by Michael Bray
Anderson nodded. "Okay, let me show you around the camp and give you the tour. I can’t take too long, though, as we need to be prepped by nightfall."
"What happens then?"
"If the last few nights are anything to go by, that's when they will attack."
“The men from the city?”
Anderson nodded. “Yeah, they want the dam. We suspect they want to blow it. They’re burning crops and fields. It’s just another tactic to cause fear.”
“Surely you can’t fight them off. I’ve seen what they can do.”
“We can and we have. We have a good defensive position here which helps us. We’ll continue to do it for as long as we can.”
“Sorry, I didn’t mean any offence.”
“No, it’s okay, I’m in a shitty mood today. Tell you what, how about I take you to the commander, see if he can help you with any information about that husband of yours?”
“Thank you, I’d appreciate that.”
“It’s this way, come on,” Anderson said, leading her deeper into the camp. She paused to check that the children were okay, and was happy to see they were being given food and water; some were being wrapped in blankets. She followed Anderson towards the centre of the camp. Anderson led her into a green tent. She blinked, letting her eyes adjust to the gloom. It was set up as a makeshift office, the heat stifling despite the fans set up to move the stifling air around a little.
Commander Mathers was skinny, a narrow moustache on his top lip. Despite the fans rotating on his desk, his face was slick with sweat. Maps and documents were spread across the table, and he looked very much like a man under a lot of pressure who didn’t have a lot of answers.
“What is it, Anderson?” Mathers said.
“Sorry, Commander, it’s a bit of an unusual request.”
“Spit it out. I’m up to my eyeballs here.”
“We picked up a civilian, she says her husband works for Homeland. I just wondered if you might know of him.”
Mathers looked past Anderson to where Suvari stood by the tent entrance. “A lot of people worked at Homeland. What is your husband’s name?
“Atkinson, Marcus Atkinson.”
Anderson and Mathers glanced at each other. “Director Atkinson?” Mathers said.
“Yes, he was in charge there.”
Anderson grinned. “Today is your lucky day. I know exactly who and where he is.”
“He’s here,” Mathers cut in. “He came out to help with the aid effort.”
Relief overcame Suvari, so much so that she couldn’t breathe. “He’s here? Where is he?”
“Anderson?” Mathers said, glancing at his colleague.
“He’s just come back from a supply run. He’s sleeping.”
“Then I suggest you wake him. I imagine these two are keen to be reunited.”
II
Sleep was a luxury he would no longer experience, a small price to pay for his survival. He had staggered back to the camp, covered in blood and delirious. He knew no others would return, and so he told those in charge what they needed to hear, that they had been ambushed and fought back as best they could, but everyone but him were killed. They tried to tell him he was brave, that he should be proud of himself for fighting, but the truth chewed through the lie with ease and filled him with an all-consuming guilt which he knew would never shake. He half hoped someone else would make it back and tell the truth of what had happened and put him out of his misery, but he knew that wouldn’t happen. He had left those men to die when he could have tried to help. He lay awake in his bunk, staring at the roof of the tent and trying to remember who he was before, how his life was when he thought he was a man in control who could make the decisions nobody else could. He knew that man no longer existed and may never have existed at all. He was a sham, a character, someone who crumbled at the first test of actual bravery. He was scum and knew it.
“Marcus?”
He blinked, and looked towards the entrance to the tent, sure it was an illusion or some kind of waking dream. It was his wife. She stood at the entrance with Anderson. She was gaunt and bloody, but it was her.
“Are you real?” he mumbled under his breath.
She came to him. Already crying as she crossed the tent. It was only when they embraced, recalling the familiar feel of their respective spouse, did they truly believe that they were reunited. By some miracle, amid the chaos and the death, they had found each other. She was trying to talk, babbling incoherently. He couldn’t listen. He was crying himself. They simply sat there and held each other. For a while, nothing else mattered, even the vile things he had done.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Alan & Captives
Prison camp 124
Unknown location
The stench of death was thick and had ingrained itself into him. Alan had been at the camp for three days and was starting to think death might be a viable alternative to enduring any more of the hell he was experiencing. Exhausted, dehydrated and hungry, he along with four other fellow prisoners were transporting more bodies to 'the pit', a huge excavation which was half filled with the dead. Some had died through the punishing around-the-clock work schedules. Others had been older people with heart conditions or disabilities which rendered them useless to those in charge and were terminated. Some had tried to escape and had been brutally murdered, often in front of the watching masses as a means to prove a point and act as a deterrent. Just a day earlier, one man had been caught trying to scale the fences and had been led into the centre of the camp. There, in full view of everyone he was subjected to a horrific ordeal as Lucas cut off the man’s feet and forced him to eat them, one toe at a time. Alan had watched, horrified and sickened as the old nursery rhyme raced around his head.
This little piggy went to market, this little piggy stayed at home...
The man sat there, blood pouring from his ravaged stumps, screaming and babbling as he crunched away at his own appendages. Lucas had watched for a while with some amusement, then grown bored and shot the man in the face. The man, however, didn’t die straight away. He lay on his side in the dirt, twitching and somehow breathing through his one remaining nostril. One of Lucas's men moved to finish him off, when Lucas spoke up, making sure everyone could hear.
