Going Underground

by Denison, L. N

  The guards approached and offered their prize to the eager doctor. He lifted her head in both hands and gazed upon her bruised face. He smiled.

  ‘I have such plans for you, my pretty one,’ he said smugly. ‘Take her to room four!’ he ordered.

  The guards dragged her to room four and, tired of holding her up, let her fall to the floor. The doctor arrived shortly after, ordering the guards to pick Jen up and take her over to an operating table in the far corner of the room. The table was equipped with restraints to hold its victim in place. Beside it stood a table equipped with all the instruments the doctor intended to use on Jen’s body. One such instrument was an electro-therapy machine—his favourite torture implement, as it required little effort to operate.

  The guards dragged Jen over to the table and placed her on top. They removed the upper part of her overalls, showing her half-cut bra and leaving her stomach bare. They began to put her in restraints, only to be stopped by the doctor.

  ‘I’ll do that myself—it requires a certain precision,’ he said.

  The guards exchanged a secret glance. They knew the old deviant just wanted to gaze on her beauty—and like them, to know the pleasure of her body.

  The doctor placed her wrists slowly and gently into the overhead restraints, running his hands down either side of her body in a sinister manner. He felt every curve as he went, until he reached her waist. Then he took hold of the long end of the waist restraint and draped it across her bare flesh, sneakily running his hand over her exposed midriff while stretching across to reach for the other end. Once her waist had been secured, he moved down to her feet, tightening the restraints across her ankles.

  Jen began to stir. At first she was disoriented, but then she began to remember where she was. She struggled in vain to escape the restraints as the doctor brought his face up towards hers, grabbing it with his hands and staring into her wide and terrified eyes.

  ‘It’s no good! You can’t escape—you are mine to do with as I please!’ he crowed in a high-pitched, almost feminine voice. ‘I suggest that you relax and take what’s coming to you—it will be far less painful in the long run.’

  With that, he placed the final restraint around her neck.

  Jen gazed upon her tormentor’s nametag: DR. SIMON BESSON. It was a name she would never forget.

  Dr. Besson took a step back, placing his hand across the metal tray that held his chosen torture implements. Jen watched his every move, resigning herself to the fact she was going to experience more pain than ever before, as he played with each implement, torturing her with his indecision. Jen turned away and begun to stare up at the ceiling, wishing that he would just get on with it and end her torment. Besson sensed her impatience as he leaned inwards, staring into Jen’s eyes.

  ‘Such a pretty little thing! Too bad about that ugly bruising, but I’ll try not to spoil your remarkable beauty any further!’ he said with a hint of sarcasm.

  Dr. Besson turned the wheel on the side of the table, rotating it to an upright position. Jen’s breathing became heavier, and a little more frantic. Besson could now move around freely, and he didn’t have to lean over the table. He could come face to face with Jen without having to contort his body.

  Jen closed her eyes and waited, but the doctor was in no hurry—he had all the time in the world. He had two others to amuse him before he even considered Jen and the delights he had in store for her. He left her side and made his way through to the next room via an adjoining door. Jen watched as he left, breathing a sigh of relief once he had left her sight. Even though she was helpless, all that she could think about was Myron. It was the only thing stopping her from breaking down completely. It was her happy place, taking her away from the reality of her situation.

  *

  A little over ten minutes had passed by before the first screams came. Jen became unsettled and closed her eyes as tightly as possible, trying desperately to block out the howls. It was mental torture for Jen, having to suffer the indignity of sharing in someone else’s misery while waiting for her own to begin. All she wanted to do was scream, but what would be the point? It wouldn’t make her situation any better. The only thing she could do was to wait for the inevitable. The stress of her situation had caused her nose to start bleeding again, and she had no way to stem the uncontrollable flow.

  The screaming from the doctor’s first victim had ceased. Jen stared towards the adjoining door with a growing sense of fear, waiting for Besson to reappear. The screaming began again, this time from a different area.

