by Unknown
Miriam entered the room at the end of the landing, adjacent to the bathroom. She looked at her new surroundings, running her fingers over the oak dresser that sat near the bed she would be using. She smoothed down the bedding before sitting on it. She was too tired to get unchanged, and laid her head on one of the hollow fibre pillows that lay across the top of the bed.
‘Ahh! That’s the ticket.’ she said, a little smile playing on her face. She closed her eyes and forgot all her troubles for the day, falling almost instantaneously into a deep sleep.
#
John Cutter looked down at his watch. The Independent Mind operatives were late. The fact that he was being made to wait angered him to no end. But no sooner had he looked down at his watch, the Mind operatives turned up in front him. They were brandishing the only weapons they had about them.
‘What did I tell you, Miriam? No bloody weapons!’ he screamed. ‘We are going to the bloody armoury. You’ve got all the weapons you could ever possibly want in that place.
‘Plus, we need to look inconspicuous. We don’t want to give them an excuse to activate the booby traps, do we?’
She looked puzzled. ‘But why would that happen, you have a code to get us in, don’t you? And we’re keeping the weapons—we may need them.’
John gave her a sideways look of contempt.
‘Of course, you are right.’ he snarled. ‘Let’s move out.’
The Independent Mind, apart from a handful that were left back at the house, followed John towards the entrance of the armoury. They were ready to do the job that had been asked of them—the destruction of their target!
On arrival, he took hold of Miriam’s hand and placed the code in it.
‘Put this in at the gate—nobody will ask any questions as long as you have a code. Now, go—and good luck.’ He gave her a gentle nudge.
She flashed an uneasy smile his way, knowing that anything could happen.
John stalked away from the scene and headed towards the dwelling, thoughts of failure also running through his mind.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Oscar was awoken from his blissful slumber by the sound of footsteps on the landing. He sat bolt upright, clasping hold of the eiderdown. He looked towards the door to see a shadow forming outside. The handle began to turn slowly and his eyes widened. But he had no need to be fearful; a familiar face appeared through the door.
‘Come on, Oscar—get your little arse out of bed.’ Max grunted. ‘The boss wants to meet you.’
Max didn’t like the idea of having to stay behind to babysit a 7-year-old while the others went on such an important mission. He had also been charged with handling the remaining operatives; although unhappy, he had drawn the short straw and had to live with it.
‘Come on—I haven’t got all bloody day…move it.” he was frustrated by Oscar’s lack of cooperation. He was almost about to physically drag the boy out of bed, when he launched himself out of the covers. Maybe he had noticed the scowl on Max’s face, and thought better of winding him up.
Max made his way back down the dining room to ingratiate himself with John Cutter, the founding father of The Independent Mind. For John, every day was a dangerous one, for he had to face the very people he and his cell were trying to undermine. So far, he had been successful with his deception.
‘Where’s this boy you told me about? I don’t like waiting.’ he snapped. He stood with his arms folded across his chest, tapping his fingers on his forearms impatiently.
Oscar was hiding behind the door of the dining room. He was too scared to go any further after hearing the gruff tone coming from the rugged-looking man, who had a thick head of raven hair and five o’clock shadow. Somehow, the suit he was wearing seemed out of place on him, but it was part of being a member of parliament. It was especially necessary for John Cutter, a high-powered official with sway over the military and knowledge of every move played out in the war so far.
‘I can see your shadow, boy.’ he barked in his gruff manner. ‘Come out where I can see you.’
He didn’t move. He was too scared. He shrunk back into himself, trying to become invisible. John turned his attention to Max.
‘Bring the boy to me.’ he ordered. ‘Quickly!’
Max bolted towards Oscar with a sense of urgency. He too, was a little scared of John Cutter by his reputation alone. He had no intention of disobeying a direct order.
He grabbed Oscar by the arm and pulled him out of the shadows, leading him straight to the gruff, unpleasant man who had summoned him.
‘Stop pulling.’ he sneered, as he pulled Oscar closer. He remained rigid and impatient. Max stopped with just a short distance between John and himself, before shoving Oscar forward.
‘Don’t be scared, boy.’ he grunted. ‘Come closer.’
Oscar did as he was told, not wishing to piss the big guy off even further than he already had. What he faced was a man of great stature. He stared at the man’s vast size intently.
‘Don’t stare at me, boy.’ he howled. ‘What is your name?’
Oscar began to snivel, overwhelmed yet again by his abruptness.
‘What is this?’ he roared. ‘Don’t you dare cry!’
Oscar became consumed with fear, his snivel turning hysterical. The flow of his tears became uncontrollable.
‘Stop that ungodly racket, boy.’
He stood motionless in front of Cutter, trembling at the sheer size and menacing demeanour stood before him.
‘Please, answer my question—what is your name?’
‘Oscar.’ he replied sheepishly, in a faint whisper.
‘Speak up, lad, I didn’t hear you.’ he snapped.
‘Oscar!’ the seven-year-old screamed. ‘My name is Oscar!’
John Cutter immediately took a liking to this boy who stood in front of him. There weren’t many people who spoke to him in such a way: in fact, no one ever had, for fear of what might happen to them if they did.
