by Lori Whitwam
Mason gave an ugly laugh. “Yeah, she’ll do. She’ll do plenty. Untie her and settle her in, and I’ll send Freddie up with her clothes later on. Got your keys?”
Greasy nodded, briefly tearing his attention away from my chest. “Sure do.”
Mason shot him a sharp look. “Hands off, Cal—for now.” He left with a final visual grope before closing the door.
I looked around. The room took “no-frills” to a whole new low. There was a bed with a pillow and blanket, and a table with two plain wooden chairs. That was it. The dimness suggested no electricity, and I wondered if that was from the fire I’d seen evidence of outside, or if power had gone out in this part of town already. There was no dresser, and nothing on the walls. The carpet was faded and worn.
Hands released from my bonds, I asked to use the bathroom. I found no shower curtain, and no lid on the toilet tank. A metal grate had been sealed to the top with some sort of epoxy, which I deduced was to deny any access to the metallic bits inside.
“Turn around,” I said.
“Bashful, baby?” He wheezed out a laugh at his own wit. “Nothing to be shy about. I’ll see all I want of you before long.”
I shuddered. Don’t show him how scared you are. “Then it won’t make any difference if you give me a few seconds of privacy right now.”
He scowled, but turned long enough for me to take care of things.
“Don’t flush,” he said, turning back around. “Building was vacant when we moved in. Water’s shut off. Someone will come and fill the tank once a day, so you might wanna time your business for when the bucket’s coming.”
I figured a full toilet was the least of my worries.
He continued his orientation lecture. “We have guards on every floor and all around the outside, so don’t get any ideas. No trying to communicate with anybody in the other rooms. Keep the room clean, and don’t break nothing. Whenever somebody comes to the door, go sit at the table till they tell you different.”
He went on like that for a few minutes, but I’d stopped processing his words. Prisoner—got it. Standard prisoner rules apply.
When my jailer departed with the sharp snap of a lock, I curled in a ball on the bed as tears squeezed past my tightly-clenched eyelids. Matt was dead, for offering what would have been no more than a token resistance to the group of armed thieves. Skip was missing, maybe hurt or dead. Did zombies eat dogs? Since I’d seen my first zombie only hours ago, I didn’t know much about their habits and behaviors, except they’d eat me if they got a chance. Maybe a gunshot was the cleanest death any of us could wish for now.
It must have been a couple of hours later when I heard the lock rattling. I went and sat in a chair, as Greasy—or rather, Cal—had dictated. A tall, gangly guy of maybe eighteen entered. Freddie, I presumed. He set a tray on the table and tossed a small cloth bundle at me. I shook it out to see a light green t-shirt style dress.
“Go put that on,” he said. “Take everything else off and give it to me, except your socks. You can keep those.”
I stared at him for a second, unable to comprehend, before moving to do as he said. When I came out of the bathroom wearing the dress over my own bra and panties, he looked at me and shook his head.
“That’s not what I said. Everything but the socks.” He pointed back to the bathroom.
“You’ve got to be kidding. What, do you think I’m going to hang myself with my bra?” Actually, that idea didn’t sound as outrageous as it would have a few days—or even a few hours—ago.
“Hey, I don’t make the rules,” he said, taking my jeans and folding them on the table. “But if Mason comes in and finds you wearing anything but that dress, it might end up crammed down your throat.”
I went back to the bathroom, clinging to the small miracle that he hadn’t followed me to watch.
When I came out again, I found him setting a very small plastic-framed lantern on the table. He cautioned me to use the battery sparingly, because I’d be forced to “earn” another one. He added my bra and underwear to the pile of my shirt, jeans, and shoes.
Before he left, he said, “Mason will be up soon to get you broke in. But I think I’ll see about getting a turn with you soon as he’s done.”
I cringed. Though it had never been much of a mystery, it finally sank in. I would be…used. Repeatedly, and against my will. Death-by-zombie was starting to sound like a good exit strategy.
“Why?” I asked desperately. “Why force me? Why force any of us?”
