, forcing her to look up at him. With his other hand, he slammed the point of his switchblade into the table next to her face, causing her to flinch. Clear snot ran down over the gag from her crying and drool hung in delicate strings from her lips.

  “I bet you’ve never looked more beautiful,” Colson smiled. “That could be a problem for you now, though. Because I’m going to let you in on a little secret,” he said. “Some of us have been in prison for a very long time.” He patted her face in a condescending, paternalistic way. “We got to missing certain things. Do you understand?” He turned his head and spat. “I got romance on my mind. As does every other guy here,” he laughed. “But they’re going to have to wait their turn. Washington gets to go first.” He locked gazes with her. “Do you understand me?”

  Eyes earnest, suddenly compliant, Finn nodded.

  “What? I can’t understand you.”

  Fearful, Finn began making croaking sounds, bobbing her head up and down. Colson laughed with a cruel snort at her fear and desperation. His men, on cue, began hooting with mirth. In the weird echo of the CPU storage unit, it sounded like a troop of monkeys.

  Colson pointed at one of his crew. “Take off her gag,” he snapped. “Now!”

  One of the men, his mouthful of gold teeth weirdly glittering in the hard yellow light, jumped forward, a pump action shotgun dangling from a strap over his shoulder. Moving quickly, he yanked off the gag.

  Finn turned her head and threw up on the floor, convulsing with the effort to vomit. Her stomach was empty except for bile, and the mess was clear other than for her own blood. It pooled up on the floor and splashed Colson’s shoes.

  Colson leaned forward, pulling Finn’s head up by the hair. “I want you to say you’re sorry for my man’s face!”

  Finn’s mouth worked, but no sound came out. She closed her eyes and swallowed against the tight rawness in her throat. She started to whisper, but then was overcome by a spasm of coughing.

  She tried to speak again, but her voice was faint. Impatient, Colson jerked her head back harder and leaned in closer.

  “What? What was that? I can’t fucking hear you!”

  Her voice cracked, too faint to understand. Colson leaned in closer.

  “Say it again,” he ordered. His breath smelling like a dumpster.

  His ear was so close to her mouth that he could feel her hot breath against his skin.

  “I said,” Finn whispered. “Fuck you!”

  She lunged forward and clamped her teeth down hard on the skin and cartilage of the man’s ear. Sharp, white teeth caught hold and bit down hard, splitting skin until blood, hot and salty, rushed out and spread in a waterfall over Colson’s jaw and neck. More of his blood poured over Finn’s lips and chin.

  Colson screamed in surprise and pain. He tried jerking free, but Finn held on, only biting down harder. His cries became high-pitched whoops and his men stood frozen for a moment, partly in shock and partly from the dulling effects of all the booze and drugs they’d consumed. Finn snatched her head to the side like a lioness yanking meat off a kill.

  The top of Colson’s ear came away in a long avulsion that left more blood smeared across his face. Blood splashed into Finn’s hair and the fat slug of flesh that had been the top of Colson’s ear stuck out of her mouth like a piece of escargot.

  Mind broken by terror and pain, grinning with a demonic intensity, Finn turned her head to the side and spat. The flesh struck a CPU rack and clung to the porous wood like sputum. She smiled, blood smeared across her teeth like scarlet lipstick.

  “What was the question again?”

  Colson looked at his ear, stuck like a booger on the wood, his face twisting into a mask of incredulous horror. His hands were clamped hard to the side of his head, but blood continued spurting freely from between his fingers despite the effort. Falling back, he staggered to and fro, screaming in agony.

  Washington moved towards him, confusion giving way to murderous anger on his blunt, open face. He reached out his hands towards Colson who slapped them away. Finn, more than a little unhinged from her torture, began laughing, cackling as Colson, who was staggering, tripped over his own feet and went down to the floor hard.

  Washington again went to help Colson up, but the man couldn’t seem to get himself under control. Not sure of what to do next, Washington turned in a rage and backhanded Finn. The blow snapped her head to the side and split her lip, cutting off her laughter. After the wand, though, it was a pittance, and she chuckled.

  “Kill her!” Colson finally managed to stutter out from the floor.

  AVA

  Gruber threw her in the room and she landed hard—hard enough that it really hurt. The church didn’t have cells, not really, but the basement bedrooms were close enough. She glared at Gruber as he stood in the doorway.

  “Meow,” Gruber mocked her.

  “Fuck you.”

