by Brian Keene
Defiantly, she sank her teeth into Miccelli's calf, relishing his screams as his blood welled around her mouth.
That was when they raped her.
Frankie made no sound; did not move-even as they laughed, even when the pain started, even as they thrust in and out of her orifices, as she was battered inside and out, as they spilled their semen on her stomach and face. She lay completely still; drifted, going to her special place and reminding herself that it wasn't so bad, it was just like any other business transaction, and if she submitted, she would live.
Don't be ashamed, she reminded herself. It's not your fault. You can't fight back now. If you do, they'll kill you. It's just your body. They can't touch your mind.
She stayed in the secret place as Kramer relieved Miller at the wheel, and the Staff Sergeant took his turn with her.
In the secret place, she did not think about heroin or the baby.
This time, her fantasies were of revenge.
I'm a survivor. I've lived through worse, I can live through this.
Grunting in orgasm, Miller rolled off her prone form and wiped himself on her shirt.
"What do you think of that, bitch?"
"Is that the best you three can do?" Frankie replied. "I bet your wives all left you, didn't they?"
"She needs to be hosed off," Miccelli muttered. "Hold her down, will you Sarge?"
Perched atop her, Miller straddled her breasts, crushing her back to the floor. Miccelli unzipped his pants and urinated, the bitter yellow stream arcing over her face and running in rivulets down her neck.
Frankie closed her eyes against the flow, gagging and coughing as the urine flowed over her eyes and nostrils and mouth.
"Don't you hit me with it!" Miller warned, then joined them in laughter.
"You bastards!" Skip groaned from his seat. "Leave her alone!"
Miller backhanded him, and Skip's already swollen lips burst open again.
"Don't worry about your girlfriend, Private. Better worry about yourself instead."
"Feel better after your shower?" Miccelli jeered.
"Shit," Frankie grinned. "My pimp was doing that when I was seventeen, you dickhead. And he did it better. At least he had a prick to pee with."
Miller and Kramer laughed at this, and Miccelli glared down at her.
"We'll see how you talk after the rest of the boys have had a turn with you."
He raised his foot, aiming a kick at her head, but Miller stopped him.
"Enough. Don't mess her face up. Let her rest for now. She'll be getting hers soon enough, that's for sure."
They went to work on Skip next.
Frankie was horrified by the same things Baker had seen as they drove into town, but she stared at them anyway so she wouldn't have to see Skip's face. Kramer, Miller and Miccelli had taken turns with him, just as they had her, and while he hadn't been raped, physically he was in worse shape than she was.
His broken nose had swollen to a bulbous, fleshy knob, and dried blood had crusted both nostrils. More blood caked his battered lips and when he breathed through his mouth, she could see the raw spaces where teeth were missing. There was a massive gash above his left eyebrow and another on his forehead. The skin of his right cheek had been flayed open and hung in a flap down the side of his face. One eye had swollen shut and the other was dark and bruised.
Despite all of this, he had remained conscious, and Frankie thought that perhaps that was the most horrible part of all. Skip apparently had no secret place in which to mentally retreat. He had been brave at first, but after numerous merciless and savage blows and cuts, he had begun to scream. It was a long time before he stopped.
The screams still rang in her ears, though now the injured man only wheezed.
The squad was met by Second Lieutenant Torres, just as Michaels' squad had been, and were given their orders. Torres nodded grimly when he was informed of Skip's dissent, and ordered him confined to the containment center.
"Put her with the rest of the whores and let her get cleaned up," Miller told Kramer after Torres had left. "And Miccelli, you take this traitorous fuck over to the movie theater like the Lieutenant said. I've gotta go to the debriefing."
Kramer grabbed Frankie's arm and dragged her away, while Miccelli forced Skip to walk ahead of him at gunpoint. Suddenly, Frankie whirled.
"Skip!"
He turned slowly, with great effort, and Miccelli shoved the gun into his back.
"Thank you," she said simply, and despite the pain that it caused him, Skip smiled at her. It was a horrible image to behold, and Frankie had to struggle not to turn away at the sight. Then Miccelli shoved him, leading him away from her.
"Blow your boyfriend a kiss goodbye," Kramer jeered. "You won't be seeing him again."
"You're name's Private Kramer, right?" Frankie asked.
"Private First Class Kramer," he corrected her, puffing out his chest proudly. "And don't you forget it."
"First class asshole is more like it," Frankie said calmly. "Before this is all over, Private First Class Kramer, I'm going to kill you. And don't you forget it."
He glared at her, his face turning red with fury. He swung the M-16 up, aiming it at her face and grunted something unintelligible.
"What was that?"
"I said move!" he screamed.
