by Smith, Bryan
Nonetheless, preferential treatment or not, these women were still inmates at Prison 13. They were expected to abide by its rules as strictly as anyone else.
Livia took the scalpel away from Holly’s clit and turned to face the Nazi girls. “What are you ladies doing? You’re not supposed to be in here.”
The women spread out in a loose circle around the foot of the bed. A woman with long blonde curls stood at the front of the group. Her hands were balled into fists at her hips and her chin jutted outward in a defiant way. “We have come to take what’s ours.”
Livia frowned, her grip tightening on the scalpel’s handle. “Are you talking about my patient?”
The blonde nodded. “She belongs to us. We marked her. Staked our claim. She is ours. Now we will take her.”
Anger surged inside Livia. Holly belonged to her, not these neo-Nazi bitches. She took a backward step, waving the scalpel in front of her. The wall was less than two feet behind her. She felt crowded in. Her anger was on the verge of giving way to panic. “You have no authority to be here, nor are you authorized to take my patient. Leave the infirmary now and I won’t report this incident.”
The blonde’s fists came off her hips as she took a step forward. Other members of the Frauenschaft followed, crowding into the narrow space between beds. “You don’t scare us, Livia Collins.” She smiled. “We can do what we want. Haven’t you figured that out yet?”
Livia stared at them another moment as they continued to edge closer and came to a decision. This was not the time to take a stand against the Frauenschaft. There was, after all, a mounting pile of evidence backing up the blonde’s claim about being able to act with impunity. She could consult with Dr. Woronov or someone else higher up regarding this egregious violation of the rules another time.
All that mattered right now was that she was one woman standing against more than half a dozen. Soon they would rush her, overwhelm her. She might nick one of them with the scalpel before that could happen, but she would be quickly disarmed. They might even turn the scalpel on her as punishment for daring to defy them.
Livia lowered the scalpel. “Fine. Take her. You can unlock her shackles with the key on that cart.”
The blonde took another step closer. The rest of them continued to crowd in closer, as well. Livia took an instinctive step backward and then another, stopping only when her back met the wall. Her breathing quickened and her panic level began to soar.
She felt close to screaming.
Then, all at once, they rushed her. The scalpel fell from her shaking fingers and clattered on the floor. Multiple sets of hands grabbed her and pulled her away from the wall. Her breath came in quick gasps as she got ready to scream. The scream didn’t come, though, because someone knocked her in the back of the head with something heavy.
The blow wasn’t hard enough to knock her out, but it was a close thing. She was dimly aware of being hauled out of the infirmary, the toes of her shoes dragging on the floor as the gang members banged through the swinging doors and out into the hallway. Though everything was fuzzy in those moments, she had a vague sense that only some of the women had come with her while others had remained behind to deal with Holly.
There was a black, lost moment during which she came closest to fully losing consciousness, but then the mental fog cleared again and she was in a bathroom. She recognized it as the one nearest the infirmary. It wasn’t far from the janitorial supply closet she’d been raiding improvised torture tools from all morning.
She blearily turned her head about and saw there were just three gang members with her. The majority had remained in the infirmary. By now they’d likely freed Holly from her shackles and were preparing to take her away. Even in the midst of great danger to herself, this thought enraged her. This made two subjects she had lost prematurely in less than twenty-four hours.
It wasn’t fair.
“Let go of me!” she shouted, struggling to get free of the hands holding her as she was dragged into one of the bathroom’s three stalls. “Take your fucking hands off me or you’ll all fucking regret it, I swear.”
The women did not let go of her.
They laughed.
She cried out as her knees cracked against the tiled floor. The toilet was in front of her, its seat up. A hand pushed firmly at the back of her head.
My God, she thought. They’re gonna drown me!
