by Sam Nash
The hairbrush was solid wood with stiff plastic bristles. She leaned it at an angle between the floor and the wall and stamped down on the shaft. It slid down, horizontal to the floor. The bristles crushed under her shoe, but it was otherwise intact. Mary picked it up and bounced the head against her hand. The uniform bunches of nylon jabbed her palm. It might inflict some pain if she could swipe it with enough force against his face. It would have to do.
Mary’s stomach gurgled, pushing the half-digested food up her gullet. She swallowed the acid back down and held her mouth under the running tap, slurping at the cold water. Facing the mirror again, her vision blurred and focused alternately. She staggered back towards the television. The weatherman turned into a smudge of blue with flecks of red that had minutes before been a tie. Rubbing her eyes with a free hand and clutching her hairbrush with the other, she misjudged the height of the chair and thumped her bottom down heavily. They have drugged me… shit. Stay awake. Walk up and down. Must stay awake!
Using her hands to push herself up from the seat, she fought against her buckling knees and weighted eyelids, forcing herself to pace between the door and the corner that contained the mounted surveillance camera. Her head felt inordinately heavy. It drooped down to her chest, pulling on the muscles in the back of her neck. Saliva pooled at the corners of her mouth and oozed down her chin. Her foot dragged across the floor with each step until the weariness seeped throughout her entire body. She tried to make it back to the chair, the last of her common sense telling her to avoid the bed. Her knee gave way and she crumpled to the floor, one elbow hooking the chair seat. Mary was still holding the hairbrush in her lessening grip when she passed briefly out of consciousness.
Her chin connected with the hard plastic of the chair as her head fell, clenching her teeth around her tongue. The pain woke her, not fully alert, but to the echoed sound of the key turning in the lock. Her mind told her body to move, to wake up, but nervous control of motor function was jerky and uncoordinated. The bolt slid across and the door creaked ajar.
The brute surveyed his handiwork for a moment, chuckling at her undignified state. Through the blurred veil of eyelashes, she could see him gesturing to the camera. He swiped a flattened hand across his neck, indicating that they should switch off the device. Contra to her notions of voyeurism, he did not want an audience. She wasn’t sure whether this was a good or bad sign for her fate. Did he mean to abuse her all night? He could still bang on the door and his co-conspirators could let themselves in later. They secured the lock and bolt once more. There was no escape.
He grabbed the remote control and raised the television volume. Every brain cell in her head was telling her to fight, to keep moving, but her physical actions were too delayed to be useful. She waved the hairbrush in his general direction, making him snort in humour at her ineptitude.
“Very powerful. That is what Alexi said. Ha! That is funny.” He stepped closer and slid an arm beneath her limp legs, his other around her back, and lifted her as though she were a rag doll. Dropping her onto the bed roughly, he grabbed at an ankle and pulled off a shoe. “I don’t think I will need to bind you. It will be like fucking a corpse as it is. You like it in the arse, little girl?” Her second shoe came off and hit the floor. He was tugging at her sweat pants.
The theme tune for a noir comedy drowned out her muffled cries for help. She pleaded with him to be merciful, but the speech pattern was unrecognisable. It amused him. “You want I should slap you about a bit first, eh? You like it rough?” He twisted her by the legs, pulling the trousers down and revealing her cotton underwear. Her face was buried in the folds of the pillow. He slapped her across the buttocks, hard, the pain radiating through her pelvis. It revived her senses.
“Enough foreplay.” He yanked the jersey fabric over her feet and dropped the trousers to the floor. “I think I will have both holes. Which do you want me to do first, eh?” He rolled her onto her back and grabbed at her knickers, the stretched elastic cutting into her skin. He tried to rip the material, but they were too well constructed. Annoyed, he wrenched them down towards her feet.
God, no. Please stop this. Mary’s intentions to plead with any vestige of kindness that the guard might have, remained inside her head. Her mouth could not form the words audibly. He unbuckled his belt, unzipped his army fatigues and let them ruche around his ankles. Waves of revulsion rippled through her body, as he knelt between her legs and considered her most intimate parts.
