by James Chalk
My intellect tried unsuccessfully to goad the rest of my doped brain to reach an appropriate level of outrage and anger. Instead, I just thought about how Brenda’s tremendously fit body should have been a clue that she was more than a dancer! Now that I knew she was an ‘agent’ I could see that she had the physique of an elite warrior. I wondered what happened to her gag. I thought about how without it I could hear her very impressive roars. Roars that I would take more seriously were I a fucking scumbag rapist shit who deserved to die.
The cords on the sides of Brenda’s neck stood out like thick ropes, every muscle straining, bulging with defiance. She was a magnificent, primal beast. Bested, but not defeated. Defiant to the end. Her face flushed red as she let out a roar of fury that blended in a satanic harmony with the screech Rat Face made as his seed exploded inside her. Flaccid, Rat Face withdrew from Brenda, dropping her legs as he began to stand up. That was his big mistake.
Brenda’s knees came up to her chest and she lashed out. Her long, powerful legs pumped in rapid succession like two shapely pistons. The first heel caught him in the throat, the ball of her foot slamming his jaw shut. Blood spurted and part of his tongue flew through the air. Like deadly serendipity, his head knocked back just enough to catch the second heel upward into his nose. Bones cracked and perhaps shards were driven up into his brain, or maybe he died from the crushed trachea.
Absurdly, I thought about Aunt Monica and Uncle Hattori arguing about whether you can really kill someone with an upward strike to the nose. Aunt Monica claimed that too much force was required to splinter the bones and drive them into the brain; the skull was just as thick behind the nose. Uncle Hattori disagreed. He said that properly aligning your strike with the axis of the nose and focusing your power to drive through the nose and skull were all that was required. This was my chance to settle the argument! All I had to do was autopsy a rat. I laughed around the gag, unreasonably pleased with my rat joke.
Meanwhile, Brenda fought alone against the two guards. One of them reacted to the explosion of blood that had been the rat’s face. Instinctually, he briefly released Brenda’s arm to reach out. Immediately, he caught himself and tried to grab her arm again. It was too late. Brenda had rolled toward the other guard, her free arm extended up, whipping into his face.
Fingers curved, she clawed her way down the guard’s forehead, seeking a softer target. He realized his peril, releasing her restrained arm and grabbing for the attacking one. It looked like he might regain control, but in the same moment that his fingers curled around her wrist, her fingers reached their goal, savagely gouging into his eyes. The guard screamed a long, ululating cry, his hands covering his blinded face, trying to staunch the blood and ichor flowing from his eye sockets. He stumbled into a corner and collapsed, moaning.
Brenda scrambled to her feet. Her back to the wall, she assumed a fighter’s stance and faced the last standing guard. The smug look of confidence was gone from his face, replaced with an expression of fear. Brenda’s rage was a palpable force as she advanced on the guard. It was a mistake. She should have let him come to her. The guard dropped his head, spread his arms wide, and charged her. His shoulder rammed into her solar plexus as he drove her backwards toward the wall. She tried to stop him, to drop back into a sprawl while encircling his neck with her arms like a guillotine. “Mae Hadaka Jime,” I thought, a classic judo choke. But it required too much strength and time she didn’t have! I knew it would fail as it did when Brenda’s back slammed into the wall, knocking the wind out of her.
Fortunately, Brenda was not the only one stunned. The guard had struck his own head into the wall as well. Both struggled to regain their composure. Brenda slid down the wall to a seated position while the guard staggered backwards, hands on his head. The guard recovered first and charged forward, launching a vicious kick at Brenda. She managed to stub the kick, reducing its power, by throwing herself at his legs. Her body impacted his shins, locking his knees, forcing him to fall backwards. His arms reached back, breaking the fall, but clearing the way for Brenda, who scrambled onto him like a lioness mounting a wildebeest.
She lay on top of him, pelvis to pelvis, her face even with his neck. Long powerful legs wrapped around and under his thighs, pinning him in place. Demonstrating incredible strength and flexibility, she reared her head and upper body up, bending her back into a spring-shaped curve - a spring that she immediately released, snapping her body back down. Her raised forearm crashed with devastating finality into the guard’s neck. Releasing his legs, she slid up into a high mount and started raining elbows and punches down onto his dead face. Tears ran down her face and deep racking sobs filled the air, accompanied by the rhythmic thud of her strikes.