He had built a fearsome reputation on hearsay alone. Others had started rumours of what he did to people who crossed him. None of it was true, but he played on it. He found it highly amusing, watching people cowering in front of him. Of course, Oscar had heard nothing of his reputation—he was just scared of everyone at the moment. It had been an emotionally exhausting week for the youngster. First the loss of his parents—and then Sam, who had tricked Oscar into liking him for the sake of furthering his own desire to becoming a patrolman. He had planned to throw him in harm’s way, feed him to the wolves; to send him to the slaughter like a spring lamb. He was far too young to understand the gravity of the situation that he found himself in. He needed for someone to explain what was happening, what was going on, why had he been taken?
‘You look frightened—are you?’ John questioned.
Oscar remained stock still, and continued to tremble in front of him.
‘You have no need to be scared of me, boy.’ he reassured him. ‘I’m a pussycat.’
He couldn’t help but snigger, trying not to laugh out loud. His trembling subsided.
‘Do you find that funny, boy?’
He shook his head vigorously.
‘No.’ he said abruptly.
‘Well! I am a pussycat.’ even John found his statement funny, to the point of being ridiculous.
Even Max saw the funny side—and he never laughed at anything.
Oscar felt a sense of relief as John continued to make light of the situation. He was no longer scared of the man.
When he was away from the pomposity of the Parliament buildings, he left his title of ‘sir’ at the office. He didn’t feel the need to share his knighthood with any of his cohorts. They had no need to know his business, other than the job at hand—the mission that was going down as John and Oscar were making each other’s acquaintance, with Max as an unwilling bystander.
‘You’ll be safe from now on, Oscar.’ he said softly, finally using his given name instead of ‘boy.’
And for once, Oscar was reas
sured. He somehow knew that he would be safe under the man who hadn’t even told him his name.
CHAPTER NINE
Miriam pointed directly towards the main armoury. They had gotten through all the barriers and made it to the gate successfully. As John had promised, they were not questioned; they had the code to deactivate the booby traps that laced the path between the checkpoint and their final destination, after the gate technician let them through. Dressed as maintenance technicians in their nondescript cover-alls and peaked caps, they faced no obstacles to prevent them from getting close to the main armoury—there wasn’t even the whiff of a guard.
‘Just a few hundred yards to go, boys!’ she chimed, as they headed quickly towards the place they were about to destroy.
‘Hang back, lads!’ She lifted her left hand in a fist as a signal to halt. She had spotted the figure of a weapon-wielding man close to the entrance.
‘What are we going to do?’ one of the Mind operatives asked apprehensively.
She placed her index finger upon her lips to give the impression that she was deep in thought. In reality, she did not know what to do.
‘I think we might have to abort the mission. There’s nothing we can do.’ she replied.
This decision did not sit well with the rest of the Mind operatives. They had geared up to take down the armoury, and that was what they intended to do. They surged forward.
‘Hey! I didn’t give any orders to move out.’ she seethed through gritted teeth.
Still, they kept going—their actions were dangerous. She chose not to follow. She stepped away and out of sight to watch as events unfolded right before her eyes. The gun-wielding man became four, and then the four became twelve; they had been alerted of unauthorised personnel heading towards the main armoury by the gate technician, who had been John’s liaison and part of the plan from the beginning. Why had he decided to turn against the Mind, and against John? Only he himself knew.
#
All Miriam could hear were angry voices telling her operatives to halt, or be killed. Her heart felt like it was beating out of her chest and a sudden surge of adrenalin hit her all at once. Without thinking, she ran towards the armoury guards, firing at them with her hand gun—missing with every shot until she was left with nothing but empty shells. The guards didn’t fire back; they wanted some fun with their captives before calling on the patrolmen to take them to the labour camps.
She dropped the emptied hand gun and walked over to the guards, with no intention of resisting their advances. Each of the other operatives followed her lead and dropped their weapons.
‘All of you, lay on your fronts and put your hands behind your backs.’ said one of the guards in a stern manner.
The Mind operatives complied without resisting. One by one, the guards secured their wrists and left them laying on their bellies, guns trained at their heads. A sense of foreboding hit Miriam, as she laid face first in the dirt. Why didn’t I go back and alert the others? How could I have been so stupid? No one can help us now! These were the thoughts that her mind had latched on to, and they were eating away at her very soul as she laid waiting.
#
An hour had passed, and nobody had been moved. A sudden downpour had made the Mind operatives’ capture even more uncomfortable, as the dirt beneath them became soft, and puddles had formed in the dips where their faces had been pushed into the ground—and their clothes, drenched! Each one tried to shuffle around to avoid the puddles, but was forcefully moved back. One of the guards took hold of an operative’s head, and shoved it into the water-filled dip that his face had made. The man placed his foot on his head, and watched as he fought for breath. The others watched on in horror, awaiting the outcome. He was spared from drowning by a matter of seconds, as the guard took his foot away and pulled the operative’s head out of the muddy puddle by his hair.