  That could only mean one thing: she was next.

  *

  The blood coming from Jen’s nose had dried up, leaving behind a crusty, claret-coloured trail on her upper lip. Her limbs were strained from being forced to remain in the same position for so long. The agony of waiting for her torture to commence was too much to bear.

  Just then, Besson poked his head through the door and leered at Jen in her helpless state.

  ‘Don’t worry, my dear, your turn is next!’ he reminded her, as he left the room again.

  Jen just closed her eyes and waited for his return. She fell into a twilight state of half-sleep. A few more minutes had passed. Jen’s subconscious told her someone was in the room with her, prompting her to open her eyes.

  ‘Oh good, you’re awake—shall we begin?’ Besson said brusquely.

  He was now showing his true nature: hardened and sour, and in no mood for any nonsense. He sidled up as close as he could to her—took one look at her face, and then took hold of her nose. Jen’s mind screamed in agony but she remained stoic. ‘Interesting,’ said Besson, and tightened his hold, causing the blood to spout anew. Jen let out an ear-piercing scream, writhing under his steel grip.

  ‘There! That’s the spirit!’ he cried maniacally. ‘Keep on like that, and we will get on just fine!’ As if in reward, he let go of her bleeding nose.

  ‘You bastard!’ Jen shouted without thinking. It was the worst thing she could’ve done.

  ‘What was that you called me—a bastard, was it? That’s not very nice. I think I am going to have to teach you some manners!’ Besson said menacingly.

  He walked over to the table and readied the electro-therapy machine, attaching the electrodes to parts of Jen’s anatomy. A couple were attached to her forehead, and the rest, around her midriff and lower chest area.

  Besson ran his fingers through Jen’s greasy auburn locks, then over her midriff. ‘Let’s get on, shall we?’ he chortled.

  Jen braced herself. The dial had been set reasonably low to start with, to cause only slight discomfort.

  ‘I only want to hear one thing from you during our time together: an apology!’ Besson demanded.

  ‘You’re not getting a soddin’ apology!’ she snarled.

  ‘Very well,’ said Besson. He slyly turned the dial up a notch and then flicked the switch. Jen tried not to cry out as the current passed through her convulsing body, but her face was a testament to what she was feeling. A solitary tear ran down her cheek, and blood trickled from her nose. Besson flicked the switch back to the off position, relieving Jen of her obvious pain.

  ‘Shall we try again? Tell me you’re sorry, and I will make the pain go away,’

  ‘I have nothing to apologise for!’ Jen cried.

  Again the switch was flicked. Again Jen’s body convulsed as she refused to give in.

  Besson flicked the switch back to the off position, and suddenly made a move towards the adjoining door without giving Jen an explanation. She waited until he was out of sight and then cried out—not from pain, but from frustration. Jen’s headstrong nature was beginning to rear its ugly head again after remaining dormant over the past month and a half. She didn’t much care about the consequences anymore, working from the assumption that she was going to die anyway. She’d rather death happened sooner than face another day of agonising torture. Even though the sadistic doctor had left the room, her torment was far from over.

  *


  A couple of minutes passed by before Besson returned to resume his attack on Jen’s weary body.

  ‘I thought I would provide you respite in which to ponder my request,’ he said hopefully.

  Jen didn’t say a word. Besson had no choice but to turn the dial up again. He was quite prepared to keep going until he got what he wanted out of her, no matter now long it took. He would go so far as to work on through the night, just to hear Jen say she was sorry for calling him a bastard.

  ‘Come on, prisoner 16541! All I want to hear is the word “sorry,” then I can let you go. Don’t be so damned stubborn!’

  Jen could tell she had pushed his buttons by not apologising, but she was not going to give him the satisfaction by giving in. Jen shook her head defiantly, and again the voltage was increased, and the switch thrown. This time, it was far too much for Jen to handle.

  ‘OK, OK—I’m sorry!’ she cried weakly.