He shrugged. “Why not?”
My gorge rose and sparks dotted the edges of my vision. Who was this pathetic punk to threaten me, to think of putting his hands on me? Such casual brutality was infuriating, and I lashed out. “What’s the matter, Freddie? Can’t find a willing woman? I mean, I know it’s the end of the world, but I’d think there’d still be one or two of them out there.”
Wrong strategy. Freddie’s brow lowered, and he drew back a fist. His whole demeanor shifted, the skinny, pimply kid replaced by a cold, calculating brute. Hadn’t I learned anything from Mason? I couldn’t judge people by any previously normal standard. Not anymore, and likely never again.
After a few seconds in which I fully expected to be beaten to a pulp, Freddie took a deep breath and lowered his fist, replacing his malevolent countenance with the bland mask of a low-level toady. “You’re lucky Mason said not to touch you yet,” he said. “But don’t think for one minute I’m not gonna touch you plenty later. And now I won’t be nice about it, either, you uppity bitch.”
I’d hoped if I didn’t act like prey, he wouldn’t act as a predator, but I was wrong. I made things worse. He pointed at the table and commanded me to eat, then stormed out and locked me in again.
Though I wasn’t hungry, I ate the cold soup and sliced white bread on the tray, and drank the bottle of water. My spoon was plastic and inadequate for the slippery noodles. As I ate, I pondered my desperate situation. By the time I finished, I was sickeningly aware of what my immediate future held, and I began searching the room for any means of defense or escape.
I knew it was hopeless. I was a bookworm, not an action movie heroine. Climbing through ceiling vents or scaling walls was completely beyond me. The hotel seemed well-fortified, with plenty of armed guards. And even if I got out, un-shot, the streets were crawling with voracious undead abominations.
My window had thick plywood over it, except for about six inches at the top. I guessed they weren’t worried about zombies smashing in second floor windows, but they wanted to keep their captives in, without eliminating the only natural source of light. The sunlight faded, and I turned on my lantern, unwilling to subject myself to darkness. A short time later, I heard the lock, and Mason entered the room.
I backed away, putting the bed between us and completely forgetting the sit-in-the-chair rule. “What’s the matter, princess?” Mason drawled. “Not happy to see me?” He pushed his sandy hair back on his forehead, and I noticed his gray sweatshirt had splatters and smears of what could only be blood.
I tried to think of any argument that could stop what was going to happen, knowing it was futile. “Look, Mason, you don’t want to keep me here.”
“I think I do.” He walked over, took the tray, and put it out in the hall. He said something to someone out there, and the door closed again.
“Well, not like this.” Despite my resolve to sound confident, my voice shook. “I can help, though. I could cook…or clean. Or if you have maps, I could figure out where you can find supplies. I’ve lived here a few years, and I’m good at research.” It was an extremely lame plea, and I knew it.
“We got men who can do that stuff. But a sweet little piece like you, that’s going to be even more valuable than booze before long.” He advanced until my back was against the boarded window. “Let’s see what you’ve been hiding. You’re not so untouchable now.” He used his thigh to hold me there as he unfastened the four buttons which led down from the neckline of my dress. Apparentl
y they didn’t go far enough to suit him, because he ripped it several more inches and pulled the sides apart, exposing me.
I tried to fight, a scream tearing at my throat, but a backhand across the face split my lip and shut me up in an instant. I realized the more I struggled, the more Mason liked it, so I stopped, though this set off an internal battle. Fight or flight was definitely in play, and since flight was not an option, my senses urged me to fight.
In books, the heroine always resists, refusing to surrender her dignity or her innocence. Not that I was completely innocent, but I wasn’t far from it. Did not fighting make this partially my fault? I didn’t think so, but right then I didn’t care—I just wanted the pain to stop.
“All the sass go out of you already, princess?” he taunted. “I thought you’d be a feisty one.”
I refused to rise to his insults, but it didn’t matter. He hit me again anyway.
