365 Days At War

by Nancy Isaak

  Like mine, Connor’s chain was padlocked in place; unlike my chain, his had been spray-painted gold—the latest in slave-bling, apparently.

  The beefy White Shirt holding the other end of Connor’s chain appeared to be taking great pleasure in tugging at it. There was a vicious grin on his face as he snapped Connor’s chain; it was obvious that he was enjoying the pain he was causing.

  My hand appeared to slip forward of its own accord; I was shocked when it reached out and grazed Connor’s bare foot.

  His head was already down, so it was merely a matter of Connor shifting his eyes to the left to meet mine. Covered in the sheet like I was, I knew that there was no way that he would recognize me.

  Still—I wanted to give him some small comfort.

  To at least let him know that he wasn’t alone.

  Not lifting his head, Connor’s eyes shifted forward to where Erroll was kneeling, forehead to the ground—then over to Nate.

  Finally, Connor’s eyes swung back to me and the corner of one of his lips twitched.

  He knew we were there.

  He knew I was there.

  * * * *

  With a grunt, the beefy White Shirt pulled Connor directly onto the stage and pushed him down onto his knees in front of Tray.

  “Go on,” she said sweetly, moving her right foot next to Connor. “It’s okay, puppy. You can lick it.”

  Connor didn’t move.

  He was wearing a pair of overalls, the type with a bib—the legs shortened to the knees by hacking away with scissors or a knife. There was no shirt underneath and I frowned when I saw the red slices across Connor’s shoulders.

  He had been whipped recently.

  “Lick it,” ordered Tray, nudging Connor with her sandaled foot. Her voice was more insistent this time; she was losing her sense of humor.

  When Connor still didn’t respond, Tray looked over at the young sheeted-girls on the stage close by. There was one girl, tinier than the rest, and Tray pointed toward her.

  Quickly, the beefy White Shirt stalked over to the small girl.

  She squeaked in fear when she saw him coming and tried to hide behind some of the other girls. The White Shirt merely pushed his way through, grabbed the tiny sheeted-girl, and threw her forward, so that she landed on the stage beside Tray, where she curled herself up into a tiny white bundle—shaking and sobbing quietly.

  Above her, Tray tugged at her whip, releasing it from the web belt around her waist. She let it unwind, the leather loops falling to the ground, then flicked it just enough so that its lash settled over the tiny girl.

  “Puppy, puppy, puppy,” murmured Tray, looking down at Connor. “Are you really going to make me hurt this little slave? All I’m asking for is a little lick.” She twisted her foot in front of Connor, turning it this way and that. “Puppy gives good kisses, don’t you, baby?”

  Still—Connor didn’t move.

  “Last chance, puppy,” warned Tray. She began to wind her whip back up, in preparation of letting it fly. “But you know what…I think we should take her sheet off first, though…just to make it more fun. What do you think, puppy?”

  More than a few of the Crazies seated in front of the stage began to nod. One even rose up, offering to “…strip the little bitch down!”

  Connor moved quickly—his head falling to Tray’s sandaled foot.

  He took it between his hands and began to lick.

  “That’s it,” Tray grinned. “That’s what I like.” Then, she reached down and touched her knee. “I like it right here, too, puppy.”

  Slowly, Connor rose up and began to lick her knee.

  Tray actually groaned, reaching down and threading her fingers into Connor’s hair. Tugging on it, she pulled his head up to the hem of her booty shorts. “Lick, puppy…lick!”

  The muscles in Connor’s back knitted together in anger.

  Still—he moved farther up, licking the inside of her upper leg. Tray leaned back in apparent ecstasy, her fingers caressing Connor’s head.

  All around her, the crowd of Crazies watching were silent—mouths open in fascination.

  * * * *

  “You know, I should just drown that cur of yours!” The voice that spoke was deep and threatening.

  I tilted my head back toward the entrance gate and my blood ran cold.

  There was an enormous, half-naked boy-man standing in front of the overturned trucks…Brandon!