  ‘I didn’t quite hear you,’ Besson replied, as the high voltage coursed through Jen’s body. The shock rendered Jen unconscious, making it pointless for the doctor to carry on.

  He flicked the switch, stopping the surge of electricity.

  ‘Don’t think for one second that I have finished with you!’ said Besson, not knowing if Jen could hear him.

  The doctor was angry. He had many delights that he wanted to share with this beauteous specimen, but his fun had come to a premature end due to his over-zealousness with the electricity. The only thing he could do was wind the table back down to the flat position, and walk away.

  Besson walked over to his desk in the far right corner of the room, sat in his easy chair, and stared blankly into nothingness—thinking of ways to satisfy his sadistic nature. He couldn’t go back to his other victims, as they, too, were in no fit state to be put through any more. Besson had no choice but to summon the guards. He reached out and pushed the second button on the intercom and was greeted with an ear-splitting squeal coming from the other end. Besson winced and adjusted the dial to a bearable level.

  ‘Dispatch a couple of guards to the infirmary—on the double!’ he ordered.

  ‘Yes, sir, straight away,’ came the response.

  *

  The trip from the guardroom to the infirmary normally took around fifteen minutes. Fifteen minutes was a long time when all Besson wanted was for the unconscious mess in front of him to be taken away. The doctor grew weary, closing his eyes for the briefest of moments. His tranquil state, however, was cut short by the arrival of the guards.

  Besson rose from the easy chair slowly and walked back towards Jen. He bent over her half-naked body and, one by one, removed her restraints.

  ‘Take her back to the camp!’ he boomed.

  The guards said nothing as they took Jen in hand, leaving the doctor angered by their lack of respect for him. The least he expected was a ‘Yes, sir,’ but there was nothing. He would list this insolence in his report.

  With his evening prematurely cut short, Besson pondered what to do next. He came to the decision that he would stay in the infirmary for a little while and just rest. Maybe he’d wait for one of his other conquests to revive, so that he could continue his sadism.

  Until then, he had nothing to do. The easy chair looked very inviting, and he wasted no time in seeking its comfort.

  *

  The guards made their way through the dark compound, dragging Jen behind them. Unbeknownst to the guards—and Besson—Jen had been feigning unconsciousness in order to end her torment at the evil doctor’s hands. She was still weak from her ordeal and unable to walk of her own accord. She closed her eyes again and continued to let the guards drag her along in her relaxed state.

  In the distance, warning sirens began to ring out. The sudden sight of missiles screeching through the air had forced the guards to speed up their journey toward the huts.

  ‘Come on! We need to get out of here!’ one guard said to the other.

  It had been the first signs of an attack in over two nights, and the first attack that Jen had ever witnessed during her short time at the camp. The missiles were far enough away not to be a threat, so the camp was safe for the time being. Of all the labour camps in the area, camp five was the closest to the front line—and the most susceptible to an attack.

  Suddenly, from out of nowhere, it came. Like a bolt of lightning, it struck mercilessly. A wayward missile pierced the razor wire fence that surrounded the perimeter of the camp and headed straight towards the infirmary, blowing it to the heavens—along with anyone unfortunate enough to still be inside. Most of the inmates were in the Nissen huts at the time of the attack, so only the doctor and his unfortunate victims for that night would have perished. Jen was sorry her fellow inmates had to die so tragically, but she was ecstatic that Dr. Besson had met such an ignoble end.

  Jen could thank her lucky stars—had the missile struck a few minutes earlier, she, too, would have been among the dead. She didn’t completely escape the missile’s effects. She had turned her head to witness the destruction of the infirmary, and had been greeted with the sight of debris flying right at her. It struck Jen in the eye, and her escorts ran for cover—leaving her for dead.

  The camp fell into pandemonium. Inmates were naturally trying to escape with nobody around to stop them. They faced one major obstacle: escaping the huts. Nobody had ever dared to make a break for it.

