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Autonomy: a novel

Page 12

by A. R. Braun

Scout ran at him. “You can’t talk to my mother that way!”

  The soldier bashed her across the head with the rifle stock and the lights went out.

  ***

  Blinking her eyes, then rubbing them, Scout woke on the dirt floor of the tent. She wiped annoying ants and beetles off. Her parents kneeled over her with tears in their eyes.

  “Oh, my poor baby,” her mother said.

  “Are you okay, puddin’?” her dad asked.

  Scout sat up. She wiped sweat from her face and aired out her halter top with her hands.

  Her father’s grey hair was getting long, and he hadn’t shaved, so a beard covered his chin. Her mother’s normally beautiful blond hair hung in unstyled straggles.

  Scout wept.

  Her parents moved closer and held her.

  “I know, baby,” her mom said. “We’ll be with the Lord soon.”

  “You mean we’ll die here?” Scout sobbed. “I’m only frickin’ eighteen and I’m gonna … die?”

  Apparently, they had no answer for her.

  Scout wiped her eyes and met theirs.

  “We’re just so glad to see you again, puddin’,” her dad said in a soft voice.

  Scout rubbed her eyes furiously, hoping the tears would stop. “How long have you been here?” she whined. “When did this happen?”

  Her mom drew lines in the dirt. “Right after you didn’t come home from Mack and Lelila’s, that first night. The Smiths, the Pentecostals from across the street, flew into the air after I stepped onto the porch. It was the darndest thing. Then the storm came, and the stars fell to earth. When we called the police to report you missing, we were told to take that dad-burned chip and refused, so they took us here.”

  Oh God, they don’t know.

  Scout wept again. “Mom, Dad … Mack and Lelila, they … kidnapped me … and they … raped me-he-he!” She bawled.

  Her parents’ eyes grew wide.

  “That piece of shit!” Her father rose and paced. “I’ll kill that bastard! I knew Mack was no good.”

  “Oh no, not my virgin baby!” Her mother bawled with her and held her.

  “Where are they?” her dad yelled. “Are they here?”

  “They’re dead,” Scout squeaked.

  Her father nodded. “Good.”

  “You’re still my good, virgin baby,” her mom said, pulling her daughter’s bangs out of her eyes. “What they did to you didn’t change you at all. You’re my good girl.”

  Her father sat and held his daughter again.

  When they pulled apart, Scout fidgeted with her fingers. “They really don’t let you eat?”

  Her mom’s face went beet-red. “We’ve been getting by on bugs and frogs.”

  Scout gagged.

  “Don’t do that, now,” her father chastened. “They’re nutritious.”

  Scout put her hands over her ears and keened. “They’re disease carriers!” She heaved a heavy sigh and dropped her arms. “What am I gonna do without my insulin? I’ll have a seizure and go into a coma.”

  “Oh God!” Her mother rose and paced.

  Her father looked at them. He was probably wondering what could he say to comfort them.

  ***

  “If we could build a tunnel,” Scout said, huddled around a fire her father had made by rubbing a couple of sticks together, “and keep my sleeping bag over it during the day, we could bore our way out like moles.”

  “With what energy?” her dad asked. “I can barely raise the soap to wash off every morning.”

  Night had fallen, and they’d taken a walk earlier that evening. They’d soon come back inside after Scout had complained of listening to people cry and moan because they were starving to death.

  Scout looked down at her bare legs. They were getting hairy.

  No way to shave ‘em in here. Time to go wookiee.

  “ATTENTION, NEW ARRIVALS!” a booming voice came over the loudspeakers. “IT’S LIGHTS OUT. GO TO BED NOW. NO MORE WALKING AROUND OUTSIDE. AT 0500 HOURS, YOU WILL TAKE A SHOWER AND GO TO WORK FOR THE CHANCELLOR. DON’T MAKE US KNOCK YOUR GOD-DOG LOVING ASSES OUT!”

  “What’s 0500 hours?” Scout asked.

  “Five a.m.,” her father answered.

  “Seriously?” Scout trembled all over. “A-and t-they … expect you to work?”

  Her dad nodded. “Bein’ a mechanic, who do you think built the execution vehicles from the wheels up?”

  “What’ll they have me do?”

  “Probably wash ‘em and fill ‘em with gas.” He sighed.

  “I won’t help them with those things!”

  A soldier bearing a helmet peeked in. “Shut the fuck up and go to bed before I bash you in the head with this rifle, goddamn it!”