It turned out Mason loved causing pain. I didn’t dare think about the source of the blood on his shirt and crusted around his fingernails. He really liked blood, and if he didn’t get enough of it using his fists or teeth, he used a butterfly knife. He’d open small wounds in the fleshy parts of arms and thighs, never enough to cause serious injury, but enough to show he could bleed me dry if he wanted—and before long I wished he would.
I’d like to say that first night didn’t break me, but maybe it did. Mason violated me in ways I’d never imagined. He left bruises on my face and thighs, and bite marks on my chest and shoulders, as well as the nicks from the knife.
My mind went somewhere else, viewing images of Matt laughing when he tossed me his keys and told me to make sure to bring his truck back with a full gas tank. Wondering if I should have left Skip in the truck that morning, and what might have happened to him if I had. Trying to equate my memory of Mason the quiet warehouse worker with the monster who had his hand fisted in my hair, forcing me to my knees.
When he finally left, I buttoned my dress despite the rip below the placket, turned off the lantern, wrapped myself in the musty-smelling yellow blanket, and wept.
CHAPTER THREE
The next several days passed in a blur. I was brought food twice a day, usually by an elderly man with thinning gray hair and a bushy beard. He didn’t seem to be one of the gang, or at least he never tried to molest me. I made attempts to get him to talk, but he shook his head and put a finger to his lips, indicating he was not permitted to speak to me.
Each day, some men brought in buckets of water so I could wash and fill the toilet tank. The water was tepid and smelled stagnant. I was given one tiny bar of soap, which I also used to wash my hair. They gave me a second dress, and the first time Mason visited after that, he ripped it the same way he had the first. My socks were filthy, so I soaked them in the sink. I couldn’t get out all the bloodstains.
Mason came to me every day, and he wasn’t the only one. Not even close. The men worked in shifts, and at any time I could be wakened and used. They usually came in pairs, one guarding outside the door while the other was with me. Sometimes it was a group, two or three in the room with me at a time. Nothing, no matter how depraved, was off limits. They told me to do something, and I had no choice. If I didn’t, I’d suffer even more.
I hated them all, but my hatred for Mason burned in my gut. He was the most sadistic of the bunch—truly vicious. He also delighted in taunting me with memories of Matt.
“I used to think about killing him, even before this happened,” he said in the same casual tone he might have used to say he liked to go fishing on Sundays. “I hated that obnoxious little prick.” I tried not to listen. I wondered what had happened to Matt’s body after Mason shot him.
The old man came often with peroxide, antibiotic ointment, and bandages. I always needed them. He never spoke, and the prisoners were forbidden to communicate with each other. The threat of further punishment was enough to prevent me from even trying.
One day near the end of the second week, I got my first real information. Earlier, I’d heard shouts and the sound of feet pounding down the hall, and the rest of the morning was filled with more gunshots than usual. As I’d done on numerous occasions, I climbed up on the table and peered over the plywood covering my window. One of the fences surrounding the hotel had buckled under the combined force of what must have been over a hundred zombies. This was the most I’d seen at once since the outbreak began.
A short time later the old man brought me boiled spaghetti doused in what appeared to be ketchup. After placing the tray on the table, he went back to the door and looked carefully up and down the hallway. Seemingly satisfied, he came back to stand by the table.
“They’re all outside, fighting,” he began. “I have to be careful, though. They keep me around to do the cooking and help take care of you girls, but if I cause them any trouble, they’ll give me to the creatures.”
Tears filled my eyes. I couldn’t speak yet, so I nodded.
“My name’s Carter.” With another glance over his shoulder, he lowered himself into the chair opposite me. “I’m sorrier than I can say about what they’re doing to you girls. I want to help you, but I don’t know how…”
“Ellen,” I choked. “My name is Ellen Hale.”
“Ellen.” He repeated my name with a note of sorrow, as if he wished I hadn’t told him. “I’m sorry. I’d help if I could.” His pale blue eyes reddened at the rims, surprising me. After all he’d seen, he could still cry for us? I supposed he was only a different sort of victim.