Eventually the sobbing subsided and Brenda arose from the body. Retribution burned red in her eyes as she staggered toward the blinded guard who was still collapsed in the corner. Eyes oozing blood, he never saw as she drew the flechette pistol from his holster and then emptied it into him. The stream of flechettes acted like a buzz saw made from thousands of tiny little knives. It sliced through the guard from crotch to chest, throwing a wide, bloody spray onto the walls of the cell.
Brenda’s head snapped around wildly, panic in her eyes, as she looked for more assailants. There were none. All the men in the room were dead or chained to the wall. No one was entering the room and it was quiet in the corridor.
All the adrenaline from helplessly watching the fight did a lot to clear my mind. Or maybe it was the effect of seeing a naked, bloody amazon, blazing with righteous fury, turn and point her pistol at me! I held very still and tried to look non-threatening, (not a difficult task when naked and shackled to the fucking wall.) We stayed like that for a couple of moments and then, her hands shaking, Brenda dropped the pistol. She looked at me and, in an eerily calm voice, said, “Jonathan Harkon, by the power invested in me by the Intercolonial Police Authority, I hearby appoint you Brevet Deputy Special Agent with all the powers, immunities, and responsibilities thereof.”
Chapter 8
It’s All About The Dog
“The two worst strategic mistakes to make are acting prematurely and letting an opportunity slip; to avoid this, the warrior treats each situation as if it were unique and never resorts to formulae, recipes or other people’s opinions.” - Paulo Coelho
“Sometimes the questions are complicated and the answers are simple.” - Dr. Seuss
“Don’t leave inferences to be drawn when evidence can be presented.” - Richard Wright
“Violence isn’t always evil. What’s evil is the infatuation with violence.” - Jim Morrison
*******
Just as Brenda released my last restraint, a team of guards rushed into the cell. They should have come in blasting!
My hand, along with the rest of my body, had fully healed and I was bursting with pent-up anger. I launched across the room and slammed my elbow into the first guard’s throat. My momentum knocked him backwards into the doorway and the arms of a second guard. I stepped into the two of them, shoving the first’s shoulder, while sweeping the second’s leg with my own. They went down in a tangled mass.
Finding myself in the corridor, I looked left and right. There were a pair of guards on each side of me. All four had drawn their pistols, but they hesitated due to the risk of hitting each other or their comrades on the floor.
“Thwap-thwap, thwap,” a flechette pistol sounded. Expecting to die, I was pleased when, instead, a guard’s head and chest turned bloody. I knew Brenda had to be exhausted and in shock, but I sure couldn’t tell from her actions. She had acquired another flechette pistol and, using the doorframe for cover, was calmly targeting guards. Each received a double flechette burst to the chest, followed by a single to the head. No misses and no mercy. Uncle Friedrich would like Brenda!
She looked at me and said, “Grab their weapons and some clothes. Hurry up!” Then she started to strip one of the dead guards and I did the same with another. Dressed and loaded with their
stun rods and flechette pistols, we headed down the corridor.
“Wait,” I said, “do you know where we are? The way out?”
“We’re not leaving,” she said. “We have to get the bishop’s dog.”
“What the fuck? The little yapping dog?” I asked. She was already pushing through the double doors at the end of the hall. I followed along, accelerating hard when I heard the sound of flechette rounds.
I went through the doors fast and low with my pistol raised and ready. But the job was already done. Brenda was halfway down another corridor. As I rushed to catch up, I passed three more guards lying in bloody heaps along the way. Again, she reached the end of the corridor ahead of me, but, this time, before I could exit she came back and plastered herself to the wall. I dove to the floor just in time to avoid the concussive blast that blew a huge hole through one of the doors.
I rolled to the side of the hall just as the doors flew open. A brown robed man firing a shotgun stepped into the corridor. The floor where I had been laying a moment ago exploded and flying chips of stone peppered my side. The man turned towards me, lining up his next shot, when his head vaporized in a stream of flechettes. Brenda ran her pistol dry making sure his brain never got the word out, to pull the trigger. Yay, Brenda!
