Her first goal was the Dormitory. It was close, just the third large building away, but the grand scale of the university campus turned a two-minute walk into a half-hour ordeal of careful sneaking, punctuated by two more suppressed shots. She stashed the unconscious men – always men – under the bushes.
The Dormitory was better-lit than other buildings, and garish with colored lights. Red predominated, apropos to its purpose. Except these aren’t Amsterdam prostitutes, carefully protected, regulated and taxed, free to leave at any time. These are sex slaves. She ground her teeth with revulsion and rage.
Eeling her way from bush to bench to dumpster corral, she got as close as she could before being stymied by a wall of concertina wire. Tripled tangled tubular coils circled the Dormitory, likely to keep the women in as well as discourage unauthorized liaisons. She knew from history that immoral license would always cloak itself in regulation, as if having rules and a system legitimized the abuse. The men would have a specific number of visits allowed, perhaps based on rank or status, and would have to sign in and sign out. Discipline among the troops would never be maintained otherwise.
Blasting in via the front door was a recipe for disaster. Her considerable skills depended on stealth and precise application of force, not on Rambo-like grand gestures. As she scanned the three-storey brick building she decided her route in would be up the fire escape to the roof. Once there she would be out of sight and could force a door or access hatch.
There were welded bars over all the windows she could see, and she’d bet dollars to doughnuts they couldn’t be opened from the inside. Her brain started chewing furiously on the problem of escape. No ideas leaped to mind, but it didn’t matter yet. The first thing she had to do was get inside and make contact, gather information.
The building was heavily guarded. One man walked the perimeter on the inside of the wire on each side of the building – or at least, on the two sides she could see. Her best chance to make it across was to aim for a corner and time her entrance for when both guards were facing away from her, but there was still the problem of the tall, man-high tangles of wire.
Drawing a multi-tool from her belt holder, she rearranged it to form wire cutters. Not optimal; real snips would speed up the process immensely. Then she thought some more about how and where she was going to make it through, and how long it was going to take, and discarded the notion.
She racked her brain for techniques. She could try to crawl under the wire on her back, cutting as she went, trusting to the darkness and her camouflage to hide her as the guards came by. This was the way the Viet Cong had done, greasing their bodies up and accepting the inevitable bloody gouges.
Had she been assaulting the building with a team, one or two members could actually throw themselves onto the wire, cramming it down and the rest running across their legs and backs. She had no team, though. But maybe…
She examined the dumpster and the big plastic lids, each of which covered half of the stinking container. The multi-tool proved its usefulness after all as she worked the pins loose from their hinges. Within minutes she had a three-by-five-foot section of tough material which should easily protect her from the wire, while remaining light enough to handle.
After stashing the AT-4 antitank weapon behind the dumpster, she hefted the awkward lid, testing her grip and maneuvering it while still hidden inside the pierced-brick dumpster corral. When she was fairly certain she knew how to handle it, she slung her PW10 and carried it around to the darkness on the side.
She took deep breaths, waiting long minutes in the shadows until the guards were both turned away from the corner and far enough – she hoped. She sprinted the short distance to the wire and, like a body-surfer flopping onto a wave, threw herself forward.
The plastic crushed the tangled wire downward and she let herself skim across it. She gripped the forward edge and somersaulted in a gymnast’s move, vaulting forward over the wire to roll onto the unmowed grass and weeds that surrounded the building. Barbs from the wire dug painfully into the backs of her hands but she was ready for that and she clamped her mouth shut against the pain. As she rolled she dragged the flat shield off the wire with her momentum and let it fall flat on the ground.
She froze in the tall vegetation and waited for any reaction from the guards. They might have heard the noise, or when they came back they might notice the piece of plastic, though there was enough debris and detritus scattered around that she hoped it might blend in, might be ignored as just another piece of junk.
Raising her carefully she saw the nearer guard, the one along the shorter side of the building, returning without apparent haste. He walked past the plastic without seeming to notice it, then turned around at the corner.