Her face was plunged into the cold toilet water. She felt a faint tang of urine in her mouth before she closed it. Her struggles against the hands holding her intensified as the seconds elapsed and she fought to hold in what little was left of the air in her lungs. The terror gripping her as still more seconds ticked by was so overwhelming it made her want to open her mouth to scream despite knowing what a bad idea that would be.
Then, just as her body’s instincts were on the verge of betraying her by forcing her to open her mouth, Livia’s head was yanked out of the toilet. She sucked in the first of several big, wheezing gulps of air as water dripping from her wet hair pattered on the floor.
Once she’d recovered her breath, one of the gang members—a stunning brunette with large breasts—clamped a hand under Livia’s jaw and squeezed hard, forcing her to look her in the eye. “You will not report this. Your superiors will not care. If you disobey and report what we’ve done, they will do nothing to us. But we’ll hear about it. And we’ll come back for you. Understand?”
Livia Collins coughed. “Y-y-yes.”
The brunette smiled and patted her on the cheek. “Good girl.” She glanced at someone behind Livia. “Now dunk her again.”
Livia just had time to draw in another big breath before she went underwater again.
16.
The relief Kirby Romay felt when the tall blonde in the Nazi getup explained that her detention at the strange prison was a mistake was so huge she wept nonstop for a solid fifteen minutes. The blonde squeezed her shoulders and made reassuring sounds as Kirby allowed the massive amount of tension and fear that had been building up inside her all morning to slowly seep away.
She latched onto the explanation of mistaken identity with the desperation of the survivor of a sinking ship clutching at a flotation device, repeatedly telling herself that it made perfect sense. She didn’t belong in a prison, after all, having never committed any crimes.
Not only was she not a criminal, she was a decent human being all the way around. She donated significant sums to multiple charities every year, served as a community volunteer in various ways, and, because she drove a hybrid car and was a fanatical recycler of pretty much everything, was basically a hardcore eco-warrior.
Also, she was exceptionally pretty. Being exceptionally pretty, people had been giving her everything her heart desired her entire life. Money, jewelry, clothes, nice cars, nicer houses, etc. You name it. All she’d ever had to do was voice the desire for something and—poof!—like magic, it was hers.
With people constantly serving up everything she could ever want on a silver platter, there’d never been any reason to break the law or steal from others. Nor was she a thrill-seeker inclined to do such things for the hell of it.
So of course she believed what Helga told her. These cases of mistaken identity happened. She’d heard about such things on the news, she was sure of it. Or whatever, maybe she hadn’t, but it definitely seemed like something that could possibly, theoretically happen.
And she’d been treated so nicely since the mistake was discovered, with Helga apologizing profusely multiple times. Once her crying fit passed, she’d even been served coffee and donuts and was allowed to change back into civilian clothes. The woman had also hinted at a possible modest monetary settlement for her troubles. Being rich, the prospect of money didn’t much excite Kirby, but it was the thought that mattered. It was further evidence of genuine remorse on the part of her captors.
Still…there were some lingering things bothering Kirby as she sat alone in the warden’s of
fice, awaiting what she’d been told would be a final interview before being allowed to leave the prison. For instance, at no point since her arrival at the prison had anyone referred to her by a name other than her own.
In theory, it was possible she had simply been mistaken for someone else named Kirby Romay. However, this seemed unlikely. There weren’t a lot of women named Kirby in the world and logic dictated there were even fewer with the last name Romay. It was possible she’d been the unfortunate victim of a wild, one-in-a-million coincidence. She could wrap her head around that idea, albeit just barely.
What troubled her the most, however, were the various oddities about the prison. It did not seem much like a normal prison at all. Kirby had seen many critically acclaimed crime dramas on TV and had a good general sense of how correctional facilities should actually look.
One thing that did not fit this internal image was the giant Nazi flag adorning the wall behind the warden’s desk. Nor could she simply chalk this up to one history enthusiast’s inappropriate eccentricity. To varying degrees, everyone on staff at the strangely-named Prison 13 sported Nazi regalia.
Strange in the extreme, to say the least.
