by Smith, Bryan
At least here in her cell she had weapons. She could protect herself from any bitch dumb enough to come at her with some flimsy shank. The other thing she had on her side was uncertainty. Her fellow inmates knew she had things at her disposal they did not, but they didn’t know the extent of that. As far as they knew, she could be holed-up in here with an array of high-powered firearms. She wasn’t, but that didn’t matter. All she had to do was keep the privacy curtain shut and let their imaginations do the work for her.
About an hour and a half after Jessica’s untimely departure, she heard voices outside her cell. There were multiple women out there, speaking in hushed tones. Gripping the handle of the meat cleaver tighter, Alice leaned forward on the edge of the futon, shaking with fear as she strained to make out what was being said. It was no use. They were speaking too quietly. She debated easing herself off the futon and walking as softly as she could across the cell in order to better hear what was being said, but terror of being heard kept her where she was.
The voices on the landing abruptly fell silent. Alice became intensely aware of the sound of her breathing and the hammering of her heart in her chest. These things seemed as loud as the percussion instruments at a college football halftime show.
Please go away, she thought. Please, please go away.
She shrieked in fright as the privacy curtain was swept aside, the metal rings squealing as they slid along the rod that held it up. When she saw who was out there, she started to tremble and tears welled in her eyes.
Several members of the Frauenschaft leered in at her, big, predatory smiles on their lovely faces. Lina, the leader, stood at the front of the group. The look on her face was equal measures triumph and disdain.
No. Not disdain. Not exactly.
This was more like utter contempt.
Another member of the gang tossed something into the cell. It struck the shag rug dead-center and rolled to a stop at Alice’s feet. The thing on the floor was Sam’s severed head.
Alice screeched and scooted backward on the futon, brandishing the meat cleaver in her shaking hand as the women came into the cell. There were more of them than she’d thought, at least a dozen, perhaps more. There were so many they filled the cell, crowded around her.
“Stay back!” she yelled at them, hearing the shameful quaver in her voice. “Stay away from me! You better go away!”
Lina laughed. “Or what?”
Alice whimpered, her hand shaking harder than ever. The meat cleaver nearly slipped from her grasp multiple times. “Or my people will get you. They’ll punish you.”
Lina laughed again, louder this time. Some of the others laughed, too. “Oh, they will, will they?”
“Yes!” Tears were rolling down Alice’s face now. She was aware of how ludicrous this attempt at intimidation was sounding under the circumstances, but she couldn’t help herself. “Go away or…or…you’ll be sorry.”
They were all laughing now. It ceased when Lina gestured for them to stop.
The Frauenschaft leader came closer, so close that she was within chopping distance of the cleaver. She was showing how unafraid she was. Indeed, when Alice belatedly took a weak swipe at her with the weapon, the woman easily plucked it from her fingers. One of the other Nazi girls giggled when this happened.
“You’re pitiful, Alice. And you’re sad little reign here is over. You want to know why?”
Alice sniffled. “Wh-why?”
“Because you represent everything that was wrong about the old way of doing things. Whereas my girls and I are at the forefront of a bold new revolution.”
Alice frowned. “I…don’t understand.”
Lina smiled. “You wouldn’t. You’re not one of us. You’re not fit to be one of us. But I’ll tell you anyway, because it’s so glorious. After tonight, everything changes. This facility is being repurposed as a training center for Aryan super warrior goddesses. Bitches like you, the ones who aren’t good enough, you’ll all be dead after tomorrow. And those of us who have been chosen will lead the way as the true and eternal Reich rises again and conquers the fucking world!”
Alice stared blankly back at Lina for a moment.
Then she couldn’t help it.
She laughed. “What?” She laughed some more. “Are you fucking kidding me with that shit?”
She kept on laughing, overwhelmed by the seeming absurdity of what she’d heard, her terror forgotten for the moment.
Lina’s smile faded as she shook her head.
“No, Alice. I’m not kidding.”
She raised the meat cleaver high over her head, her face twisting in a snarl of rage as she brought the heavy blade down and buried it in Alice Kincaid’s skull.
31.
Helga had been hog-tied and gagged and left naked on Ms. Wickman’s bedroom floor. She drifted in and out of consciousness over an indeterminate period. Sometimes she woke to total silence and knew no one else was nearby. Other times she heard dim voices coming from the direction of the warden’s office. The office was soundproofed, but Ms. Wickman had left the door connecting the office and her living quarters open a crack. She strained to hear what the voices were saying, but their words were indistinct.
She longed to call out for help, but the gag in her mouth made that difficult. Even if she could make herself heard, there was no guarantee the person the warden was talking to would be someone inclined to help her. Fear of incurring more of the warden’s wrath kept her quiet.
Recognizing the futility of any attempt to summon help—at least under the current circumstances—she instead focused her efforts on trying to free herself from her bonds. She had led what could fairly be described as an interesting life and had been trussed-up in similar fashion a few times before, sometimes in play situations, sometimes not.