  “Maybe, if you clean up,” Gruber said.

  “You’re a pig. If Marr knew about the real you, she’d have you thrown out of the church.”

  “The church is a complex organization,” Gruber told her. “It has many facets, not all of them easy for Dr. Marr to get a hold on. She depends on me, knows she can trust me… unlike you.”

  “How many girls have gone missing?” Ava demanded, changing tactics. “How many people have you locked down here?”

  “Grow up,” Gruber snapped. “We’re not goddamn serial killers. Nobody’s kid
napping girls off the damn street.”

  “Then why don’t you let me go?”

  “Now that’s something completely different,” he said. “We are at a moment of great sensitivity. You seem hell bent on acting like a bull in a China shop, so you’re locked up for your own protection.”

  “I know you’ve used these rooms before,” Ava said. “I know about the ranch.”

  “Maybe,” Gruber admitted. “You should tell her… oh, but wait, you broke her heart by betraying her at the pivotal moment of her life.” He stopped, sneering. “No matter what you think I am, little girl, what I most certainly am not is a Gentile traitor. And Doctor Marr knows that.”

  Ava looked away from him.

  “Yeah,” Gruber said. “That’s what I thought.”

  “I'll take it from here,” Marr said from behind him.

  Gruber looked at her in surprise, and then simply nodded and left. Marr took his place in the doorway. Ava refused to look at her. Marr sighed a soft, almost exhausted sound.

  “Ava,” she said. “Ava, look at me, please.” When Ava didn’t respond, Marr slid down into a crouch so that she was on the same level as the girl. “Ava,” she said, her voice still quiet. “Do you know why I keep Hank in a position of influence? … That question is rhetorical, of course. There’s no reason you would know or be able to understand.”

  “It’s to keep you in power,” Ava snapped.

  “Perhaps,” Marr admitted. “Not totally, not in the way you think, at least.” Her voice trailed off for a moment. “And maybe not at all,” she said finally.

  When Ava didn’t respond, Marr continued on. “You obviously think I had something to do with the event tonight. That’s true.”

  Ava looked up in surprise. Marr held her hand up to stop any fresh protest.

  “Again, not in the way you think.” She slid into a cross-legged position before continuing. “I didn’t do this, but I knew it was going to happen. I’ve been preparing for it for years. And the reason I didn’t, the reason I couldn’t, go to the authorities, is because the authorities are behind this. Or at least, certain ones. At the highest levels, they are able to exert influence across the spectrum of government. They can’t be fought, not openly.”

  “How?” Ava demanded. “How do you know—how did you know?”

  “Some years ago,” Marr said, “I was a government contractor in what they call a Special Access Program. It had to do with something called Continuity of Government. Do you know what that is?”

  Ava shook her head no. She was fully engaged now, almost entranced by the intimacy Marr was sharing with her.

  “It was originally created during the Cold War to provide what they called Critical Infrastructure Protection. In case we were nuked, it allowed the government to continue to function. Then, after the Soviet Union fell, it was morphed into providing command and control in the advent of severe natural disasters. Worldwide famines leading to civil unrest. Continent wide droughts. A planet killer asteroid strike; a global pandemic.”

  “Sounds like the powerful figuring out how to save themselves while the rest of us suffer.” Ava made no attempt to keep the bitterness out of her voice.

  Marr nodded without guile. “That’s exactly what it was,” she said. “In order for it to work, plans were drawn up for a shadow government. A state within a state made up of third or fourth tier unelected bureaucrats, the ones who ran government agencies no matter which political party was in power. While the heads of agencies changed with elections, it was the lower level technocrats who kept the various departments and bureaus running from decade to decade.”

  “How did you get involved?” Ava asked.

  “I was working with the Department of Defense, and later JSOC—the Joint Special Operations Command—in conducting psychological profiles on potential operators. I had very high clearance and I somehow came to someone’s attention. I was asked to head a project conducting profiles of suitable COG candidates.”

  Marr trailed off for a moment. Ava could see her struggling to find words. She’d never seen the woman ever have difficulty putting her thoughts into words, and wasn’t sure what to make of it now, but finally Marr seemed to find her voice again.

  “After several years, I noticed a troubling pattern. People I had ear-marked as unsuitable were being picked for promotions.”