As she let him lead her away, Frankie couldn't help but smile. Miller entered the debriefing room to find Michaels, Torres, Captains Gonzalez and McFarland, and Colonel Schow already seated and waiting for him. A service station map of the state of Pennsylvania hung from one wall and a topographical survey map hung from another. He snapped off a quick salute, poured himself a cup of instant coffee, and took a seat next to Michaels.
"Sorry if I kept you all waiting."
"That's quite alright," Colonel Schow smiled. "Sip your coffee and relax, Sergeant Miller." His voice was soft, and there were times when the other men had to strain to hear it; but it was also cold.
Very, very cold.
Schow was not a big man, but his presence filled the room regardless.
His five-foot eight, one hundred and seventy-five-pound frame wasn't imposing, but the way he carried it was. He moved like a cat; swift, graceful and deadly. He never raised his voice above the brittle, clipped tone, but when he spoke, people listened. He displayed the uncanny ability to finish the thoughts and sentences of those under his command, almost as if he could read minds. But perhaps the most disconcerting thing about him, Miller thought, was that Colonel Schow never blinked.
Never. He'd bet Michaels a case of beer on it one time, back when they were still both new recruits, fresh out of boot camp, and he'd won.
Schow was like a snake; silent and watchful.
And venomous.
Captain Gonzalez cleared his throat.
"Staff Sergeant Michaels, why don't you begin." It was not a question.
"Yes sir. We did recon on Harrisburg. The city is uninhabitable. High undead concentration, and what survivors are left are mostly marauders-gang-bangers, bikers-groups like that. No heavy weaponry-nothing that would withstand an armored regiment at least. We could take it as an expansion base, but if we went in, we'd be doing a lot of urban combat, for which the tanks would be useless; we'd just destroy what we were trying to obtain. They have enough resistance to where I feel our casualties would be excessive. The city presents no desirable incentive for re-supply either, as scavengers have looted most of the non-perishable food stores and other goods."
"What about the two prisoners you captured, Sergeant?" Schow asked. Tell us about them."
"Well sir, we ran into them, almost literally, on the return trip. The zombies launched an aerial and ground attack, primarily using undead birds. During the skirmish, we lost Private Warner."
"Otherwise you were unscathed?" Schow interrupted.
"Yes sir."
"That's acceptable then. Please continue."
"During the confrontation, we encountered the two men in question, and
after obtaining their I.D., we were able to determine that one of them worked for the Havenbrook National Laboratories facility in Hellertown; a Professor William Baker. He was the director for the RHIC project. You might remember that from the news?"
"That thing that was gonna make a black hole, right?" Miller asked.
"The Relativistic Heavy Ion Collider." Schowsteepled his fingers together. There was a series of fascinating articles about it in several of the trade publications."
"Well, that's what this Baker was working on." Michaels pulled Baker's identification from his pocket and slid it across the table. "Pretty high level security clearance, I would think."
"The highest," Schow mused, then passed the laminated badge to Gonzalez and McFarland. "As Director, he would have had access to virtually everything in the facility."
"Permission to speak, Colonel?" Miller interrupted.
"Go ahead."
"Begging your pardon, but how does this help us?"
Schow paused, his thin smile parting to reveal a set of gleaming white teeth.
"Havenbrook was one of the U.S. Government's foremost research facilities, Sergeant. That's what the public was told. Forget what your amateur conspiracy theorists said about Area 51 and GroomLake. Oh, those facilities exist as well, as most Americans know, but they are used for mostly experimental aircraft development."
"Havenbrook," Gonzalez told him, picking up where the colonel had finished, "was, among other things, a weapons lab. Biological, chemical, ballistics-you name it, they did it. They had more bugs than FortDeitrich."
"So we're gonna help ourselves to the arsenal?" Miller guessed.
"You only see part of the picture, Sergeant," Schow told him.
"Havenbrook is vast-huge. It would have to be, to contain all of those different projects. On the surface, it looks like any other facility.
Heavy security around the perimeter, but once inside there's only a few office buildings, or perhaps a hangar or two. That's because the majority of the complex is underground. From what I've read, there are miles of tunnels. It's impregnable."
Miller whistled. "That would make one hell of a base of operations."
"Indeed," Schow grinned, "Think of the possibilities that presents.
Every day, we are beset by more and more of these creatures. The Sons of the Constitution militia holds sway over much of Western Pennsylvania and it is only a matter of time before they turn this way. Renegade, makeshift armies squabble in the ruins and all the while these creatures multiply. We need to establish a permanent stronghold, something other than Gettysburg. Otherwise, we won't last the winter here. Indeed, we'll be lucky to last another month, because despite all of our weaponry and manpower, we are dealing with a primary enemy that has a distinct advantage over us. It needs only a dead body. These days, the number of dead bodies far outweigh the number of living. We are not fighting for conquest or land or ideals. We are fighting for survival-for our very right to stay alive! And only the strong can do that. This thing that has happened is nature's way of winnowing out the weak. But we are not weak, are we men? No! We are strong! That's what those civilians out there don't understand. They think us cruel and harsh because of our means. But the fact that they do not agree with our methods proves them weak, and therefore, unfit to survive. This is a war that we must win, and Havenbrook may prove a very suitable place to start doing just that."