  Her dad touched Scout’s cheek. “Time to try to sleep.”

  Her mother tossed the hair out of her own eyes. “Although that task is almost completely impossible here.”

  Her parents got into their sleeping bags. Scout crawled into hers, closing her eyes.

  “I wish it could’ve been another way, Scout,” her dad said, sotto voce. “Goodnight.”

  “Goodnight, sweetie,” her mom said. “We’re so glad you’re back.”

  “Goodnight, John-Boy,” Scout tried to cajole.

  No one laughed.

  Exhausted, Scout cried herself to sleep as she and her parents’ stomachs growled.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  “EVERYONE OUT OF YOUR TENTS,” the loudspeaker cried. A warning siren wailed with it. “TIME TO GO TO WORK FOR THE CHANCELLOR!”

  Scout stumbled outside, weary, shaking, practically having a panic attack. She rubbed her eyes and yawned. She’d knew she’d only gotten a few hours of sleep because of the hunger pains. The sleep deprivation was a nine-inch nail through her head. She’d had her insulin shot yesterday, but soon, her body would rebel from the lack of it. More fright threatened to send her over the edge. The summer sun beat down on her vehemently, making her break out in sweat. She wiped off her forehead with her hand.

  Hobbling, her parents came out of the tent. Scout’s mother wrung her hands. Her dad brushed his teeth with his fingers, rubbed his eyes, scratched all over his body.

  He’s filthy.

  Her mother pulled at her hair, endeavoring to get it in a sane assemblance of order. “I wish I had a comb.”

  A long line stood in front of the shower building.

  Are they going to gas us today?

  Then Scout remembered the execution vehicles and thought not.

  Her father put a comforting hand on her shoulder. “Well, kiddo, it’s time for a cold shower, then we go to work. I’ve gotta build some guillotine cars. Your mother works as a cook for the soldiers.”

  Scout’s mind reeled. “Are you freakin’ kidding me? They make her cook, but don’t let her eat any of it?”

  Her mother attempted a smile. “I sneak a bite here and there, dear.”

  Fingering his grey stubble, a soldier built like a truck stomped over. He pointed at them. “Get in line, dog-worshipers. Quit dawdling.”

  “Sir?” Scout asked. “I’m diabetic. I need my insulin.”

  Her parents, looking over their shoulders at her, took their place in line.

  “Move, bitch!” He pushed her toward the line. “You get a shower, and we’ll tell you what to do, not the other way around.” He scowled. “Don’t make me shoot you.”

  She stumbled into the line. “You bastard! I need my medicine or I’ll have a seizure and go into a coma!”

  “That’s your problem, dog-worshiper.”

  With that he clomped off.

  “But I need my medication! You idiot!”

  Her dad grabbed her arm gingerly. “Scout, don’t make trouble. It only makes things worse.”

  She stuck her hands out, palm-up. “How could it get any worse? I’ll die without my insulin.”

  Again, he had no answer for her, apparently.

  ***

  Scout lathered up in the shower stall, eyeing the
nozzle surreptitiously, wondering if gas would pour out of it instead of water. It couldn’t be much worse; the cold water made her shiver. She knew that gas probably wasn’t the game plan here, but couldn’t get it out of her mind.

  They’re treating us like dogs because they think our God is a dog. That’s how they get back at Him—persecuting us.

  She hadn’t been given any shampoo. She was expected to wash her hair with a bar of soap.

  This is too much. Why don’t they just kill us?

  Yet they’d be doing that soon. She remembered what her dad did, his new job.

  He’s Satan’s mechanic now.

  Scout finished and parted the curtain. Everyone who showered had to come out to sit on benches naked in front of everybody. She saw men’s doingers, women’s hoo-hoo’s and children’s bodies. She was barely out of childhood herself. She grabbed a towel from the rack and found it filthy.

  “They don’t even wash the towels?”

  Obviously embarrassed, they didn’t look up.

  Scout threw on her clothes, the same ones she’d worn yesterday. Yuck. I’ll stink. Then she walked outside, feeling faint from the lack of food and trembling all over.

  A couple of huge military men tromped over.

  “You’re washing the execution vehicles,” the gray-stubbled man from before ordered. “This way.”

  She reluctantly followed them on a long, brisk walk. She could see the vehicles gleaming in the sun in the distance. Her whole body was covered with sweat now, soaking through her clothes.

