The women resumed, but the one who’d kept her trap shut hissed to the other, “Are you fucking crazy? We agreed not to tell them if we found anything!”
The traitor snorted but sounded dejected rather than annoyed. “You know that Madam always checks herself to make sure we don’t keep anything from her. You remember what happened to Beth last month? She tried to be sneaky. See what good that did her.”
The other looked ready to protest but shut up when two women entered, both wearing dresses that were, if not brand spanking new, in much better condition than what the cleaning crew was dressed in. One appeared to be in her early fifties and she was clearly in charge, the girls cringing away from her as much, if not more, as from the guards, her tall, curvy figure pressed into red velvet and black leather that made her look comically like the proverbial hooker with a heart of gold from a western flick. The cold, calculating way she studied the merchandise on the floor made me revert my guess about the level of empathy she was rocking. The other woman was dressed a little more simply, her blonde hair still untouched by gray, and I guessed she must have been around my age. Her gaze wasn’t less calculating but there was some warmth left in her eyes. Both went from prisoner to prisoner, the older giving judgment with few words wasted while the younger remained kneeling at the women’s sides, doing some checks and whatnot before they moved on. They kept me for last, probably because I’d needed the most cleanup. As soon as the two in charge arrived, my cleaners moved away, heads deferentially bowed.
“She has the marks,” the traitor repeated, her voice trembling. “Zeke thinks they’re fake.”
The woman in charge—I presumed the Madam, definitely with a capital M, they’d spoken about before—barely glanced at me, but I was sure that she picked up on the damage immediately. Rather than lean closer, she turned to the other woman. “What do you think, Cindy?”
Cindy dropped into a crouch next to me, her hand firm on my arm as she took a better look at my exposed back—and if I wasn’t wrong, did a quick check on just how firm my bicep was. I did my best to appear as slack as possible, which wasn’t that hard, except that my muscles were starting to get some great cramping and pins-and-needles sensation going on. The fingers of her free hand briefly ghosted across the back of my neck, then down my spine to my tramp stamp where they lingered a little longer. It was a small mercy that she didn’t make a grab for my ass, but the way I was lying on my side, maybe she’d missed Nate’s name spelled out there.
“The tats are all around the same age,” she gave her verdict. “None of them new, with moderate sun exposure.” So much for my lack of tan marks. She paused, then added, “I can’t tell if they are genuine, but none of them are a complete hack job, which is in and of itself remarkable if she really is a scavenger. I’d say there’s a good chance she found someone who did them all for her to distract from her obvious shortcomings. If we let the drugs wear off, it will be easier to tell.”
She got a grunt for her assessment. “Doesn’t really matter. Darius wants to take out his anger on her so I say, prep her and get her ready. Unless you want to wait and take her place in the meantime?” She got no response but none was needed, and with business obviously concluded for her, the madam left.
Cindy remained behind, rummaging around in the satchel she had brought with her. I really didn’t care for the syringe she produced, filled with a translucent brown liquid. She must have noticed the look of derision on my face—and had no issues with holding my gaze once she caught it—as she leaned closer and whispered into my ear. “She’s right, you know? It doesn’t matter whether you’re the real deal or not. Whether you’re a decorated war vet or the scourge of the roads out there. But this will help take the edge off a little.” Rather than ram the syringe into my neck, she got a tourniquet ready and then fed it into one of the veins in my right arm, all the while keeping up her jibber-jabber. “The first time’s always the worst. It gets better after ten or twenty, if you survive that long. Don’t worry, that will easily last through the entire night. And if I’m wrong and you really are the real deal? The less you fight, the longer your body will need to break this shit down. So do yourself a favor and just don’t.”
I had no idea what she’d injected me with, but it was already taking effect even as her words still echoed through my mind—and echo they did as everything seemed increasingly more distant, and decidedly less important. I felt my body relax, even the parts that were still in pain from having been forced into unnatural contortions for far too long. I could still think—somewhat—but what had been pressing concerns moments ago seemed like almost-forgotten memories now. And it was so much easier to give in to that siren song of ignorance. Didn’t they say that was bliss?