  “Unsuitable how?” Ava asked,

  “Extreme narcissistic personality traits, in some cases potentially bordering on high-functioning psychopath indicators. Psychopath isn’t a term that’s currently in vogue, but it serves to illustrate what I mean. In other cases, the individuals showed unimaginative traits that left them open to authoritarianist solutions. Functionaries who followed orders unquestioningly. Sycophants.”

  “So, the conscienceless masterminds and their obedient thugs,” Ava said.

  Marr burst into a smile, and it seemed to knock decades from her face. For a moment, Ava caught a glimpse of the young woman she must have been. She felt her anger and resentment begin to soften a bit. This was a huge secret for one person to have had to carry, Ava realized.

  “Ava, that’s exactly right,” Marr said. “This is why you’re so important to me! I need people with us who are capable of grasping larger pictures. Of helping me guide the others. As soon as I realized what I was a part of and how widespread it was, I got out, and then I created the church and used my profiling abilities to choose people who could help me rebuild a kinder, gentler society. One filled with abilities that would allow us to survive off the grid when the shadow masters revealed themselves.”

  “And Gruber and his bullies?” Ava demanded, growing angry all over again.

  Marr avoided her eyes. “In order for the COG cabal to institute the draconian measures they’d need, there would by necessity have to be prolonged periods of civil disorder. In a reality like that, the church would need people capable of fighting. And, Ava…” Marr seemed to almost be pleading with her to understand, “I didn’t have the luxury of thousands of people to choose from. I only had those few who found their way to my door.”

  “And the ranch?”

  Marr became brisk, matter of fact. “We have to have people. Any individual who didn’t commit to us was only going to go on to suffer or to become part of the oppressive machine. In a very real sense, you are for us or against us. This is an unchangeable reality.”

  “So you became the mastermind, and Gruber and his clowns became your sycophants.”

  Marr’s mouth drew out in a tight, flat line.

  “I’m sorry you see it that way, Ava,” she said.

  “And I’m sorry you’re a control freak bent on brainwashing the people who trusted you,” Ava shot back.

  Marr rose and stepped back out of the room. “I think this session is no longer productive.”

  “Screw you!” Ava shouted.

  The only answer she got was the closing of the door and the turning of the lock. I have to get out of here, she thought.

  The door to the room had closed with a solid bang and the lock had fully rolled over. Now that she wasn’t being observed, she allowed herself to look around. Small room, no window. Plywood paneling over sheetrock. Cheap carpet and thin floor padding over foundation cement. A picture of a rapture-looking Jesus showed itself to be weary and faded in the ugly yellow light of a single bulb hanging from a chain in the ceiling.

  Next to her was a bed, a single mattress on a chipped and battered metal frame. The bed had not been made up and there was no cover on the black and white stripped pillow. There was a plastic chair with a copy of Marr’s writings. The room was stark, utilitarian.

  It was also clean. Ava felt laughter bubbling up in her throat and she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. This wasn’t hardship. The places she’d slept as a child had been a hardship. Gruber was bad, maybe deadly, but so were so many of the men who had moved in and out of her parents’ lives as their addictions consumed them.

  This… this, she could take.
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br />   She rose and sat on the bed, staring at the wall, not really thinking of anything. She leaned back, tucked an arm behind her head, and stretched out. She needed to plan, to scheme. This wasn’t a federal prison. Maybe Gruber was scary, but he wasn’t some kind of master kidnapper. She could get out. She could get away.

  She had to think.

  She began searching the room. Her mind dealt with stress in a very particular way. She became more structured, more analytical in her thoughts. Dr. Marr had told her it was a defensive coping mechanism against the chaos of her childhood, brought about by her parents’ addiction problems. So what, she thought, if it was a defense mechanism, it was frequently a very useful one. The sentiment was probably a little defensive, she realized, but she wasn’t the one locking people away.

  Things are made up of things, she thought. Smaller things made up larger things, and disassembled things could be reassembled into other things.

  She breathed in, trying to clear her brain of her fear and anger. The room she was in was small, not much larger than a broom closet really. It hadn’t originally been intended as a bedroom—or a jail cell, for that matter.

  The rooms of the old TV station had all been converted from their original uses to what was needed by the church. Here was a bed. An old metal-frame one like the kind easily found at any Goodwill. Bed springs built in and sagging with age, mattress thin.

  There was no window, as they were in the basement of the building. A single light controlled by a switch outside the room gave off a soft illumination. There were no other items in the room of use, but perhaps for a single chair. On the seat of the chair was a hardcover copy of Dr. Lorraine Marr’s book, Humanity Unplugged.