“Please. Carter. Please talk to me. Tell me about this place. I keep trying to understand it, to make some kind of sense of things, but I can’t.” I dug my plastic fork into the pseudo-spaghetti and forced down a bite.
He thought a moment. “That Mason and some of his buddies figured out early on how things were probably going. They started breaking into places and taking what they wanted, because he knew if he had a good stash of supplies, he’d have a lot of power.”
“I guessed that part. They killed my brother at his store, and took me.” I choked up again at the thought of Matt. And Skip.
“I’m ashamed to say, my grandson’s one of ’em. He was friends with Mason before, and I never trusted him. There was a sneaky feel about him, like he was waiting for something. Like those people the neighbors say were so nice, kept to themselves, then they go into a mall with a gun.”
I thought that was exactly what Mason sounded like—a toxic, violent virus incubating beneath a placid mask, waiting for a time to emerge and take over. Undoubtedly his access to the truck and warehouse, and his willingness to commit violence, cemented him in the position of chief of whatever fucked-up kind of gang this was.
“How many of us are here, Carter? How many women?”
“About two dozen, I think. The rooms they’re not using for barracks are all full.” He looked sick at the thought.
“What else? Are they planning to keep us like this forever?” Again, I probably didn’t want to know, but Carter looked jumpy, and I was afraid he wouldn’t risk staying much longer.
He scratched his beard and seemed to gather his thoughts. “They went out the other day, looking for a big enough generator to get some power going here. They found a building a ways out of town, near a crossroads, and they want to set up another depot there. Maybe move some of the girls.” His unfocused gaze skittered across the room as if ashamed of what he was about to say. “They’re talking about using them for barter. If someone has a stockpile of something, or information they want, they might trade it for time with some of the girls, maybe even sell one outright.”
Fantastic. Another step up the sex slave ladder. Carter suddenly seemed to think he’d said too much. He listened at the window for a few minutes, then took the tray of uneaten food and hurried away, whispering a final apology as he went.
***
The days dragged. I was sure it said something about my damaged mental state that it became harder to horrify me. When a man simply came in, did his
thing, and left, I was grateful. When one occasionally decided it would be amusing to pour whisky down my throat, I was actually relieved. For a little while I didn’t have to think about what they were doing to me. Mason continued to visit regularly, which meant I was never without fresh wounds. He also kept coming up with ways to torment me emotionally.
One night, as he wiped my blood off his chin, he said, “Hey, that little dog you had, I think I might’ve seen him today.”
My heart swelled with hope. For about a second. No way would Mason offer me any sort of kindness, even a shred of belief Skip might be alive. I kept my expression blank. This didn’t stop Mason.
“‘Oh, Mason, where was that,’ you ask?” He looked at me, both eyebrows raised in feigned innocence. “Well, let me tell you all about it, Ellen. I thought I saw him running around out by that chicken farm west of here. We’re thinking of going into livestock.” He buckled his belt, the holster empty at his side. The men always left their weapons elsewhere before entering one of the rooms, so they couldn’t be used against them. I hoped every day Mason would forget. Just once. “But there were a bunch of guys huntin’, so they probably got him.”
I couldn’t help myself. “Got him?”
He smirked. “Some of the groups—not ours, of course—have been huntin’ dogs. They trust people, so they don’t run like game does. Easy to shoot. They’ve been selling them to some camps as meat. Don’t tell them it’s dog, though.”
My stomach clenched, but I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing how sickened I was.
He was almost out the door when he turned back for one final zinger. “By the way, I’ll be back later tonight. I’m bringing you some overnight company. Ain’t that nice? Her room isn’t quite ready yet. The last tenant…left it kind of a mess.”
The door closed, and I grimaced. There was no way this was going to be good.
***
It was late when I heard the wails in the hall. Then the lock rattled and Mason entered, dragging a hysterical girl behind him. Her long, dark hair was stuck to the sides of her face. Her clothing was torn, and she had a purple bruise forming on one cheek.