I got up, tossed her my flechette pistol, grabbed the shotgun, and slung it around my neck and shoulder. I could stop to piss in my pants some other time. Brenda and I had important shit to do. Apparently, we had to save a little, yapping dog!
Once again, before I could ask any questions, Brenda was on the move. She peeked her head through the hole in the doors before motioning me towards one of the cells. It was unlocked, so we quickly slipped inside. There, we found a short, fat man dressed in cowboy boots and a black jock-strap. He was otherwise nude, save for a large, gold cross hanging from a thick chain around his neck. The cross lay almost horizontally on his huge, overhanging belly. One of Brenda’s clones was bent over a low bar on her hands and knees. Her chafed and bleeding wrists and ankles were shackled to the floor. Her back looked red and raw, scored from dozens of whip marks. Clearly too exhausted to respond more strongly, she whimpered softy. “Giddy-up!” the man yelled as he shoved his whip inside her. The man was so caught up in his sick fantasy that he didn’t notice us enter the cell.
The real Brenda froze, a look of horror on her face. She seemed momentarily overloaded by the bizarre scene. I can only imagine how she felt. I can’t even begin to describe the feelings I was experiencing. I guess rage and revulsion will have to do. Throw in a little retribution, and you have my mind set as I stepped up and snapped the fucking religioprick’s neck. His slack, dead body slid down my torso, knocking me to the ground beneath him. I rolled his sweaty corpse off me, thinking that he felt like a giant maggot. Brenda stepped closer and began savagely kicking the maggot, silent tears running from her eyes. I left her to it, while I freed her clone.
She was too hurt and exhausted to hold herself up, but not so far gone that she didn’t follow her ‘programming,’ or whatever the fuck they had done to her! When I put my arm around her, she immediately started rubbing my crotch. Thankfully, the real Brenda came to my rescue. Clone Brenda threw her arms around real Brenda and began to sob. The real Brenda held her tightly, tears streaming down her own face. I stepped clear of the two women, facing the door with my shotgun.
I heard the sounding of three chimes, and then a deep baritone voice saying, “Attention, attention. There has been an unfortunate incident. At this time, we must request that all patrons evacuate the lounge. We do apologize for your inconvenience and promise a full refund. Please leave your meat doll restrained in its room and remove any personal items. Praise Jesus, and have a blessed day.” There was a brief pause, and then the three chimes sounded again, and the announcement repeated, and kept repeating.
Turning towards Brenda, I asked, “What now? Shouldn’t we take this opportunity to escape?”
Arms still wrapped around her clone, she replied, “I’m sorry Jon. I’m really sorry I got you into this. But, you’re here now, and I need your help! I have to get to that dog. Everything I …”
She was interrupted when the cell’s hidden access door suddenly hissed open. In walked a man in yet another brown monk’s robe. He was also wearing a beaded necklace with a golden crucifix. His eyes darted about the room, first to the two women, then down to the dead maggot on the floor, and then to me. His eyes grew wide, fixed on the barrel of the shotgun I had aimed at his face. His hands shot up, and he whispered, “Don’t shoot, don’t shoot! Oh, sweet Jesus, please don’t shoot.”
“Why not?” I whispered back while I crossed to a spot where I could cover him and the doors, without shooting the Brendas. His head swiveled, tracking me, eyes never leaving the shotgun barrel.
“Bless you, please, I’m just a doll-tender! Don’t hurt me! Don’t know what’s going on here, an don’t care. Didn’t see nothin! ‘Taint none of my concern. I could just take my dolls and leave you alone to yer business with Pastor Pitcher.”
An idea was beginning to tug at the back of my mind. “Why do you want the women?” I asked.
“Praise Jesus, them’s not women!” he said, “Them two’s meat dolls. All dolls go to the incinerator. Cain’t you hear? There’s an eevac!”
To say that his reply was deeply disturbing would be inadequate. I was shocked, but Brenda just looked resigned, like she had expected it. They were going to kill all the clones to cover their slimy fucking asses! I reversed the shotgun and rammed the buttstock into his temple. He crumpled to the floor. I rolled him over and removed his robe, donning it to cover my stolen weapons and bloody security uniform.