“Pick her up and get her ready. Last room on the left should do. I don’t think we need to waste a good pair of sheets on what’s to come,” I heard the woman instruct the guards. The words didn’t feel like they concerned me, and didn’t trigger any alarms. Also not the rough hands that picked me up and carried me out of the room into the main part of the barn. I noticed a central corridor running the entire length with compartments walled off, with doors or curtains, on the sides. Not a barn—a former stable, I realized. Oddly fitting, the nasty voice at the back of my head supplied, but went easily ignored. What did I care? Not. One. Bit.
It got increasingly hard to focus on anything in particular by the time I was put down on something scratchy that gave a little under my weight—a mattress, maybe? It was incredibly hard to force my eyes to focus on anything, and I barely caught more than the glint of flickering fire from a torch on blonde hair as someone—hands soft and gentle—snapped handcuffs on my left wrist, then brought both my arms up and made cool steel close around my right wrist as well. That hurt, but the sensation was so distant that it barely bothered me, like the humming of a bee outside the window. All I wanted to do was drift off and sleep, with not a care in the world…
“You done yet?” a gruff, deep male voice asked from somewhere in the direction of my feet. “I can’t wait to put that bitch in her place.” Raucous laughter followed.
“Well, get in line,” a different voice responded. “Darius already called dibs on that, and not sure there’ll be much left for sloppy seconds. He seemed mighty livid when they came back.”
Some grumbling along the lines of “not fair” followed that, quickly cut off when another man stormed into the room—Darius presumably. My eyes refused to properly focus on him, but he didn’t look familiar. None of them did. The nasty voice was back, whispering, asking if I was really disappointed not to see a familiar face. Because the one I had expected wouldn’t have let anyone give me anything to take the edge off, and would have spent plenty of time goading me on. Nothing compared to him, I figured—and about the rest I couldn’t give less of a shit about.
I knew I should, but I simply couldn’t.
The others left, the door banging shut behind them a million miles away. They took the torch with them, leaving just a single candle flickering by the door, casting the room into dusk and shadows. It was cozy, comforting.
Why wasn’t I afraid? At least some residual panic and disgust would have been nice, but even the rage in my gut was gone, for the first time in forever. Huh. Maybe I should track that Cindy woman down and make her tell me what she’d shot me up with once I got out of here? Way better than meditation. Or hunting. Or fighting. Maybe even sex, although the jury was still out on that one. Probably not. It certainly did a good job letting me ignore the string of insults that imbecile kept spewing as he tore off his clothes. Amateur. I could swear up a better storm—when cutting onions made me cry. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d had onions. Hmmm, onions…
The mattress dipped and rusty bedsprings groaned as he climbed onto me, his grime-smeared face scrunched up into a grimace of hate. His knees were straddling my thighs, and my first impulse was to tell him that, sorry to point it out, but that wasn’t going to work this way. It was surprisingly easy
to keep my trap shut—probably for the first time in my life—as the flickering flame of the lone candle drew my attention away from the hulk crouching over me. That really was some potent shit—
My unuttered remark turned out to be unnecessary as instead of wrenching my useless legs apart—or turning me onto my side or whatnot to gain access—he brought his fist down on my already broken nose. Blood sprayed. Pain… flowed and ebbed away, not gone but hard to grasp or focus on. I felt something in my abdomen churn, but hours of dehydration must have left me with not enough acid in my stomach to puke anything up. Too bad.