  He was wearing a pair of skinny black jeans and motorcycle boots; his bronzed muscles, dark tattoos, and the short mohawk he was now sporting made him look like something out of the latest Mad Max movie. A shotgun was threaded over one of his shoulders and a large machete hung down from the belt at his waist.

  “Hey, baby,” said Tray, pushing Connor away from her. “I was just giving the guys a little show.”

  Brandon moved forward a few steps, slowly taking in the crowd on their knees before him. As he did, at least twenty more armed White Shirts emerged from behind the trucks, fanning out around Brandon—taking up defensive positions.

  All around me, Crazies crouched lower to the ground, their faces practically kissing the pavement. Some of them actually began to tremble; one young kid directly across from me inched backward in fear. His movement was hampered by the crowd of guys around him; one of them actually pushed him forward, right back to where the young Crazy had started.

  “And what do we have here?”

  There was a sheeted-slave on her knees just a few feet from the entrance to the market. She was next to her owner, the two of them connected by a chain. Brandon stood over both of them now, pointing down at the slave.

  “Stand up, bitch,” he growled.

  The girl kept her head against the ground, pretending not to hear.

  Immediately, a White Shirt came over and yanked her up, pushing her forward so that she was standing in front of Brandon—a formless ghost, trembling in terror.

  “Let’s just see what you can bring to bed, shall we?” Brandon reached out and ran his hands over the girl, taking his time with her breasts and bottom. When he was done, he looked down at the girl’s owner. “Body’s rockin’, dude. Sorry, but I claim first night.”

  The Crazy didn’t even look up; he simply nodded his acceptance and held up the girl’s chain. Brandon didn’t take it, just motioned to the White Shirt beside him.

  A moment later, the White Shirt walked back through the entrance—dragging the girl behind him.

  Brandon looked up at the stage, grinning. “That’s one, baby. You got a limit on me today?”

  Tray gave a faux-curtsy. “As you would, my liege.”

  With a return-bow, Brandon moved a few steps forward to where another sheeted-girl knelt with her head to the ground. Looking up and down the aisle, I realized with a mounting horror, that she and I were the only slaves left along Brandon’s route to the stage.

  “Stand up,” Brandon ordered the girl; at the same time, he shoved a hand down into his jeans, rearranging himself.

  “You getting excited, baby?” chuckled Tray, from up on the stage.

  “Shut it!” said Brandon, shaking a finger at her. “Or maybe you’ll put on more than that dog-licking show for the guys.” He looked at the Crazies kneeling around him. “What do you say, gentlemen? Any volunteers—get up on stage and go a round or two with my girl…or maybe just go round the world?”

  A few brave Crazies actually lifted their hands into the air.

  Up onstage, Tray actually appeared to have lost some of her bravado. She stepped back, shaking her head, looking down at the stage in an attempt at subservience.

  Interestingly—Orla looked almost giddy.

  Amused with himself, Brandon burst into hearty laughter. Then, he reached out for the sheeted-girl standing in front of him, running his hands over her quickly. Apparently satisfied with what he felt, Brandon pushed her toward a White Shirt. “Add her to the rest.”

  Up on stage, Orla’s giddiness changed to disappointment.

&nbs
p; * * * *

  “The canister…do it now!” hissed Ryan.

  Brandon was walking toward me; he would reach the place where I was kneeling in seconds.

  Trying not to be obvious, I fumbled under my sheet, working the Velcro straps that held the canister to my thigh. Fear lanced through me that I would be too late, that I wouldn’t be able to get to the stink spray before Brandon was upon me.

  Rip-snap! The sound of the Velcro releasing was like a gunshot to me.

  No one else around me seemed to notice, however.

  Beside me, Ryan casually moved his hand, taking my chain from Nate. In all of our preparations for our ‘plan’, not one of us had considered what we might do if Brandon decided to exert ‘first night’ over me.

  Now, Ryan was improvising—becoming my owner, so that Nate would not have to interact with Brandon. As long as no one checked my slave number against Ryan’s, it just might work.