‘No. Don’t make it easy for him. This man should be left here as an example. He deserves to suffer for what he tried to do.’
Alan and the rest of the prisoners watched, waiting for the man to die. When he didn’t, and he just carried on twitching and snorting and bleeding, people drifted off and went back to work, many of them no longer wishing to watch the ordeal as it unfolded. Others watched for longer, Alan included, willing the man to give up and die. Eventually, they too went to back to work, leaving the twitching man to endure his slow, agony filled death alone. Alan hated himself for it, as he knew others of his group did too, but they returned to their duties as if the man didn’t exist, walking past him without looking, trying to ignore the wet clucking noises coming from his throat. The man lasted all of the night and into the next morning before accepting his fate, and by then, Alan and the others were relieved, as to endure those death throes for any longer would have been enough to drive a man to madness.
Alan now had the man under the armpits, mangled face thrown back, one eye bulging out of its shattered skull as he carried him to his final resting place. Andy, the man who had helped Alan when he was captured, had a twin handful of his bloody jeans legs, the stumps within flopping against the material as the two walked to the smouldering pit filled with bodies. From the ridge above, Lucas’s men watched.
"How's the mouth?" Andy said between breaths as they started downhill towards the pit.
"Itsh noth thoo badh," Alan said, still struggling to formulate words.
"It looks fucked up man, you must be hurting."
Alan nodded.
"Still," Andy added, glancing at the body they were carrying. "It could have been worse, you know?"
"I needh tho
geth tho my wifth," Alan grunted, frustrated and angry.
"You know that's impossible. She's up there in the barn. I know it must hurt like hell man, but you need to let that go. It’s over for her."
"I'd ftheel bether ifth I knew whath they were doingth in thhere."
Andy opened his mouth, then closed it and looked away. He almost lost his footing and grunted.
"Whath were you abouth tho sthay?"
"Nothin', just forget it."
"Ifth you know somethin' you shoudth thell me."
"Look, forget it all right? It won’t help you."
"Ishn't thath my dethishion?"
They reached the edge of the pit, the rancid stench of burning flesh, hair and decay unbearable. They looked into it, the tangle of smouldering arms and legs making it impossible to tell how many bodies were there. Flies buzzed and darted like a cloud, an angry ever present drone.
"Fucking flies," Andy grunted as he let go of one leg wiping a grimy forearm against his head, leaving a dirty streak.
"Andhy..."
"Alright, alright, I'll tell you. Just don’t say I didn’t warn you. You won’t like it."
"Thankth"
"Don’t thank me yet. You haven’t heard it. Before I say anything, let’s do what we came here to do before these pricks put us down there with them."
Andy nodded.
"Alright, on three as usual. Ready?"
Another nod from Andy as they started to swing the corpse back and forth.
"One... Two... Three!"
They let go at the highest point of the swing, watching as the footless body tumbled down the side, arms and legs twisted like a ragdoll. He came to rest at the bottom in a half sitting pose, one leg tucked under him, the other stretched out in front, head lolling as if he were taking in the putrid aroma of his fellow dead.
"Jesus, I could have done without seeing that," Andy muttered. As they turned back and started to climb the hill, both were content to remain silent as they struggled with their efforts. At the top, the rest of the bodies waited. There were nine more in all. Keeping their heads down to avoid eye contact with their armed chaperones, Alan and Andy sucked in as much air as they could before grabbing the next body, disturbing more flies who were exploring the strange terrain of the dead man's face. This time, Andy took the heavier head end and Alan the feet. This one had been a suicide. He had hung himself with his bootlaces. Angry looking purple bruises around the skinny man's neck stood in stark contrast against his pale skin. On his inner bicep was a tattoo of the American flag erected in the debris of the World Trade centre attack, below which in swirling script was inked: 'Never give up'.
They remained silent until they were out of earshot of the guards, then, sensing Alan was about to ask again, Andy spoke.
"You remember the guy from the truck when we first met? Mike? The guy in the overalls?"
"The one who wath thalkin abouth thombieth?"
"Yeah, that’s him. Zombie guy. Anyways, yesterday, they sent him up to the barn."
"Whath fthor?"
"He's a mechanic, or, at least, he was in the old world. Anyways, they saw he had his uniform on and so they dragged him up there to look at a generator that was busted."
"He never saith anthigth,"
"Well, I asked him not to considering you're the only one of our group with a wife. Anyway, that’s getting ahead of the point. So they take him up there and show him inside to where this generator is that needs to be fixed, only Mike can't pay any attention to what these guys are showing him because of what they're doing in there."
"Whath isth ith?"
Andy swallowed as they neared the pit, the acrid taste of death thick in his throat.
"Anthy?"
"It's like some kind of breeding house," He blurted, flicking a quick glance to Alan and then looking away again.
"Whath do you mean?"