She was mulling all this over when a door to the left of the desk opened and Helga and another woman she hadn’t met yet entered the office. The other woman, who Kirby assumed was the warden, seated herself behind the desk. Helga took up a position behind Kirby, placing strong hands firmly on her shoulders. She wanted to believe this was another gesture of reassurance, like earlier in the interrogation room, but there was something different about this touch. Something subtly more aggressive.
That’s just paranoia, Kirby told herself. Cut that nonsense out.
The warden smiled, lacing her fingers together as she leaned back in her chair. “Hello, Kirby. I am Ms. Wickman, warden of Prison 13. I understand you came to us by mistake. I apologize for any inconvenience you’ve experienced.”
An image of the homely nurse in the delousing station probing her vagina flitted through Kirby’s mind.
Inconvenience? Yes, you could say I’ve experienced a rather severe level of inconvenience. Jesus.
Kirby, not wanting to get distracted, pushed the memory away. “Yes, well, I’d rather not dwell on that. Also, while appreciated, the offer of a monetary settlement isn’t necessary. The apology is more than enough. I’d just like to be on my way soon.”
Ms. Wickman arched an eyebrow. “Monetary settlement? Hmm. Who suggested such a thing?”
Kirby frowned. “Helga.”
Helga’s fingers dug into her shoulders. “I suggested no such thing.”
Kirby’s frown deepened.
Well, that’s a lie.
A lie, yes, but one she chose to ignore for now.
“Okay, I’m sorry, I must have misunderstood.” She forced a smile. “I’m not feeling my best. I’ve been through a lot today.”
Ms. Wickman nodded slowly. “Do you feel as if you’ve been mistreated?”
Kirby carefully weighed her next words. The situation had taken a worrisome twist. There was an underlying hostility in the way she was being treated now. It wasn’t as overt as before, not nearly, but it was there.
She cleared her throat. “No, ma’am.”
Ms. Wickman sighed. “Kirby, I think you’re lying. I don’t like liars.”
Kirby gave her head an adamant shake. “No, no, no. I’m not lying. I’ve been treated fairly. Look, all I care about is getting out of here. Can I please go home now?”
The warden smiled. “No.”
“What?”
“You heard me.”
Kirby gaped at the woman, unable to speak for several moments as Helga’s fingers dug harder into her shoulders, the grip becoming painful now.
“Allow me to explain,” the warden said, still smiling. “There was no case of mistaken identity. I’m afraid Helga was just having a little fun with you.”
Moisture welled in Kirby’s eyes. “But…that’s cruel.”
Ms. Wickman laughed. “Oh, yes. I know. It is very, very cruel, indeed. We are cruel women.”
Now Helga laughed, too.
Kirby’s bottom lip quivered as tears began to spill down her face. “B-b-but…I haven’t done anything.”
“Ah, but that is where you are wrong.” The warden held up an index finger, waggling it at her in a scolding way. “You have done something. You just haven’t realized what it was yet. We’ll get to that in a moment. First, would you like to know what Prison 13’s special mission is? What makes it so different from all other prisons in the world?”
Kirby sniffled. “Just tell me what I did.”
Ms. Wickman ignored this request, saying, “Prison 13 is a repository for troublesome and inconvenient women from all around the world. Women who commit vile crimes do wind up here, but women who have violated no legal statutes whatsoever comprise the larger percentage of our inmate population.”
Kirby made an exasperated sound. “That makes no sense. Why would that be?”
Ms. Wickman shrugged. “Many of our inmates are here simply because they have crossed the wrong person. They cheated on their spouses. As young girls, they snubbed some misfit boy who grew up to become a vengeful millionaire. Or they became inconvenient in the lives of their husbands, who wanted them gone to make way for new trophy wives.” She smiled. “Without the mess of an expensive divorce.”
Awareness began to dawn for Kirby. This was still madness. It still made so little sense. She understood what the warden was saying, but what she was describing did not apply to her.