As soon as his back was turned she leaped for the fire escape, an old painted steel ladder barely useful for its purpose. Swarming up the rungs, she ignored the urge to watch the guard so close below her and concentrated on climbing silently, but as fast as she could. Fortunately the rumble of the generator covered the noise. Rust and old paint scraped and cut her palms until she reached the top and stepped down onto the roof.
Her right foot came down inside some kind of hole, but her weight was already committed to the step so she just got her other foot down on the roof as quickly as she could and held onto the parapet. But when she tried to move, she found her right leg immobile and her right foot wedged fast. It was inside some kind of exhaust vent pipe, curled back upon itself and impossible to withdraw.
Grumbling quietly, she fought with it for several minutes until she gave up and carefully sliced the boot with her knife. Eventually she was able to draw her foot out and she caught the shredded footgear before it could fall down the shaft. Great, diddle diddle dumpling, Jill. Fishing a roll of ninety-mile-an-hour tape from her lumbar pouch – so called originally because the duct-tape-like material was “soooo high-speed” – she wrapped the damaged boot around her foot and swathed the whole thing in sticky OD-green tape.
Once she was mobile again she searched for a way in. She found a trap door. Locked, but the hinges were on the outside, where she could reach them, made for keeping people inside from coming up, not for keeping people out. Five minutes with her multitool had them off, and she levered the steel cover out of the way, bending the locking mechanism hopelessly out of true. It would be hard to seal again.
The ladder bolted to the wall beneath led into a darkened room, so black that the faint glow of her watch, deliberately freed of its cover for that purpose, showed her its contents. Sanitary and cleaning supplies – mops, buckets, toilet paper, paper towels, rags, bottles of bleach and cleaners – and boxes of women’s hygiene products in abundance. That confirms it. I wonder what they do about pregnancies? Not sure I want to know. Almost any answer seems horrible.
Readying her weapon, she tried the door handle slowly, very slowly. Easing it open a crack, she looked out into the corridor beyond. It was dimly lit, and she watched a ragged-robed woman walk by, her shoulders slumped with despair. Waiting several minutes, the floor remained quiet, with no movement. Of course, this is the third floor. Perhaps “visits” happen on the first floor in special rooms, or perhaps the men check the women out like library books. Well, here goes nothing.
She opened the door wide and looked quickly both ways. With no one in sight she had to just gamble that any slave here would welcome her. Or else a Needleshock round would put her out and convert her to Edenhood. So she went to the closest door, almost across the way, and opened it, stepping in suddenly.
“Who is it?” came a sleepy voice.
“A friend,” Jill replied. She felt her way to the single bed and sat down. “My name is Jill.”
“You don’t sound like Jill. Are you a new one? And why are you in my room?” The woman’s waking voice sounded dull and only slightly curious rather than outraged.
“Yes, I’m new, very new. Please talk with me. What’s your name?” Jill’s finger hovered over the trigger to her weapon.<
br />
“Zyra. What are you wearing?” The woman’s voice rose. “Oh, my God, do you have a gun!”
Jill reached up to put her hand over Zyra’s mouth. “Quiet. I’m from the outside. I’m here to rescue you, but you have to be calm. I need to know how this all works.”
Zyra breathed harshly around Jill’s hand, panicked. “Noooooo –” she whined, getting louder all the time.
Crap. Jill shoved her back, pointed the PW10 at the woman’s thigh and pulled the trigger. The weapon coughed and Zyra jerked hard from the electric shock, to slump back onto her bunk. Dammit, why couldn’t I have lucked onto one with a spine. All right, to be fair, one less beaten down anyway.
She heard a stealthy noise in the corridor and wondered if one of the other women had heard something. There had been no alarm so she didn’t think it was some kind of reaction force. Jill padded over to the door and listened. She heard what might have been a footstep, and a feminine whimper. Great, another lost soul. Have to take control of this one too.
She opened the door and light blazed into her eyes. “Freeze!” came a powerful voice, and several gun barrels shoved forward, covering her from all angles.
She froze.