I cannot let this happen. Where are Visser and Alexi? I can’t believe that I need my captors to rescue me. This is too cruel. He is looking right into me. I feel sick. Perhaps projectile vomit all over him would make him stop, or it might anger him. That slap across my bum was painful enough. A punch to the face would give me brain damage or kill me. I don’t know what to do…
The guard hovered over her body, knocking her legs apart with his knees and resting his hips against hers. “You like this, eh? You feel how big I am? I am going to split you apart.”
Mary battled the effects of the sedation. Every reviled muscle that could still respond to her command clenched. He reached down and jabbed two dirty fingers inside her, his jagged nails tearing her delicate tissue.
That initial act of defilement, triggered a series of chemical reactions in her brain, which in part neutralised the effects of the sedative. Mary summoned the strength to move her arms, forcing them to bend; her tightened fists tucked beneath her chin. Bastard! He will pay for this… From the depths of her abdomen, a swirling force of energy built momentum, coursing through her body, heating her torso and surging through her arms. Mary spread out her hands and connected them around his bullish neck.
Visible sparks flew. A bolt of enormous voltage jolted through the guard’s body, sending his heart into uncontrollable spasms and overloading the neural pathways in his brain. The skin on his throat charred and the smell of grilled meat, overpowered the stench of sweat. Her hands felt like glowing embers, yet they did not burn. His body shook violently, all muscles contracting in time with the powerful electric current cooking him from the inside out. The brute wailed just once, a prolonged and agonising howl, before all activity ceased and his limbs gave way to gravity.
The dead weight pinned Mary to the mattress. She shook in terror from head to toe. She had killed a man. A soldier had died at her hand and without the use of a conventional weapon. That was not something you could shuck off lightly. She pressed her fingers against his blackened jugular vein. There was no detectable pulse. Wriggling sideways, she lifted one of his arms over her head, and pushed his ribs until he slid from her body and hung off the edge of the bed.
The energy surge restored most of her faculties, enough to kick his legs from hers until he slipped off the cot and on to the concrete below. Mary located her knickers, which were encircling her left ankle and put them back on. She stepped over the body and did the same with her trousers.
The tremor in her stomach subsided and she looked impassively at the dead body. Why didn’t she feel remorse? She should feel horrified – she had killed another human being. Vegetarian, humanitarian Mary had snuffed out a person’s life. He may not have been a good person, he may have deserved punishment, but she had with deliberate, wilful intention, killed him. She was a murderer.
These thoughts and many more trickled calmly through her mind. It was not a skill she intended to use often, but the sudden realisation that she could kill, or perhaps seriously harm if she could learn to control it, formed the basis for a new plan of escape.
***
Mary contemplated her options. Firstly, she had to avoid any punishment and secondly, she was not yet ready to implement her plan. The thought of the arm restraints or the possibility of guards’ retaliation horrified her. Mary decided that she must stage the crime scene to deflect attention. If they accused her of being the cause, she would deny it and adopt a flaky and pathetic tone to some well-timed feminine histrionics.
The red light on the camera
was still off, but she had to act fast. Post-mortem urine was already soaking into the guard’s underwear. A pool of the acrid liquid in the wrong place would ruin her pretence. It sickened her to touch him. Mary forced herself to inch his trousers up, yanking one side then the next in turn, until the waist band was above his posterior. Using the loose belt as a strap, she pulled it until the body twisted onto the side allowing her to fasten the zip and buckle.
With restricted meals and no access to exercise, her incarceration had reduced her muscle mass. She felt weak and could not shake the dizzy spells in the aftermath of the drugs leaving her system. With both hands gripping the guard’s wrist, she leaned her shoulders back and hauled him close to the power socket supplying the television.