Two more punches followed, both hitting my jaw. More pain… and again, impossible to focus on. The impacts made my head rock back into the sorry excuse for a pillow, which left the candle outside of my field of vision. That made me feel vaguely sad, but it was hard to hold on to that sentiment as well. The rafters above weren’t that interesting to focus on, either. Maybe the sounds around—
That was a resounding “nope,” and for a fraction of a second, my mind snapped into sharp focus. I needed to get out of here, and stat, and for that to happen I had to fight off that fucking drug—
And then it was gone once more, leaving me mellow and relaxed with blood running down the back of my throat…
Apparently he’d done enough damage to my face for now—or my lack of a reaction was sorely disappointing—because the next few jabs landed in my abdomen. Yup, that hurt, and although I still couldn’t find it in me to care and try to evade, my body reacted, hunching in on itself as much as possible with him still straddling my legs, his disgusting dick, partly erect, dragging across the sea of scars on my left thigh, which made me want to hurl—
The nasty voice was back, laughing at my antics. Really, after everything that went on with that leg—including zombie bites and necrotizing bacteria—one dirty, unwashed dick was too much? Oh, please, just wait and see what happens when—
His fist connected with my temple, exactly where I’d been brained with the rifle stocks—twice—last night, followed by another punch, this one missing my nose but perfectly connecting with my brow, cheek bone, and my eye. Maybe it was the repeat offense; maybe he finally reached the threshold—whatever it was, that punch that would, without a doubt, give me a black eye was one punch too much.
My head lit up with pain, immediately making me rue that the drug must have lost its effectiveness when that didn’t stop after a moment or two. I couldn’t think because it hurt so fucking much that even trying to make sense of anything was out of the question. I tried to curl up on myself and bring my hands down to protect my exploding cranium, but couldn’t; there was a deranged bear sitting on my legs, and whisper-thin steel kept my wrists connected to the rusty bed rail.
Well, that so wouldn’t do.
Another punch connected to my jaw, rocking my head back and making alarm bells go off in my mind. The agony it created was staggering, but also made me feel like my entire body had just been dunked into ice-cold water, if cold water felt like molten lava, really. Muscles tensed, synapses fired, and—finally!—my mind started to work again, action steps forming, a neat sequence stacked on top of each other.
First, get rid of the fucking handcuffs. That was surprisingly easy as my right hand, already severely maimed by missing the last two fingers, and now the others broken yet with the swelling already going down reduced to their normal size, only needed one hard yank and my arms were free. Did it hurt like a bitch? You bet, but since that only added to the fire burning within me, I welcomed it.
Step two, punch that wannabe rapist asshole in the face to show him just how much fun it was to be on the receiving end of it. I used my left hand, which still wasn’t my dominant hand, but Nate had spent a lot of time on drills and practice to turn me pretty much ambidextrous where fighting was concerned. Darius was so taken aback to find me suddenly rearing up underneath him that he didn’t even try to defend himself, so I added a second punch just for good measure.
Step three, get that revolting asshole off me. My thighs were alight with agony from the abuse they’d suffered all day, but now that the serum was doing its thing, it was easy to override the natural impulse to avoid rather than cause more pain. In short order I pulled my knees toward my chest, wrenched my hips to the side—which dislodged him from his perch above me—and kicked back as hard as I could, sending him tumbling not just off me but onto the floor.
Step four, kill that motherfucker.
Whether it was the pain, or the drug regaining some of its grip on me, but my brain shorted out about the time I came vaulting off the bed and after Darius where he was lying on the ground, like an oversized beetle. I punched. I kicked. I used my elbows when only my left fist was capable of doing any damage. I used my teeth to go for his jugular when I couldn’t find a knife, welcoming the hot liquid hitting my parched mouth and throat. And when he kept on struggling, I used the chain of the handcuff still dangling from my left wrist to get him into a chokehold—and didn’t let go until all I could hear were my own ragged breaths.
Feeling no resistance from my opponent whatsoever, I let go and staggered back, barely managing to keep upright. There was blood everywhere. A lot of blood. For good measure, I kicked the asshole one last time, waiting for a reaction and getting none. Good. I needed to get out of here, and having him come after me wasn’t part of that plan. I paused for a second—also to steady myself against the bed frame—listening to the telltale sounds of boots pounding on the ground as someone came to investigate.