  Releasing the canister from my leg—but still keeping it hidden under my sheet—I pressed down on its release button. Ryan had said that just one spritz would be enough.

  And he was right.

  One was definitely enough.

  Because if I smelled bad before—I STUNK NOW!

  The smell wafted upward, seeping out from beneath the hem of my sheet. Some of the nastiness made its way up to my head—my eyes watering at the stench. Holding my breath, I stifled my gag reflex and the stink pushed its way out through the sheet’s eyeholes.

  Behind me, I heard muffled coughing. I felt bad for the Star at my feet; the poor kid would have gotten some of the worst of it.

  “Up, bitch!”

  Brandon was standing in front of me.

  I rose slowly, careful to keep my head down, so he couldn’t see my eyes. Instead, I stared at his motorcycle boots; they were polished to a deep shine—barely scuffed at all, which was surprising in this new world.

  A hand grabbed suddenly at my breast.

  Then—just as suddenly—the hand was withdrawn.

  “Freaking hell!” cried Brandon, jumping back from me. “Seriously, dude!” He kicked at Ryan, a solid shot that landed near his kidneys. “Like you’re supposed to keep them clean, asshole!”

  Gasping in pain, Ryan held up his hands. “Sorry, sir…she’s been sick. Like real sick!”

  At Ryan’s words, Brandon quickly scuttled a good ten feet away; even the White Shirt with him moved back.

  “Get her out of here,” ordered Brandon. “Like NOW!”

  Pushing up from the ground, trying to ignore the pain in his side, Ryan grabbed my chain and started limping toward the entrance gate. I followed meekly, noting that the Crazies on either side of the aisle moved backward—away from us.

  “Yo, Dude!”

  Ryan stopped—slowly turning around to face Brandon. “Yessir?”

  “That gun at your belt work?”

  “Yessir,” Ryan nodded.

  “Then, take your bitch over to the crapper and shoot her,” Brandon ordered. “You get what I’m saying?”

  My back was to Brandon, but I immediately placed my face in my hands, pretending to sob in terror. Ryan, meanwhile, slowly reached into his belt and pulled out his revolver.

  “If the bitch is so sick she stinks like that,” said Brandon, “sorry, dude, but we can’t take the chance. If you want, I can have one of my guys do it.”

  Ryan shook his head. “It’s okay, sir. I can do it…kind of getting tired of her anyway, you know what I mean.”

  “That sick, not even good for the pot,” Brandon continued. “But tell you what, dude. Finish her off and, if you’re quick enough, might be one or two honeys left to bid on.”

  With a quick nod, Ryan turned away, giving my chain a vicious yank.

  I stumbled, just catching myself before I hit the ground. There was hearty laughter behind me, most of it Brandon’s—although I could hear the higher tones of Tray and Orla in the background.

  God, but I hated those three!

  * * * *

  BAM!! Ryan shot his revolver once, straight into the feces-filled trough.

  Then—making sure we were still alone—he grabbed my chain and we hurried back the way we came.

  “Hopefully, that will be enough to make Brandon think that I actually…um…did what he asked,” Ryan told me. “But we can’t count on it, so we need to get through the checkpoint at Canwood before the slave market is finished. If any one of those White Shirts comes out and sees you, we’re both in big trouble!”

  “What about Nate and Erroll?” I asked, worried. “Shouldn’t we wait for them?”

  “Not here.” Ryan didn’t even slow down, just kept yanking on my chain, moving me quickly between the rows of goods.

  There were still Crazies all around—guys who hadn’t gone to watch the girls being sold. A few furrowed their brows at us as we hurried past—perhaps wondering why we were moving so quickly—but no one tried to stop us.

  The Canwood checkpoint was another matter, however.

  There was a line of guys standing there—most carrying treasures they had bought or traded for in the market—all waiting to be inspected and allowed passage into Agoura Hills.

  “Wait here,” Ryan said, positioning me next to a small white Isuzu; its tires were mysteriously missing and it rested on dented and rusting rims. “Whatever you do, don’t move until I get back.”