Not anymore.
“Okay, look, I cheated on my husband with exactly one person a little while ago. It was the only time it ever happened. I was eaten up with guilt. I even confessed it to him. We went to counseling. He told me everything would be okay, that he forgave me.” More tears spilled down her face now. “Did he lie?”
“Actually, he didn’t.”
Kirby frowned. “Then who had me sent here?”
“Why, the woman you had your little fling with, of course.”
“What? Lisa?” Kirby shook her head. “She wouldn’t do that.”
Ms. Wickman laughed. “You’re wrong about that, Kirby. You really are very naïve in general. But you’re very pretty. At least no one can take that away from you.”
Kirby became aware of a faint scraping sound from somewhere above her. She glanced up and saw Helga holding a clear glass jar. The liquid inside the jar was a bright shade of neon green. At some point during the conversation with Ms. Wickman, Helga had moved away from Kirby, retrieving the jar from elsewhere in the room. Kirby had been too focused on what the warden was saying to take much note of this, but now she wished she’d been paying better attention.
Helga finished unscrewing the lid from the jar and tossed it aside. Kirby squinted at the liquid inside it, wondering what it was and why Helga was handling the container so delicately.
“What is that?”
Ms. Wickman chuckled. “That, dear, is the means by which you lose the last of your precious delusions.”
Helga tipped the jar forward, splashing the flesh-dissolving acid all over Kirby’s pretty face, which stopped being pretty within seconds as the acid ate into her skin. She fell out of the chair and writhed around on the floor, the flesh coming away from her cheekbones in goopy chunks as she scratched helplessly at her face and wailed in agony.
Helga and Ms. Wickman observed the rapid ruination of Kirby Romay’s beauty with amused expressions. The charade of mistaken identity and its ultimate unveiling was every bit as enjoyable as they’d imagined.
The jar had contained just enough diluted acid to permanently disfigure the woman’s face, but not enough to kill her. The warden did not want Kirby dead. Quite the contrary. She wanted the obtuse idiot to live and experience the remainder of her existence as a hideous, scorned freak.
Ms. Wickman caught sight of the blinking red message light o
n her desk phone. “Have this ugly thing taken to the infirmary,” she said after a moment, glancing at Helga. “I’ll be busy for the next little while. Come see me again at lunchtime.”
Helga nodded. “Anything else, madam?”
“Tell the medical staff to do everything possible to save this thing’s sight. The cow had flesh-dissolving acid splashed in its face, so if they are unable to do this, I understand. But the effort would be much appreciated.”
“I’ll let them know.”
“Good. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have other business to attend to.”
Ms. Wickman retreated to her living quarters and moved quickly through the kitchen and bedroom until she came to a door. Behind the door was a spacious closet. She opened it and stepped inside, approaching a rack of clothes on hangers. These she swept aside, revealing a button on the wall. She pressed the button and a panel opened. Inset in the wall was a large screen.
As the panel opened, the screen was black, but it quickly came to life, displaying a shot of a conference room cloaked in shadow. Several people with faces she could not make out sat around the table. This was the shadow council. They were called that for the obvious reason, as few outside the council were ever allowed to see their faces.
A distorted voice from the room spoke. “Greetings, warden. We trust you are doing well today.”
The voice was disguised by filter. The speaker could be either male or female. It was impossible to tell. Ms. Wickman rarely interacted directly with the council. Usually communications passed through intermediaries. On the rare occasions when this did happen, however, a message was left on her desk phone’s old-fashioned answering machine. The message was always the same, a squeal of static followed by a robotic voice reciting a seemingly random series of numbers.
The numbers didn’t matter. What the message meant was always the same: Call us.
Ms. Wickman nodded. “Yes, thank you. All is well here at Prison 13. And as per your previous communique, we are taking a hands-off approach with the Frauenschaft. As always, however, feel free to share any concerns you may have.”