"He said they have all the women in there, right? And they're strapped upright on these tables. Legs apart, arms above their heads. They're..." he hesitated, glancing again at Alan, who was watching him. "They're naked, all of them. Mike said they all look the same, heads shaved. What happens is, the men, they go in there and they take turns at having their way with them. Mike said the noise was unbearable. They're trying to impregnate them, make them carry their seed or some fucked up shit like that."
"Rape?" Alan said, the word for once perfectly formed.
"Yeah, multiple times a day by man after man after man. They have them hooked up to these drips which feed them, keep them nourished. It seems like that's their sole existence. Mike said there are around fifty of them in there, each strapped to their own table, each a unique 'station'. He said above each is the word ‘Eve’ and then a number. Eve one, Eve two, that kind of thing. He said..."
Andy looked away, swallowing the words.
"Jusht shay ith," Alan grunted as his heart raced and visions of his wife danced around his brain.
"He was only there for a few hours, but even in that time he saw man after man come in and just... well, you know."
"Wath my wifth there?" Alan said in a near whisper.
"I don’t know man, I don’t know what your wife looks like. You should talk to Mike. He was there. He's going back up there again tomorrow, so if you can describe her, he might be able to tell you. I'm sorry man, I really am. I hated to have to tell you this."
Alan barely heard him. He was thinking instead of how little use it would be for him to try and describe his wife in a way that Mike would understand, especially if all the women had shaved heads. He knew he would need to get there himself. He had already lost his children. Even if it cost him his own life, he was determined to get in there and set her free.
II
Later, after their exhausting eighteen hour work day was done, the men were allowed to rest. Ushered into large communal buildings which they had constructed, the men were, for the next five hours able to relax in the best way they could. With no beds to sleep on and given meagre scraps of food and just enough water to keep them ticking over, the cabin was filled with ghoulish, terrified faces of the weary who rested where they could, some sitting, others lying down. Some, like Mike and Andy, were still strong and seemed to be coping with the new regime. Others were struggling to handle both circumstances and workload. Alan thought it was interesting how easy it was to see who was strong and who was weak, and he thought he could gauge how long many of them would last. Ignoring his aching body, Alan sat on the floor next to Mike. He said nothing, simply staring straight ahead at the opposite wall.
"Andy said he told you about the barn," Mike said, glancing at Alan. "Whatever it is you have in mind, you should forget it."
"I need to geth in there. I neeth to sthee for mysefth."
"There's no way to get in there. I understand why you want to, but believe me, you don't need to see that."
Alan closed his eyes, dislodging the tears which he had so far held back. "She's all I hath letht."
Mike glanced at him, then turned away. "Believe me, the best thing you can do now is forget about her. I'm not telling you that to be an asshole, but for your own good."
"How can I forgeth? Sheth my futhing wifth,"
"Hey, take it easy," Mike whispered, ignoring the few glances which came their way. “I'm just trying to help you."
"Then geth me in there."
"And say I do, then what?" Mike snapped. "If by some miracle you get in there and see her, what then? You will still be in the same position as you are now, only you will have seen how fucking horrific it is and won’t ever be able to get the image of it out of your head, that’s the best case scenario. Worst case is they catch you and make an example of you. That Lucas is a sadistic son of a bitch. You know that as well as I do."
"Itsth worseth noth knowing."
"No, it isn’t," Mike replied, finally looking at Alan. His eyes were wide and white in the gloom. "I don’t think you get what it’s like in there, so as much as I don’t want to re-live it, I’l
l do it to stop you from doing something stupid."
Alan waited, only half sure he wanted to hear what was to come.
"As bad as we think it is out here, with the death and the fear, it's nothing compared to what those women are going through. When I was in there fixing the generator, trying to ignore the screams and the begging, I counted thirty six men who came in there and did things to those women which were borderline inhuman. One poor woman on the station nearest to the generator, Eve station twenty, was raped eleven times just whilst I was there. Eleven. The girl only looked to be in her early fuckin' twenties at best."
Mike had an audience now, curious ghouls who hung on every word. He went on, knowing if he stopped he would never tell it.
"As if the sight of it wasn’t bad enough, the noise is worse. Those men come in and they pound away. It's violent, it’s brutal, they swear and they kick and punch. Some of the women squirm and try to fight back, but the men seem to like that more. Another thing too. It's hot in there, really hot. The smell of sex and fear is overwhelming. It's like hell on earth. I’m not a man easily disturbed or upset, but the sight of those women is one of the most tragic things I've ever seen, even after everything that has happened. I’m not a violent man, not by any means, but I swear that if I had the chance, I would kill every last one of those women and put them out of their misery just so it would end their suffering. That’s why, if you're asking me to help you, the answer is no, and nothing you can say or do will change my mind. I’m sorry, but I hope you understand."
Alan didn’t respond. He did understand, and knew all too well whatever he was about to do, he would have to do alone. Without a word, he lay on the floor and turned onto his side. He had no intention of sleeping. Even if he had, he wasn’t sure he would be able to now with Mike’s words ringing in his mind. Instead, he started to formulate ideas and plans about how he could get up to the barn and see his wife.
