by A. R. Shaw
And he did…despite the pain it caused him.
For the countless time, he stood in front of a woman—they were mostly women, occasionally a few weak men. They were usually unconscious by the time Hyde was done with them. Many times, they were so unconscious…they ceased to live. Though this time, he could see the bruised, blood-slickened skin on her neck pulsing at predictable intervals. She was alive. Though he was sure she wouldn’t want to be after she knew what would happen with the secrets she’d just revealed.
Very soon, those she’d come from would no longer live with their life-giving resources. Their supplies absconded. Very soon, some of those she came from would die in the effort to hold on to what kept them alive.
She leaned forward, bearing her weight on the wooden horse, also known as the Spanish donkey. He hoped she stayed unconscious as he lifted her from the historic torture device. It was worse when they awakened and thrashed around on the spikes impaling their skin, fighting his efforts to free them. They’d tear loose the tender, damaged flesh of their genitals and tender flesh of their inner thighs. If he could lift them up from the spikes without them moving too much, the damage lessened. That was his goal, the least damage as a result of his own actions.
God, how he hated the animal. It wasn’t Hyde he referred to either. He hated himself for the things he’d done to keep his sister safe. In the process, he himself became a monster too.
Each day his life held less and less meaning but he knew he had to keep going to keep her alive.
“Boyd!”
He turned to Hyde.
“I said get her down. We have work to do. After that, bring in that new girl.”
Not her, Boyd thought. “The older one is injured already. Last I checked she was awake?”
“No…let’s start with the younger one. Bring in the daughter. Let’s start there. Path of least resistance.”
Hyde walked away without another word on his own mission, leaving him alone, standing in front of the latest victim.
Loosening the tight bonds that held her arms behind her back, Boyd let each one down carefully to hang by her side. Her body slackened more then, as the weights bound to her ankles pulled her down onto the spikes even more. Quickly, Boyd released each one before she began to pull to either side of the spiked Spanish horse, though usually they stayed astride from the wedge in the middle.
He held his breath each time he untangled them from the device. Not from the pungent smell of the liquids that formed below but because of the fear and pain that permeated the room like a gas.
After he loosened the waist strap, he looped his left arm down the front of the breast to reach the right inner thigh and with his right arm, he lifted the left carefully to pull their weight up and off of the metal spikes impaling the victim’s flesh. In this way, he mitigated the damage and preferred their unconscious state. At times they were just so worn out but awake, he’d quietly tell them what he was doing, as if he were a doctor. Most of the time if they were awake, they’d fight him and then there was nothing he could do but pull them off forcibly and clean up the mess afterward.
Once he had her weight in his arms, he lifted her right leg over the horse and closed them, pulling her gown down over her thighs. Not so much for privacy but so that he didn’t have to see the damage there. He couldn’t bear it.
Then he pushed her up and over his shoulder. It seemed the easiest way to carry her dead weight back to her own cell.
And he never had to really look at the damage this way. Meaning he never had to admit his own part in the torture. Telling himself over and over again…at least it’s not my sister.
9
Wren
She couldn’t tell if it was morning, noon or night anymore. She’d lost track of time and terror. People screamed. Mostly, the yells in desperation were female but a few of them were men as well. They came and went past her door. The artificial light swept beneath, its beam never ceasing unless someone blocked its cast. So far, no one had tried to open the door. They only managed to terrorize her. That was Wren’s working theory at the moment. They’re just trying to scare the hell of me. I can work with that. If I know what they’re up to mentally, I can deal with it.
Occasionally someone opened a nearby door. Someone screamed. Then there was a scuffle. A loud slamming and what sounded like loud conversations from somewhere not too far away but muffled enough that she couldn’t hear exactly what was said at the same time.
It’s an interrogation room. Has to be, Wren thought. That would make sense. Right?
They’ve captured me to ask questions about our camp and location. To steal our supplies and stuff. What about Mom? They shot her at least once. I don’t even know if she’s alive.
She’s alive. She’s alive. Don’t even go there.
Lost in her own thoughts, Wren didn’t notice the prolonged blocked light under her doorway until she heard her own lock click open. She held her tied hands up to her eyes, shielding them from the flashlight beam meant to blind her. After the flashlight moved away from her eyes, the silhouette of a looming figure stood above. He was a mouth breather by the sound of things. He reached for her left armpit.
Wren pushed her tied feet out to kick him away. When her boots met his shin, she took some satisfaction from the huffing sound he made on impact.
“Don’t try that again,” he said.
Though terrified, she needed to see what kind of trouble she was in beyond the cell. She’d know more, either good or bad, after this little field trip from her closet.
“Be aware of your surroundings,” her mother’s voice said again within her mind. It’s what she would have done. It’s what Wren knew she must also do. No matter the pain or circumstances…learn more. Find a way to fight. Never give up.
Her legs wouldn’t hold her weight as the man suddenly yanked her up to a standing position. Her hands were numb from the bindings. Her feet were like stones that she shuffled one in front of the other as he pulled her too hard toward their destination.