‘Move again, and I will finish you off.’ the guard shouted in his weakened victim’s ear.
The only reply he received from the hapless operative was a muffled groan.
#
Hours after the incident occurred, three black transit vans pulled up just shy of the prisoners. They were shivering with cold and still soaked through to the bone. They would fare no better once they entered the dangerous, life-threatening world of the camps. Each member of the Mind had been made to suffer in the miserable cold and was barely conscious. The pain began to set in, but that was the least of their worries.
Camp four had been prescribed as a suitable punishment for the deviants lying on the ground. This had been decided by the head patrolman on the journey over; he considered it fitting for a band of warriors who had been intent on destroying everything the current regime had built. As soon as the lead patrolman stepped down from one of the vans, he instantly recognised Miriam’s face. He had once worked under her when she was a minister within the walls of the Parliament buildings.
The lead patrolman beckoned two of his subordinates over.
‘Pick this one up.’ he ordered, pointing down at her.
They were none too gentle in their task, and she groaned deeply as they pulled her to her feet. Her head hung forlornly as she waited for their next move, but there was no next move. The lead Patrolman walked up to her, took her cap off, and lifted her head from beneath her chin with his free hand.
‘Miriam Scarsberg, what a surprise.’ An evil sneer played upon his face as he recalled how unpleasant it was working under her all those years ago.
‘James Prescott, I can’t say I’m surprised that you went the route of a patrolman!’ was her cynical, yet weak return.
‘Take her!’ he bellowed as he pushed her head violently away.
‘Rot in hell, Prescott.’ she retorted.
Her comment was met with a strong right hook that had her seeing stars.
‘No more talking, bitch—or I’ll gag you.’ he spat.
Her limp but conscious body was dragged over to one of the vans and dropped face down again.
Prisoners were dragged one after the other, some kicking and screaming towards the vans.
‘Load them up.’ Prescott screamed. ‘Time’s–a–wasting.’
#
Miriam stared at the patrolman sat opposite her in the back of the van. He was playing with his rifle and had a strange little smile on his face, making her wonder what he was thinking about. She was not the only one watching him; the two operatives on either side of her looked like they were wondering the same thing.
Every now and then, she would flex her jaw to rid herself of the painful sensation left behind by Prescott’s wicked right hand. A bruise of the deepest purple had formed around the bottom of her left cheek. This once-eloquent lady had now been reduced to labour camp fodder—beaten and bound, and heading for a certain and quick death. This was to be her punishment for her role in what the government saw as a treasonous plot. Sadness hit her as she thought about her fortieth birthday, and the fact that she might not live to see it; even if she did, it would be the last and worst birthday she would ever have. Maybe they would keep her alive long enough for a special Labour camp treat—a full card of torturous delights before her execution. All of the captives in the transports were to be executed within a week of their arrivals to camp four. The sentence was handed down to them as they made the journey to their hell on earth.
‘What are you staring at, woman?’ the patrolman opposite barked in frustration, seeing her looking his way. ‘Eyes down, or I’ll knock you out.’
Her eyes widened and she looked towards the van’s harsh metal flooring. Her colleagues followed suit as not to incur the patrolman’s wrath. That is how they would stay until the journey’s end.
‘Not a peep out of any of you, do you understand?’ was the patrolman’s final demand.
#
Labour camp four loomed in the distance, and Miriam could feel every bump in the road as they headed down an off-road dirt track. She dared to look up again and felt the effects of having her head down for
such a long time; an agonising stiffness had attached itself to her neck. She couldn’t shake the achiness.
‘Eyes down, you insolent bitch.’ the patrolman spat. ‘I don’t want to have to make good on my threat.’
She winced as she painfully forced her head back down again.
‘Anyway, we haven’t got far to go now—you think you’re in pain now? You wait ‘til you see what they have in store for you here.’ The patrolman sniggered, pleased with himself for imparting that small amount of knowledge to the unfortunate people opposite him.
#
The three vans screeched to a halt one behind the other, narrowly missing the lead vehicle’s bumper. Miriam and her cohorts were thrown violently towards the front of the van. Trying to keep their balance and remaining seated at the same time was difficult, considering they didn’t have use of their hands. She shoulder-butted a steel railing at the front of the van, screaming out in pain as her shoulder crunched into it. The patrolman laughed at her discomfort and did nothing to alleviate it, just watching as she writhed in agony. The situation was made worse by her cohorts ramming into her and damaging her shoulder further, causing a loose piece of metal to cut through her maintenance overalls and into her flesh. Quickly, the other two prisoners relieved their weight from her. This did not help the pain, as she now had to pull her right shoulder out of the protruding piece of metal.
‘Please, help me.’ she screamed, struggling to release herself.
All the patrolman did was revel in her misery, laughing maniacally at her misfortune.
She grew visibly angry at her captor’s lack of compassion and began growling in frustration, pulling with all her might to free herself.
The lead patrolman opened the cockpit hatch upon hearing the commotion coming from the back of the van. He looked upon his former boss with a sense of satisfaction, having little sympathy for her predicament; at the same time, he didn’t want her to bleed out before they reached the camp.