“Weapon down! Now!”
Cursing herself inwardly for her overconfidence, she lifted her finger off the trigger. Unfortunately her weapon had been pointed off to the side, or she might have risked a full-auto blast into the enclosed hallway. Now even if she had wanted to go down in a blaze of gunfire, she couldn’t – her mission was too important. Grinding her teeth, she unslung and lowered the PW10 to the ground, immediately raising her hands to interlace behind her head.
Armed men poured into the room, pushing her back. They roughly stripped her of her gear and she did not resist. Best to let them underestimate me for now. Until I have a chance.
The men she saw were all rough-looking, fit and competent, though most were pockmarked and scarred. Some were missing teeth and hair or other non-vital pieces such as ears and a few fingers. They all had body armor, weapons, and were dressed more or less uniformly in something resembling black police field uniforms, such as SWAT wore.
“Sir, she shot Zyra,” one reported.
“Take her to the doctor,” an enormous voice rumbled from the corridor. “We can’t let such pretty flesh go to waste, right boys?” The body attached to the voice stepped in and Jill caught her breath. Perfectly proportioned, nearly seven feet tall, showing bodybuilder’s muscles and sporting long cornsilk hair, he looked like a cross between a blonde Rambo and the male lead on the cover of a bodice-ripping romance novel.
The Professor. Has to be.
The man stepped in as two henchmen held Jill’s arms clamped behind her. Again, she refrained from resisting. She did look up boldly at him though. She sorted through possibilities before deciding on a course of action.
He opened his mouth but she deliberately interrupted him. “So you’re the scary Professor, eh? I heard you’re a tough guy. I’d be tough too with a bunch of thugs to rape my women for me.”
Intelligence and cruelty gleamed in his eyes, and amusement, too. He replied, “So you like raping women? Most chicks don’t but I suppose there are always exceptions, and you military bitches are all dykes anyway.” He reached down to grope briefly at her crotch, jerking out of reach at her attempt to bite him. “Temper, temper. I don’t feel anything down there, so you’re out of luck, you stupid bull. We’re the pitchers now, and you’ll be a catcher for my Associates.” He rubbed his jaw. “Still, it was a brave thing to break in here. You lose a girlfriend?”
Playing along with his banter, she replied, “Naw, I just wanted to re-enact ‘Prison Women in Leather Heat’. Or maybe I wanted to join your Associates.”
He snorted, reaching out to fondle her breast. His nails were perfectly manicured, and she realized the man was wearing cologne – and makeup. “I suppose you think they call me ‘The Professor’ because I’m stupid?” He reached up to rub her ear between thumb and forefinger, then squeezed and pulled with all the strength of his huge hand and arm.
Her lobe and half her ear came away with a sickening tear, horrible to hear since it was so close to her auditory nerves. She cried out despite herself, more in surprise and shock than serious pain. She’d been hurt far worse but this deliberate cruelty still rattled her for a moment.
But only a moment.
The huge man’s glittering gaze and flared nostrils showed her that he enjoyed inflicting pain. Still, her plan depended on getting some kind of control of the situation, some kind of freedom to maneuver.
“That the best you got? Scott?” she taunted. “I kind of liked that. I kind of like you too. You got a woman? This door swings both ways, and I don’t mind sleeping my way to the top.” She cocked her hips suggestively, licked her lips. “Come on, big man. Let’s take a ride.”
The warlord’s booming laugh filled the room, and his men cawed along with him, and not just following their leader. Their amusement was genuine. The Professor said in his cultured voice, “Oh, dear me miss, you’re barking up the wrong tree there. I might have responded to some rainbow solidarity, but you just made the wrong ploy and now I know you’ll say anything. So shut up.” His enormous fist lashed out and she felt her nose and cheekbone break, and her left eye went dark.
She’d tried to roll with the blow but, held fast as she was, the smartest thing she could do was fake complete unconsciousness. She almost blacked out anyway as they carried her roughly from Zyra’s room and tossed her into another. She heard the door slam and a lock click shut.