With enough determination, getting out of even the tightest, most complicated knots wasn’t impossible. She had been hog-tied with a single long, sturdy piece of rope. Given the warden’s sadomasochistic sexual leanings and array of related toys she kept on hand, Helga was surprised she hadn’t been put in shackles or in a cage. That would have reduced the possibility of escape to somewhere in the zero percentile range. But these bonds weren’t even that tight. She had no doubt she could work her way out of them. What was less certain was whether she would have the time to make that happen.
Complicating things was the lingering pain from the whipping she’d taken earlier. Every twist of her limbs resulted in another teeth-gritting wave of agony. Several lashes from the whip had opened her flesh, gashes that were still throbbing and leaking blood. The physical pain, however, didn’t bother her as much as the psychological side of it.
A short while ago she’d been offered the opportunity of a lifetime. She’d felt on top of the world. It was galling to think she’d gone from that to the humiliation of being flogged like a horse in so brief a period of time. The need for revenge was strong within her and added fuel to her determination to get free.
She was making real progress when the shots rang out from the office, making her freeze in shock as her breath caught in her throat. Three reports from a pistol, in quick succession. She heard bodies hit the floor. Then more voices. Female voices. She was sure one of them was Ms. Wickman. Then the voices fell silent and shortly afterward she heard the outer door to the office open as the warden and whoever was with her departed.
It was no great leap to conclude that the warden was in the process of fleeing the prison grounds. Helga wanted to believe escape would be difficult. From what she understood, Ms. Ludmire’s plan to effect a swift and forceful transition was already largely in place. But Helga knew the warden well. The woman was ruthless and willing to do anything necessary in any situation. This was truer than ever now that she had nothing to lose.
Helga did not want to see the bitch get away.
She went back to work on getting free.
Livia Collins yelped in surprise when the infirmary’s double doors banged open mor
e than a half hour after her murder of the guard. In that time, she had taken no further steps to cover up her bloody activities. The guard was still dead on the floor. Dr. Woronov’s corpse was still on the gurney. Livia had not moved from her leaning position against Spider’s bed. She was numb from everything that had happened and clueless about what to do next.
Livia had never been the suicidal type, but cutting her own throat with the blood-stained scalpel still clutched in her hand was starting to seem like a viable option.
Then those doors banged open.
The gurney bearing the dead doctor’s body was almost right up against the doors and the force of them being shoved open sent it rolling through the open space between the rows of beds. It came to a stop when it drifted sideways and clanged against a supply cart.
Trepidation followed this initial moment of surprised fright as Ms. Wickman and a blonde woman in SS garb came strutting into the infirmary. At first she thought the blonde was Helga Von Trammpe, but a longer look told her otherwise. Though she couldn’t immediately place the blonde, she looked vaguely familiar. Livia was certain she’d seen her before.
Then it came to her.
She was one of the recent inmate arrivals. Jessica something-or-other. Livia had administered her inoculations only about a week ago. At the time she’d been in her standard-issue orange inmate jumper. Now she was in SS black and carrying a machine gun.
Livia was flabbergasted.
What the fuck is going on?
The warden and the inmate-turned-stormtrooper came to a stop as they arrived at Spider’s bed. Spider did not look happy to see the blonde, staring at her through eyes narrowed to hateful slits. It was the most emotion Livia had seen from the woman since her arrival in the infirmary yesterday afternoon.
“I’ll get right to the point,” the warden said, her tone brisk and authoritative. “We are leaving Prison 13. By this time tomorrow, everyone here not in league with the Frauenschaft will be dead. I am giving both of you a chance to come with us and live. All you have to do is play your parts in the scenario I am about to describe.” A frosty smile touched the corners of her thin lips. “Now tell me, ladies. Do you want to live?”
Livia and Spider exchanged a glance. Something passed between them. For Livia, it was a weird thing. She and this woman had been on opposite sides of the Prison 13 power equation until this very moment.
Now they were the same.
They looked at the warden and spoke nearly in unison as each woman said, “Yes.”
Jessica maintained a brisk pace as she walked alongside Ms. Wickman down a wide hallway. The warden was moving in the purposeful way of a person brimming with confidence and authority, moving quickly without appearing to hurry. This was in part her natural way of carrying herself, but now there was also an element of façade about it.
She was working to exude an air of normality as they made their way through the prison complex. This was important, because although she was about to be deposed, not everyone here knew that yet. In fact, a successful exit from this place hinged on the hope that the bulk of the prison’s current staff remained unaware of the specifics of the transition. Most had heard the rumblings of an imminent “big change”, but it was not likely they would yet be privy to the details.
Some of this was what the warden had told Jessica and some of it was intuition. Again, it was like her old days of working a black ops job in the field. She sensed much of what was in the warden’s mind without her having to explicitly lay it out for her. It came through almost as clearly as Spider’s smoldering hatred.
She wondered what Spider would think if she knew her former cellmate was the only reason she was getting a chance at a way out of this place. Things were happening quickly and they were doing their best to stay a step ahead of the game. This meant there was a bit of time for fast action and not much at all for words. Thus there’d been no opportunity to tell Spider this part of it had been her idea.