He paused, took a sip of coffee, and then finished. "And now Miller, in the popular idiom of today's youth, you know what time it is."
"Is this Baker cooperative?" McFarland asked Michaels.
"Not so far," the Sergeant told him, "but I'm sure he can be persuaded to be."
"What about the other man that was taken with him?"
"No, just a deaf mute-a retard of some kind. Not sure how they came to be together, but the scientist definitely has a bond with him."
"Then he'll cooperate," Schow said. "Have them brought to me. I want to learn everything this man knows about Havenbrook before we go there.
Layout and design, if there is still power functioning, what security systems are still working, manpower, and most importantly, how many of those things are holed up there, if any. He'll serve as a very useful tour guide, I believe."
Pursing his lips, he blew on his coffee to cool it, took a sip, and then turned to Miller.
"Now, Sergeant, I'd like you to advise us of your findings." Miller reported all that had transpired on the mission. When he was finished, they sat in silence for a moment.
"That's a shame about Private Skip," Torres said finally. "I actually liked that kid."
"Perhaps we can use his punishment for insubordination as a learning tool for our new resident scientist. Lieutenant Torres, have the helicopter made ready. I want all three prisoners, our wayward Private, the Professor, and his unfortunate companion, brought to me. We're taking them for a little ride."
"If we put him in with the rest of the townies, they'll rip him apart when they come back from their work details tonight, just like the zombies would."
Baker recognized the voice outside the door as Lapine's, and he pulled his feet off the ledge where he'd propped them while he rested. The key clinked in the lock and the chains rattled as they were drawn away from the door. Worm noticed Baker's quick movements and followed his pensive stare.
The door to the balcony swung open, and a severely battered soldier stood flanked by four armed guardsmen, as well as Lapine. They shoved the injured man forward and the door slammed shut behind them.
The man sprawled over the back of the chair and then collapsed, huddled and twitching, onto the seat.
"Are you okay?" Baker took a tentative step towards him.
"Ahm fyn," the man mumbled through his ruined mouth. "Mah namez Schip."
Jesus, he sounds like Worm! Baker thought.
"I'm William Baker, and this is my companion Worm."
"Hu were on Shee Enn Enn-the blak hole mashine."
"Yes, I was on CNN," Baker admitted in surprise.
"You remember me?"
"Shoor, buht kin hu echzcuse mee fo' a shecond?" the man grinned, and pink drool ran down his mangled cheek. He bent over, coughed, and then spit three broken teeth and a wad of bloody phlegm onto the floor. Baker stared, horrified.
"Sorry about that." His voice, while still hoarse, was clearer now, but Baker could still see that it hurt him to talk.
"It's okay," Baker assured him. "Let's take a look at you, Mr. Skip. I'm afraid the light in here isn't so good, but I'll see what I can do."
"You a medical doctor too?" Skip winced as Baker gently but firmly felt his head.
"No, but I did take pre-med in college." He turned Skip's head to the left and right. "Does that hurt?"
"Yes," Skip grimaced "but that's okay."
"What happened to you?"
"This is what happens when you don't follow orders. What about you guys?
They raid the Hellertown facility?"
"No," Baker answered, "but how do you know so much about us?"
"I told you-I saw it on CNN. You guys were the ones working on the black hole machine. Had some other guys working on sentient computers and cloning and all kinds of stuff."
"The Relativistic Heavy Ion Collider was what I worked on-what you called the black hole machine. It was just one of many projects, and they kept us pretty much in the dark about the others so I can't verify those."
"Well Professor, you better hope Schow doesn't know about the others.
That's why you're here, right?"
"It would seem so, yes. They said he would want to question us. They seemed to think Hellertown was primarily some type of weapons lab."
"So how'd they get you, and who's he?" Skip cocked a thumb at Worm, who was staring down into the theatre.
"I guess you could call him my son, of sorts. I'm his guardian at least. I found him during my travels and I've become quite attached to him. He's a remarkable young man. As to your first question, we were ca
ptured by some of your fellow National Guardsmen near Harrisburg. I take it you're from the same platoon or squadron?"
"Something like that," Skip agreed, not in the mood to give a lesson in military terminology. "But I ain't like the rest of them. They're animals. And Schow's the worst. Him and McFarland and Gonzalez. They're fucking crazy!"
He spat more blood over the side of the balcony. It made a distant splat below. Worm watched it, giggled, and then followed suit. Skip grinned at him and ruffled his hair.
"What will this Colonel Schow do to us?" Baker asked.