  Oscar began to rummage for something to lever the heavy door open, rallying the other inmates in hut five to help in his quest for their freedom.

  ‘Ah! This will do!’ Oscar said, holding aloft a solid metal strut he had found on the floor under one of the beds. ‘Someone help me!’

  He had no end of volunteers, who were as desperate as he was to escape before the next barrage.

  Oscar hooked the strut through the door and began to lever it, with the help of two others. The solid oak door was proving stubborn, but with a few swift heaves it had finally buckled, swinging open with such force that anyone holding the strut was thrown aside.

  Forty-eight beaming faces watched in delight as Oscar left the hut and took in the fresh night air. One by one, each inmate made their way out into the open. Most headed towards the fence to see if there was a way that they could get out, but no: the hole left by the missile was far too small to fit through and it was too high to reach.

  Meanwhile, Oscar had gone along to the other huts and liberated an additional two hundred souls. All had followed the trail towards the administration building to retrieve any civilian clothing that had been taken from them.

  Oscar spotted Jen in the distance and chose not to join the others in their escape to freedom. He knew as well as they did that their freedom would be short-lived. Government headquarters had undoubtedly been alerted that the camp had been hit, and patrols would be on the lookout for escapees. Oscar’s time would be best served trying to revive Jen and getting her to safety. He had taken quite a shine to her. He felt the need to protect her from danger, not see her thrown in the face of it.

  Oscar knelt on the ground and placed Jen’s bleeding head on his lap. He grabbed a rag from his overall pocket—not particularly clean, but it would serve its purpose. He spat on the rag and wiped it across the gash that stretched from Jen’s left eyelid to her cheek, removing the caked dirt and blood.

  Oscar was careful not to aggravate the gash, remoistening the cloth at every opportunity. Jen remained unaware of the fact he had come to her aid. She was in a state of shock through the pain of her injury. The eye was beyond saving as far as Oscar could tell, but he wasn’t going to give up trying.

  *

  Oscar left Jen momentarily to try and find something to cover her wound with. He made his way over to the decimated infirmary and looked for a safe way inside. Only the front had been damaged, as far as he could tell. He made his way around to the back of the building. Everything beyond the interrogation rooms remained intact.

  On reaching the rear entrance, Oscar entered with stealth, not knowing who or what
would be lurking amidst the smoke and dust. He hoped to find a suitable bandage within the main infirmary, but stocks were irregularly replenished and supplies were not in great abundance. It just went to show how very little the labour camp operatives thought of their captives. They would rather have them bleed to death than help them.

  Oscar’s mission was not a wasted one. He spied bandages and other supplies through the reinforced glass door. The problem was that the door was locked, and he would have to find an object hard enough to break through.

  He ran through to the missile-damaged part of the building to retrieve a big enough piece of the debris. Oscar’s curiosity got the better of him, and he investigated as he passed through the smoke-filled corridors leading to the torture rooms. He nearly vomited upon discovering the bloody, torn-up corpses of Dr. Besson’s other two victims, but there was no sign of the doctor himself.

  Oscar went further through the damaged infrastructure. The further he went, the weaker the ruin became. He grabbed an armful of bricks before that part of the building collapsed entirely and made his way back towards the main infirmary. He had three chances to break through the glass, with no chance of returning to retrieve more. He had to make each crumbling excuse for a brick count.

  With all the strength he could muster, Oscar launched the first brick, only just scratching the surface as it crumbled before his eyes. A disconcerted look appeared on his face as he gazed at his feeble attempt. It might be easier to launch from point blank range, smashing with all his might close to the glass. He realised the chances of getting hit by glass fragments were far greater than if he remained a sensible distance away, but it was a risk he was willing to take.

  Again and again, he smashed the crumbling bricks against the stubborn glass. After five minutes of continuous assault, Oscar finally saw results. A significant hairline crack had begun to form around the centre of the door’s glass; a few swifter, stronger blows would complete his task.