Now what? A television wouldn’t blow itself up. A short circuit in the plug would trip the fuse board switch and alert the rest of the guards. Then there is his scorched neck. How can I explain that as the obvious point of contact? The problem required a clear head and more careful thought that she felt able to give. Mary’s mind drifted, lamenting the need to sacrifice the television. She would be unable to tell the time in its absence.
Maybe the brute has a watch or even a mobile phone. Mary searched the body for anything useful, stripping him of his cheap Timex and hiding it in her washbag. She found no phone, but during her rummage in his pockets, his combat trousers slid up his leg, revealing a small knife tucked into an ankle holster. Result. She used the remote to switch off the television and then unplugged it. Scraping and fraying the power cable with the knife, Mary exposed the bare metal near to the base of the plug, as though the plastic clasp had worn the wires.
Where could she hide the knife? Alexi changed the sheets on the bed often, she couldn’t hide it under the mattress. She needed it close by for protection. There was plenty of room to hide a small knife in the sports bra that Alexi had provided, were it a penknife with a covered blade. The leather ankle holster would be visible if she wore it under her jogging trousers. She quickly cut the straps away from the holster, leaving just the sheath and stowed the knife carefully beneath her left breast. It was uncomfortable and the pointed part of the leather dug into her upper arm, but it was worth it for the security.
Mary was almost ready. Returning the television plug to the socket, she angled the guard’s arm until his hand connected with the bare wires. His other hand, she positioned on the back of his neck, resting his elbow on the floor to hold it in place. She flicked the switch and jumped back. The television blared into life. Alan Yentob was analysing a post-modern painting and gearing himself up to interview the relatives of the deceased artist. Damn. It was supposed to short out. I will have to boost the power myself.
Reaching over the body, she leaned down and sharpened her mind. Come on… you did this before with Dan, when you blew out the security panel in Parth’s department. Be calm, Mary. She told herself. Closing her eyes, she steadied her thoughts and visualised the energy flow. Holding her hand a couple of centimetres from the exposed wires, the voltage skipped from her palm via a blue vein of light, overwhelming the circuits.
The television tripped out with a loud bang; Yentob cut off in his prime. The overhead lights went out, pitching the room into darkness. Mary waited a moment for her eyes to adjust. She scrambled back to the bed, sitting cross legged and trying to look blameless. Voices and loud boots clamoured down the hallways, workers and soldiers all busying themselves like frenzied fire ants in restoring power and finding the root cause.
There was a distant clunk through the walls as they found and flipped the mains trip switch, and then a buzz as the strip lights above her head choked back into life. Her room smelled repugnant, a mixture of body fluids and singed plastic and flesh. The bolt clanged back, the key turned and two armed men bowled through the door. They looked in horror at their superior officer smouldering on the floor and then at Mary.
“Cyka! You bitch. You killed him.” One of the soldier ants yelled.
“It wasn’t me. He electrocuted himself.” Mary creased her face up and started to cry, a whiny, feeble, dry-eyed whimper.
“Lezha suka. Lying bitch!” The second guard stormed over to her on the bed and threatened to hit her with the butt of his gun. Alexi wandered in, wearing pyjamas and a dressing gown, scratching the back of his head.
“What is happening?” Alexi froze as the guard threatening Mary drew his gun back and was about to strike her. “Ostanavlivat’sja! Stop!” Alexi growled a full sentence of Russian that Mary had no hope comprehending, but the guards’ response was explanation enough. Both men, hung their heads in shame. Scalded, they left Alexi alone in the room with Mary.
Alexi turned to face her. “What has happened here?”
Mary stepped up her tears a notch and threw her arms about the little man, stretching up from the bed. “Oh Alexi, it was so awful…” She sobbed into his shoulder, half theatrics but with a significant proportion of truth.
Chapter Thirteen
Alexi ordered three soldiers to clean Mary’s room. It took some time for the noxious smells to dissipate, so it was late when Mary was able to shower and climb into the bed. She harboured a mild feeling of empowerment. She was not sure how much of her story Alexi believed, but the guards were in no position to give him a factual account.