“Hurry up.”
“I can’t feel my legs, dumbass.” She expected an instant whack, but he didn’t bother to retaliate. The greasy smell of him told her he hadn’t showered in the near past but in these times, that was normal.
Assuming they were headed to the ‘muffled room’ she prepared herself for an interrogation. That’s what they did in there, right? Please, please…let that be all that they do in there is ask nonsense questions that I won’t answer.
A bright lantern stood on a table in the middle of a dark room. Her vision was off from a lengthy time in total darkness, but Wren thought the room was darkened for a reason and the bright shadeless lantern placed in the center. It was a purposeful image, meant to distract them from the time of day.
“Move it,” the rough man said.
She glanced at his profile quickly. She already knew he smelled like the ass end of a mule, but what did he look like? Still trying to get her eyes to adjust to the harsh lights and shadows as he dragged her through a large empty room, Wren could tell he was shorter and larger in frame than Kent. Her captor wore hiking boots and dressed in loose-fitting denim jeans that hung down below the limits. His baggy gray t-shirt was stained in blood, so slack at the neckline, she saw his hairless, bare ivory chest.
“Come on. Move.”
He looked at her then, and that’s when Wren saw something in his eyes that gave her a clue. He was afraid too, of whomever he escorted her to. It was as if he was also captive…and performing his imprisoner's orders. There was something wrong here. This was a weak man and Wren knew weak men could be more dangerous than most. They were unpredictable and desperate. Her mother had taught her that. She was headed toward a perceived higher threat now and this desperate man was her deliverer.
Wren began planting her boots down and skidding on the flooring in resistance. She didn’t want to go…not to this dreaded meeting.
“Move!” he yelled.
She twisted in his grasp and b
arely broke free…just barely, before her captor caught a handful of her long, dark hair and pulled her to her knees before him.
10
Kent
Kent latched the door behind him. The pack he carried weighed him down already. That was fine for now. He’d need all the equipment in there soon.
“Mae, you there?” Kent said into the radio.
“Yes. We’re here,” Mae said.
“Good. Remember…anyone can hear your transmission. Never give away that your location is actually in Wisconsin. I’ll return as soon as possible for more cheese. Keep the wild man-eating panthers by your side and tell Cliff, the ninja, I said hi. Stay safe.”
Both girls chuckled at his lame attempts at joking. He found, even in terrible times, a little lame humor went a long way, too.
“We will,” she said and then after a second of time dragging she added in a strained voice, “Kent, bring Mom and Wren home, please.”
Her cracked voice tore through his gut. He knew saying those words pained her tender soul. He raised the mic to his mouth about to speak and pull it away. Shaking his head, he cleared his throat and tried again.
“I will, baby.”
He had to. He had to bring them home now. There was no way around that promise to these brave young girls.
One way or another, in whatever condition…Kent would bring them back.
Ahead of him, Ace scouted. The dog seemed to have this insane connection with Sloane that sometimes made him jealous. There was no time like the present to use that attachment to his advantage.
“Let’s find her, boy.”
11
Sloane
“This is bullshit!” Sloane said under her breath as she looked from Misery to the metal door beyond which another woman continued to yell out in pain. She didn’t know what the hell was going on in here, but she wanted no part of the madness.
Lifting her gown, she checked out the wounds in her leg, finding a blood-soaked bandage at her calf as well as her thigh. There were two exit wounds at each site. The bullets had gone straight through. She briefly wondered if they’d take the time to dig out a bullet for their prisoners? She was surprised to even find the bandage slapped on. The job they did of first aid wasn’t anything near how Kent would treat a wound. That told her a few things. She’d likely develop an infection without antibiotics soon, and they valued her limited life to an extent. They wanted her alive for now…but for what purpose? That was the clincher. Then a throb at her temple brought her hand to the side of her head where she suddenly remembered seeing the edge of a rifle butt coming at her in her peripheral vision…that was right before or shortly after she heard a voice over a radio saying they’d got the girl. She was sure that meant Wren. Dammit…they have Wren in here.
Sloane suddenly stood again and nearly lost her balance with the dizziness in her head and the leg wounds. That didn’t matter. She’d work through that. “You! What do you know? Where are we?” She nearly attacked Misery as she crossed the space between their bunks.
The woman clenched up even more into her fetal position. A defensive measure. “What the hell is going on here? Talk to me,” Sloane said, shaking her a bit at the side.
No response came from the crazed woman. Sloane lifted her hands. Backed off a step. Kent would be patient and gentle with her, eking out all the information he could in a slow progression of time. Sloane wasn’t Kent and she didn’t have that kind of time. Wren was in there. She had to get her out.
Sloane reached over to the woman and stroked her long dirty hair, then grabbed the very ends, making sure to collect every strand. She wrapped the dirty locks around her wrist, pulling the hair up to the nape of the woman’s neck and then pulled her face up to meet her own.
Misery’s wild eyes widened in fear and stared at her briefly…confused. Her hands scrambled to cover her eyes but she couldn’t bear her own slight weight without them.