This room held nothing but a bunk, a wall locker and a student desk. She crawled up onto the mattress and lay there on her back, her head swimming and the ceiling spinning. She felt nauseated, concussed, and her vision tightened to a black-spotted tunnel. He’d hit her hard; the man was enormously strong.
She wondered how long it would be before one of the Associates decided to try out their new toy. Holding her hand to her shredded ear, she had no choice but to lie there, pray and wait for healing.
And try to make a plan.
-39-
Major General Zimmer exulted in the feel of the 1500 horsepower turbine engine driving the M1A1 Abrams tank beneath her boots. She kept it under thirty – it was a gas hog even at the best of times – but it could do sixty or better in a sprint. Right now it was the fifth M1A1 – an old tank but still a monster – in the convoy that drove steadily northward along US1 toward the rogues of Fredericksburg.
Where the road was clear they raced along. Where it was clogged with broken vehicles, the lead tank, fitted with a dozer blade, would shove a way through. It was glorious, and her blood sang with the ancient song of the cavalry.
Twenty-one tanks, six Bradleys, a gaggle of other war machines, supply and tanker trucks – and the MRAPs with the Homeland Security troops. It was probably the most powerful armored force within three hundred miles, but Alice didn’t believe in half measures. There was no such thing as overkill in her book. If the task force overawed the enemy into surrender, that saved lives. And if it didn’t, she wanted to smash them flat, fast.
By mid-morning the lead heavy rolled up to the wrecked former golf course and linked up with the survivors of the Civil Affairs Battalion. Zimmer took the opportunity to have a team fly a tactical recon drone over the enemy lines.
It wasn’t long before her caution was validated. The drone video showed seven M1s scattered in hasty defensive positions, facing south, along with a dozen Stryker light armored vehicles. They must have gotten wind of our coming. Probably have at least one spy in Richmond with a radio. We’ll win this, the only question is how much it will cost.
Though she preferred to lead from inside a tank, she had brought along a command track for her tiny staff. Inside its pop-out tent she gathered her officers and those of the broken Civil Affairs battalion. “Lieutenant Colonel Muzik, good to meetcha.” The man looked worn out, but his grip was firm. “This here’s Jimmy-John, he’s go
t Alpha Company. Marty Fiddles here has Bravo. Chuck Gowler has the Bradleys.”
“And I have one Stryker, two Humvees and a couple of golf carts,” Muzik quipped. “And about three hundred support troops. A few of them are MPs, but I can’t call any of them grunts. Oh, and I guess the Homies are mine, though I’m happy to chop them to your command.” He grimaced wearily. “I’m really glad to see you, though, because they still have most of our women, and a few of our men.”
“Yeah, Stone always was a sonuvabitch and once he got power he got to let it all run free. We’ve known we had to clean the nest out eventually.” She turned to Envoy Tyler. “Travis, you said they’d be all discombobulated, but they got seven tanks emplaced, maybe more. Frankly, I don’t want to go nose to nose, we’ll lose people. You got any ideas other than the big stick?”
“Me?” Tyler laughed. “It’s your show, Alice.”
“Ma’am?” Colonel Muzik waved his only hand. “What you see is probably all they have, facing you here, dug in at the battlefield park. If you can flank them to the west, you can roll them up. We have information from their defectors that their center of power is on the campus of Mary Washington College, on Mary’s Heights, and that’s where the women’s slave barracks is.”
“Understood. Fix ‘em, flank ‘em, fight ‘em, finish ‘em. All right gentlemen, I got a plan in mind. We’re going to use all our tools to save your people and teach the shitheads of Fredericksburg just what a huge mistake they made. That means you too, Colonel pretty-boy, with your best people.”
-40-
Jill came to with a start as the cobwebs cleared. Light leaked in the barred windows of her third-floor prison cell. Someone had put a bottle of water, a sandwich, and an apple on the desk. There was a bucket and a roll of toilet paper in the corner. She stared at it, then shook her head and chuckled.
The Reaper Plague Page 19