There was none.
Oh, there were plenty of sounds going on that I really didn’t need to hear, but they made me doubt anyone had become privy to our struggle, brief as it had been. And even if they did, they likely presumed that was Darius giving me a good work-over. I waited for the impulse to try to save one of the other women to come up inside of me, or at least draw the attention to myself and away from them, but found that part of my emotional landscape thoroughly empty.
Escape—right. And if I could manage to find Nate and sneak him out with me as well, all the better.
I realized my plan was doomed to fail from the moment I more fell than climbed out of the window into the darkness—and found myself in the middle of a camp that looked closer to a city than just a few tents haphazardly strung together, at least judging from the many flickering torches I could see that were blinding my sensitive retinas and searing my brain to the core.
I had no fucking clue where I was, and even less so where I needed to go. What I needed was water, food, clothes—above all else, boots—and weapons. What I had was an ebbing amount of adrenaline in my blood that was likely responsible for the drug about to pull me under once more. So what I actually needed was to keep my body pumping out chemicals to keep that shit at bay. If almost getting raped didn’t do that, there was only one thing I could rely on to keep myself going, and that was pain. Looking down at my yet-again mangled hand, I couldn’t help but smirk. Pain? That was one thing I could easily provide.
Gritting my teeth, I did my best to steel myself before I forced my fingers to close into a fist—as much as they would, which wasn’t impressive—before I slammed it into the sturdy, weathered wood of the barn at my back, succumbing to the haze of red-hot lava running through my brain once and for all.
Chapter 4
I came to in what must have been the early hours of dawn of the next day, finding myself sitting on a huge bough of an oak tree with a rope tying me tightly to the tree’s trunk. I was shivering hard enough that my teeth were chattering while my body felt more like a furnace than an icicle, covered in blood. Way, way more blood than I remembered sticking to me when I’d left the barn. Some of it was probably mine, particularly on my face and right hand. Most of it was visible because all I was wearing were combat boots that were ridiculously large on my dangling feet, and a checkered flannel shirt that I’d tied closed across my upper stomach because it felt huge enough that it would have slipped from my shoulders otherwise. No underw
ear or pants, but considering where I’d likely found the clothes, that was probably a sanitary blessing. The handcuffs were gone, and there was minimal bruising on my wrists—underneath lots of dried blood.
The fact that it vaguely bothered me that my privates must have been exposed to thousands of insects living on this tree for what might have been hours let me know that, for the most part, I was back in the driver’s seat of this not-quite perfectly functioning meat suit.
Shit.
What should I do first? And how the fuck would I manage to pull it off?
First things first—I needed some water, and not just to wash away the blood. I tried to remember more details of my escape, but after I’d slammed my broken hand into the side of the barn, everything was kind of fuzzy. Some things that swam up in my mind seemed way too insane to be true, even for my track record. That was likely the drugs speaking. I could still feel them raging in my system, making my motions sluggish if I didn’t pay a lot of attention to what I was doing as I started unknotting the rope that kept me securely off the ground. I forced myself to stop and looked around, trying to orient myself. Knowing where east was thanks to the rising sun didn’t help me at all as I didn’t have a single point of reference. The only thing that I could tell was that I was a good seven feet off the ground, tied to a lone oak tree sitting in a gently sloping meadow with a lot of flat ground all around and not a distinct, recognizable landmark anywhere in sight. No rivers, no roads, not even a fucking dirt track that I could have followed to get to the tree. At least that made it unlikely that anyone would find me here any time soon, if they were even looking for me. I doubted anyone would miss me since they hadn’t even bothered asking me for my name. Oh, I was sure that Darius’s buddies—and the friends of whoever else’s blood I was covered in—were out to hunt me down, but what was one lone woman gone from an entire city-sized camp?
Green Fields (Book 10): Uprising: Page 5