Spider and the nurse were behind them. The gurney’s wheels rattled on the tiled floor as the nurse pushed it along, doing her best to keep up with them. Their cover story was simple. Spider was a senior staff member with a serious illness that couldn’t be treated on the premises. She needed to be taken to an off-site facility capable of providing state-of-the-art medical care. The nurse would be accompanying her on the trip in case a need to administer emergency care arose,
The warden and “Helga Von Trammpe” (aka Jessica) were acting as VIP escort to the transport center. On the surface, it was a believable enough story. The warden liked the plan because it gave her a semi-valid reason to get to a place of egress from the prison without signaling an intent to leave. She was just here to see off one of her colleagues. It was some made-up-on-the-fly bullshit, but hopefully it would hold up until they were in the air and flying away from this place.
If not, Jessica fully intended to kill every last motherfucker who got in her way. One way or another, she meant to get to that transport center.
According to the warden, Prison 13 was a rectangle, with the four cellblocks at the corners. The transport center was in a smaller building at the center of the complex. Atop the building was a heliport. Each cellblock had a long passageway that led to the center. There were security checkpoints at either end of the passageways. Once they were past that second checkpoint, they would be nearly home-free.
In theory, gaining access to the transport center could be accomplished without shedding any blood. Commandeering a whirlybird might not be as easy. Any number of variables could go wrong. Objections might be raised once it became clear they all intended to board one of the helicopters. Or an alert to be on the lookout for the warden might come down at a disadvantageous time should the bodies in her office be discovered prematurely. Something else impossible to anticipate could go wrong. It might become necessary to shoot some people.
Conscious of the possibility that a violent confrontation could erupt at any moment, Jessica kept a steady grip on the M 42 machine gun as they neared the first checkpoint. The weapon, liberated from one of the SS men she’d killed earlier, was either a precise replica of the old Nazi weapon of war or it was a remarkably well-maintained relic of the WW2 era. Either way, the machine gun and the “borrowed” clothes made her feel a bit like an actor in a costume. There was a lot about the situation that bordered on the surreal. It was easy to imagine a film crew following along behind them with a Steadicam.
The first checkpoint was manned by two bored-looking men wearing the uniforms of Prison 13 guards, which meant they were unlikely to have been informed of the true nature of the change coming to the facility. This was more of the warden’s theorizing and it made sense to Jessica. There would no place for men like these in the new order. Therefore they were expendables, as were all other members of regular prison staff and most of the inmates. A massacre was on the horizon. No one inclined to talk would be left alive to tell the tale of the horrors that had happened here.
Jessica felt bad for the inmates. Some of them were genuinely bad people, sure, but you could say the same for any random cross-section of normal society. Most of them were just unfortunate women who’d been consigned here for the simple mistake of being involved with the wrong well-connected man. Unfortunately, she would not be able to save them. She would be lucky if she could save herself.
One of the guards came half-heartedly to attention as the warden and the women with her arrived at the checkpoint. The other man remained where he was, slouched down in a chair that sat against the wall to their left, beefy arms folded over a protruding gut. His uniform was rumpled and he hadn’t shaved in days.
The other guard, who’d risen from a chair placed against the opposite wall, looked only a shade less slovenly. His grooming was better, but his uniform also had a rumpled, slept-in look. “Warden,” he said, acknowledging Ms. Wickman’s authority with a lazy salute. The gesture had no true conviction behind it whatsoever. “Business with transport today?�
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Ms. Wickman nodded. “Indeed, I have.”
She gave a crisp recounting of their cover story, resisting any temptation to add further embellishments. This was smart. A story with too many layers to it could trip them up. The simpler they kept it, the better.
Jessica kept a close eye on both guards as the warden talked. The one in the chair was paging through an old skin magazine. Light from the overhead fluorescents gleamed on the glossy pages. He wasn’t paying any attention to them. The other man’s bored expression hardly changed as he listened to the warden. If anything, he looked even more bored as she went on.
He cocked his head to one side and glanced at the nurse and the woman on the gurney. The scrutiny he gave them was cursory at best. What he was seeing matched what he was being told. The woman addressing him was his boss. There was nothing here to stir any suspicions.
“Step this way,” he said, indicating for them to bypass the metal detector that stood midway between where the men were posted and the entrance to the transport center passageway.
He moved ahead of them and thumbed a button on a wall panel. There was a loud buzz and the door to the passageway came open. He stepped into the passageway and held the door open for the women as they filed through it. Once they were inside the passageway, the guard gave the warden another of those lazy salutes and disappeared back behind the door as he allowed it to swing shut.
Jessica let out a breath and glanced at Ms. Wickman. “That was easy.”
The warden frowned as she nodded. “Yes. The next one will be harder, though.”
Jessica shrugged. “One way or another, we’re getting through it.”
A smile displaced the warden’s frown. “Of that, Helga, I have no doubt.”
Jessica said nothing, choosing not to remark on the warden referring to her by her former second-in-command’s name.
They continued down the passageway.
To Helga’s great consternation, the knots binding her were more complicated than she’d first believed. Though they’d seemed loose at first, they became tighter and more constraining as she continued her struggle to twist free of them. That one moment when she’d felt certain she was about to get a hand loose felt like a distant memory. The hand in question was now locked in place at a distinctly uncomfortable angle.