Looking over at Brenda, I saw that she was already stripping. I didn’t stare. Really! I totally ignored how the striated muscles across her chest set off the deep cleft of her hanging breasts. I didn’t fixate on the way her abdominal muscles rippled, a ladder for my eyes, leading down to her soft, dark patch of pubic hair. I certainly didn’t let my thoughts linger beneath that patch. I didn’t think about burying my nose in that hair, seeking her musky, woman’s scent, or about what she might taste like. Thoughts like that would have been wholly inappropriate. So, of course, I didn’t have them! Besides, why would the real Brenda’s stripping affect me like that, when her naked clone was already standing in front of me? Ridiculous!
Hiding her pistol and my shotgun under the robe, I took each Brenda by an arm, and the three of us stepped thru the access door. The corridor was filled with men in brown robes escorting naked women towards the doors at one end. Real Brenda began to walk towards the other end. I pulled on her arm and indicated the other direction with my head. She shook her head and pulled back, but I wouldn’t move. We were at an impasse. At any moment, someone was going to notice our odd behavior and all hell was going to break loose.
Real Brenda seemed to realize that she was acting out of character for a “meat doll,” so she stopped pulling away and moved closer. Pressing her pelvis against my thigh, and with my upper arm pinned between her breasts, she reached her mouth up to my ear. Her hand started to rub my penis through the robe and I swelled in response. Her breath came hot in my ear, “We have to get the dog. There’s no time to help the girls. I’m sorry.”
The blood rushed back to my brain, flushing my face red with anger. “I am not going to let these women die so that you can save that dog!” I blurted out in a horse whisper.
“You don’t understand,” she breathed into my ear, pretending to massage my now flaccid penis. “The dog has the evidence: all the data on the accelerated cloning process, on how they are turning these babies into adult-sized, sado-sex toys. Everything I need to shut them down for good.”
The Brenda clone, I guess taking her clue from the real Brenda, pressed herself against my other side. Rapping her legs around my thigh, she started to rub herself against me and moan. This drew the attention of one of the “doll-tenders.” An older man with receding hair, he snapped at me, “Hey you,
stop playing with the meat! You know the policy! Get moving. Get them over to incineration now. Jesus Christ almighty, this is an evacuation. Saints preserve us from the passions of youth!” With that said, he ushered the three of us and the Angel clone he was tending down the hall towards the incinerator. We had no choice but to go along or be exposed. That was fine with me because I needed to get that incinerator shut down quick. Women were dying! I didn’t care about the damn evidence.
We turned the corner of the corridor and found about thirty doll-tenders, each escorting one or more naked clones. There were at least a half-dozen Brendas and Angels, as well as many other dancers I knew. I even saw several Carlas. They were waiting along the left wall in a line leading to a pair of doors marked “incinerator.” A doll-tender was exiting alone from the right side, while another guided his charge through the door. I knew that, in a moment, he would be returning without her. I was filled with horror at the fate that awaited her - that awaited them all! Brenda leaned into me and whispered, “Jon, there is nothing we can do here! We have to slip away, get the dog, stop them from making more.” She squeezed my arm hard and, with savage intensity, said, “Live to fight another day, Jon!”
My mind rebelled. There had to be something I could do! I could not leave these women to their slaughter. I saw no security forces. It was just the fucking doll-tenders. I wondered what the chances were that any of them were armed? Security wouldn’t want them running around with weapons. But, on Sanctity, with their obsession about “The Right To Bear Arms,” I figured about half were carrying something anyway. Shit! I knew what I could do, what I had to do, but I didn’t like it.
I stood on the line, paralyzed with indecision, while another lone man exited the incinerator room, and another woman was lead in to her gruesome fate. Aunt Monica’s voice filled my head, a memory from an old debate, “Killing him doesn’t make you a bad guy, Jonny. The bad guy is a bad guy! He would kill you. Fuck that shit, kill him first! If you don’t, the fucker will just keep coming back. That shit’s for sensodramas, Jonny. Good guys who won’t kill get dead!”