  “Where are you going?” I asked, nervously.

  He didn’t answer, just took off for the checkpoint.

  For a moment, I thought that Ryan was going to leave me behind. My worries increased when he approached two of the White Shirts manning the checkpoint and began talking to them, pointing back at me. The White Shirts frowned, listening closely, staring at me with unhappy faces.

  Then—all of a sudden—they began to grin. A moment later, both White Shirts nodded—amused—and clapped Ryan on his back.

  He quickly turned and ran back to me, picking up my chain. “Come on…we need to hurry!”

  “What did you say to them?” I asked, as he rushed me toward the checkpoint.

  “Not now!” was Ryan’s response.

  I quickly shut up—turning my attention to the checkpoint we were nearing.

  Something very odd had happened.

  While Ryan had returned for me, the White Shirts had all moved to either side of the checkpoint exit, leaving a large gap for us to move through. Even the Crazies who had been standing in the inspection line had backed up to the sides of the road.

  Our way out was now completely open.

  “Thanks, guys,” called Ryan.

  He waved at the guards as we moved through the checkpoint. The White Shirts all waved back, some of them laughing uproariously. One of them actually wiggled his butt directly at me when I passed by; another put his hand over his nose and mouth and pretended to gag.

  * * * *

  “You want to tell me what that was all about?”

  Ryan and I were hunkered down in the front seats of a Lexus SUV. We had found the once-expensive vehicle parked along the side road to Alice’s—the same route we expected Nate and Erroll to travel. The doors of the vehicle had been unlocked and the windows tinted, making it the perfect place to wait for the rest of our team.

  We were giving the guys a half hour to show up. After that, we would head for the safehouse and wait for them there.

  “What was what about? You mean at the checkpoint?” Ryan was rooting through the SUV’s door pockets, seeing if there was anything worth scavenging.

  “You know exactly what I’m talking about. So, why were those White Shirts laughing at us?”

  “Actually…they were laughing at you. Because I told them that you’d crapped your pants.” He looked up from his scavenging and gave me a big, mischievous grin. “I told them that I needed to get you cleaned up and back before the slave market ended.”

  “Very nice,” I grumbled. “There’s just no end to my humiliation, is there?”

  Ryan shrugged. “Not really…
sorry.”

  “Not your fault,” I murmured.

  He leaned down and looked under his seat. “Well, what do you know?”

  “What’d you find?”

  “Ta-da!” Ryan pulled out a container of wet wipes. “For you, my lady,” he said, handing them to me.

  “I really stink that bad?”

  “Sooo bad,” he admitted.

  * * * *

  I doubted that the wet wipes did much to rid me of my stench. Still, I did as best I could in that small space, cleaning all my bits and bobs while Ryan politely looked out through his side window. When I was finally finished, he collected all the wipes and—making certain that no one was around—tossed them over a nearby fence.

  Back in the car, he turned to me, asking, “So, you miss the Point, Kaylee?”

  “More than anything,” I answered, truthfully.

  “Then, how come you’re doing this? I mean, really? You’re in charge down there. You could have just as easily stayed back and sent someone else up here to do your dirty work.”

  “I came because it was the right thing to do,” I shrugged.

  “You know what I mean…there has to be more to it than that.”

  “Okay, then—honestly—part of me wants to run screaming back to the Point right now. The other part…well, she’s kind of a pain in the ass even to me, you know…always needing to control everything, I guess.”

  “So, you’re saying that you didn’t think we could take Brandon down without you? Is that it?” Ryan’s words sounded harsh, but I could tell that he didn’t mean them that way; he was simply being curious.

  “I think we all stand a better chance with me here,” I said. “Sorry, but I just do.”

  Not exactly convinced, Ryan checked the time on his old wind-up watch. “Well, I guess we’ll just have to wait and see what Alice has to say about that.”

  “It doesn’t matter what she says,” I grouched, feeling a tad ornery. “Alice isn’t the boss of me.”

  Ryan laughed. “Alice thinks she’s the boss of everything. Guess you two have that in common.”