The red flashing light resumed as they switched off the overhead lights, leaving the dim wall mounted lamps with which they could spy on her nocturnal habits. Whether the drugs were still active in her system or the mental exertion of the evenings events had drained her, Mary slept. A profound rest, stemming from a new found security. The guards would not be attempting any further efforts to violate her. She had them running scared.
The following morning, Alexi woke Mary and encouraged her to eat the hearty breakfast he had prepared for her; poached eggs, toast, cereal and a large pot of tea. She showered again, scrubbing away the flashbacks of the night before. It was clear that the guards had been talking. As she and Alexi walked down the corridor to the lab, the soldier ants edged further away from her, their fingers twitching over the triggers of their tranquiliser guns.
Alexi had prepared a translation on his phone to play. “Now that you have seen the other patients in this hospital, you will have some idea of what we expect of you.”
“No, not really. I know that you have a large number of people in chemically induced comas. I know that some of them are dying.” She was careful not to mention her knowledge of Plender’s involvement. Alexi listened to his phone and then pasted another Russian sentence into the translator application.
“Those people are special, like you, but much less powerful. They need medication to help their abilities. Long term drugs make them ill.”
“Easy solution then, stop medicating them.” She shifted uneasily on her lab stool.
“That cannot happen. They are needed for a mission.” More tapping and listening on his phone.
“Mission? What mission?” Mary tried to gain Alexi’s attention. He kept his line of sight on his mobile screen.
“That is confidential at present, but know that you are necessary for its success.” He glanced furtively at her face for a second, lowering his eyes from her gaze.
“Why would anyone volunteer to be subjected to a chemical cocktail that puts them in a semi-permanent coma which could kill them?” She threw her arms in the air. There was a long pause while Alexi thought carefully about his choice of words to type into the application.
“They did not volunteer. Most were conscripted. Russian military screens for potential candidates. The rest Visser found, like you but younger, then paid off their families.”
“That’s disgraceful.” She did not hide her look of disgust.
“Perhaps. They are serving their great nation.” His expression had not altered throughout their conversation. Alexi’s implacable stance being part of his upbringing.
“But why must they stay in a coma? Can’t they meditate or something instead?” She could see that Alex
i was losing patience with her. His agitation manifested in his strident phone tapping.
“Hive mission very intense. They stay a focused unit at all times, ready for commands. Coma is only way to maintain cohesion of their minds. Individually, none are strong enough to affect changes and lose valuable time in trying to coordinate brain rhythms.”
“What do you expect me to do?” Mary grasped the edge of the bench, tightening her grip with a sense of foreboding.
“You will lead them. Guide them, be at one with them and direct their powers.” This was another pre-prepared sentence Alexi pasted.
“I will not!” Mary hopped off the lab stool and marched towards the door. Lars Visser arrived and blocked her path. Instinct prompted her to cover her mouth and nose, shielding herself from his resilient cologne. Despite holding her breath, the vapour inveigled its way around her digits and adhered to the linings in her nasal cavity. Beneath the chemical tang, she detected a fishy note. Mary recoiled, her gag reflex summoning the remnants of her breakfast.
“Are you being quarrelsome again, Mary? Tut, tut. That will never do.” Visser removed a thin piece of red leather from his jacket pocket and shook it till the little bell dangling from a buckle on its end, tinkled. “Shall I give Aristotle your regards?”
Mary wobbled. Sudden confidence in her abilities had made her temporarily forget Visser’s threats to harm her loved ones. She had pushed at the limits of her captor’s patience without regard for Parth’s wellbeing. They would still be monitoring him and perhaps her grandfather too.
A swell of emotion engulfed her, her soft palate acidifying and making the space behind her nose tingle, foretelling the tears. Mary fought to gain control. Be compliant. She told herself. Information was power, and the more amiable she was, the more he talked.