“I don’t have time for this. You need to talk to me. Tell me what’s going on in here. Tell me everything you know. Trust me…I will hurt you worse than your captives ever dreamed. They have my child, you see? I have nothing to lose. Where are we? Tell me now.”
Misery began screaming at the top of her lungs, kicking and thrashing, and stopped suddenly. She seemed conflicted between the threats on either side of the metal door.
“Answer my questions and I’ll let you go,” Sloane said in a nicer voice.
“Pri-son,” Misery choked out in a voice barely used. The captive cleared her throat again and repeated the same word.
The sound of Misery’s words struck Sloane. She at first thought the woman was somewhere around her late twenties or early thirties…her voice put her somewhere in her early twenties.
“Who has us in prison? Who are these people?”
There was no immediate answer, so Sloane jerked her head slightly but firmly.
“Don’t know…I don’t know.”
“How long have you been here?”
The woman shook her head slightly despite the hold Sloane had on her. “Don’t know.”
“Come on…days? Weeks? Months?”
Another shake of the head. “Weeks….months?”
That’s when suddenly all the lights went out with an audible drone, leaving them in pitch darkness.
The girl started clawing at Sloane’s hand holding her hair then. She didn’t make a noise otherwise, just a scrambling to get Sloane to let her go.
Sloane unwrapped her hair from her wrist and pushed her away.
Misery breathed heavily on her side of the cinder block cell. They were in prison. Some sort of holding facility with no windows, deplorable conditions and torture.
“What kind of questions do they ask you?”
Misery groaned a little but said nothing.
“I swear, I’ll make you afraid of the dark…3…2...”
“Ask us…where others are. What we had.”
Sloane thought about this. She thought about the marks on the girl’s inner thighs. Were they cigarette burns in a perfect pattern? She was probably close to sepsis by now. Misery wouldn’t live much longer. Not with an infection like that. They were torturing their captives for supply information.
“What’s your name?”
Silence.
“I’ll leave you alone for now if you tell me your name.”
“Rose.”
“Goodnight, Rose.”
12
Wren
“Go ahead,” Wren said through clenched teeth as she thought the man was about to strike her. “I see you now. I know who you are and I’ll get you back.” She had no idea where she had the strength to say those words with conviction. They sounded like her mother’s words, but she glared at him with all the summoned hate within her and seared his image into her brain.
The coward was delivering her to a madman. He’d betrayed humanity by doing so. That much she knew from her short assessment of things.
He flinched. His eyes darted to the side. He lowered his hand and grabbed her by the shoulder again, dragging her up to stand, and shoved her forward in front of him. “Please…don’t do that again.”
She wasn’t sure if he meant the insult or the struggle. “Kiss my ass,” Wren said, in a way letting fly all the little rude remarks that went through her head on a daily basis. If there was any time to let loose…this was it. She wasn’t sure if her mother would approve but at the moment her mother wasn’t there. She hoped to find out in either case soon. Of course, she could really confuse him and say it in French but then that would defeat the purpose. She doubted he even had a full grasp on the English language, let alone French.
The coward rapped three times on the door in front of them lightly with the back of two knuckles. The sequence seemed practiced, one he’d performed many times. Wren wasn’t sure what that meant, yet.
“Come in,” came the voice of someone older. A grandfather, perhaps.
The guard reached out in front of her but before he turned the handl
e, his almost black eyes met hers; there was a kind of sadness there. Almost a remorse for what he was about to do. He opened his mouth to speak.
“Don’t even,” Wren said, not relenting. “You’re disgusting.”
He opened the door and nudged her through.
Wren stood there.
A grandpa-looking man sat behind a desk staring at her. His white hair and blue eyes implied a kind of benevolent demeanor. Without a smile, he motioned with his hand to the chair in front of his desk.
Wren remained planted where she stood.
A shove from behind her nearly spilled her to her knees. She caught herself on the concrete floor by her tied hands before she hit her face.
“That’ll be enough, Boyd,” the old man said.
Coward’s name is Boyd…Wren noted. The door closed behind her.
“It doesn’t really matter to me. You can remain on the floor or sit in the chair. It’s up to you. What is not up to you is whether you live or die. That…is up to me.”
She heard the distinct sound of the slide of a pistol racking. When she looked up, the weapon lay on the desk at the ready.
I’ll learn more if I sit in the damn chair and see gramps for myself. He won’t kill me yet. There’s too much to learn still.
“Wise decision, dear.”
Patronizing old man.
Wren shuffled to the metal chair sitting there coldly on the concrete floor. It may have once been a bistro chair. Some spot for a warm grande mocha or a London Fog on the ever-present cloudy beach days in western Oregon.
Having her legs still bound loosely at the ankles made it hard to walk but she managed. When she reached the chair, it was a relief to actually take the weight off her feet. She wanted to hold out. She wanted to protest all this bullshit. Tell him to take his damn threats and shove them. Bistro chairs were heavy. She could probably throw the damn thing at him, but something told her that he’d reach the gun before she got a good swing at him.