  “You think I could get a clean towel to dry off with and a change of clothes? Some shampoo?”

  The soldiers laughed.

  “Listen, now,” Scout continued, “I’m diabetic. If I don’t get my insulin, I’ll have a seizure and go into a coma. This is cruel and unusual punishment.”

  The young soldier with a shaven head frowned at her. “No buying or selling for you dog-worshipers. You’re lucky we let you bathe. That’s too good for you.”

  They set two buckets down before her. Soapy suds spilled over the top of the first bucket, and water dribbled over the side of the second bucket. They gave her clean towels, a sponge and a squeegee, placing them into her hands.

  “You’ll work nine to five,” the shaven-headed man said. “Then you’ll have evenings to shoot the shit with your family. You go into a coma and we leave you to die.”

  “That is,” gray hair added, “if we don’t start using the guillotines on you before then. We’re waiting for the order from the chancellor.”

  “Why don’t you call a spade a spade?” Scout asked. “He’s the Antichrist.”

  “Enough talk!” The shaven-headed man shoved the butt of his rifle into her side, which already had a stitch in it from the walk. Now it throbbed. “Get to fucking work!”

  Scout had sat down hard. She pulled at her long red hair. “I have to have my insulin,” she screamed, drawing stares from the other workers. “And I have to have food! How the fuck can I work without my insulin and food?”

  Shaven head motioned toward her with his rifle. “Get up!”

  “No! I won’t get up and work till you give me my insulin and food, you stupid fucking twats!”

  “You goddamned dyke on a stick,” gray hair cried.

  They rushed her, picked her up and carried her away. She screamed her guts out. Shaven head rifle-whipped her and everything went black.

  ***

  Scout woke and spotted the two soldiers upside down and laughing.

  What the fuck?

  The sun kissed her naked body. Her wrists and ankles were tied to something, and splinters threatened to break the skin on her back and on the back of her arms and legs. She gagged.

  W-where … W-where … am I? What have you got me tied to?” Scout struggled for breath.

  Gray hair motioned toward her with the gun. “You’re crucified upside-down for your insolence. You’re gonna hang like that till you agree to go to work without bitching about food and insulin. If you don’t like it, apologize—especially for calling us ‘twats’—and we’ll let you down so you can go back to work.”

  “Help,” Scout cried. “Somebody save me! If we rush the soldiers at the same time, they can’t shoot us all! They’ve got me hanging upside down.”

  “You’re lucky we didn’t nail you to the thing, you cunt,” shaven head said.

  “Get me—getch!—down from here!”

  “Leave her,” gray hair said. “I’ve got workers to watch over.”

  “After hanging like that for a while, she’ll calm down, the dog,” shaven head agreed.

  “No! You’re not real men, treating a—getch!—woman like this!”

  But they were gone, and the other prisoners didn’t rebel. The blood rushed to her head, making her feel as if she’d faint.

  She passed out.

  ***

  Scout woke and could barely breathe. She thought she’d go crazy if the blood didn’t quit rushing to her head. If she wanted down from here, she’d have to feign obedience. Insanely, she longed for the comfort of Mack and Lelila’s captivity. Compared to this, that basement was a palace. It was just like Jesus had said the tribulation would be, worse than any time before it or after.

  Strange activity lurked in the corner of her left eye. As she blinked and focused, she saw the general walking with … It can’t be … Walter Emmett Velvet, dressed to the nines in a seersucker Brooks Brothers suit. Secret-service agents in sunglasses and suits were his watchdogs, armed with pistols which they carried in their hands right out in the open. The general pointed her way, and they walked over, a procession from hell.

  Velvet smiled upside down and, for a moment, he … changed. This scared Scout so badly her mind went white-hot with panic. She thought she’d have a nervous breakdown. His face became the devil’s, bright-red skin with two curled horns protruding from the top of his head, and bat wings stretched out behind him that made a loud, flapping sound like harsh wind on tents. His skin bore scales all over. He had hooves for feet and a pointed red tail that extended and searched like a feeler.

  Then he was his charming self again.

  The general stopped with Velvet and pointed at Scout. “This is how we deal with the prisoners who rebel. A few hours like that and they’re begging to go back to work.’

  Velvet smiled and nodded, the handsomest man she’d ever seen in person. She’d always dreamt of marrying someone like him, someone together, a top dog who drove the pimpest cars—a Lamborghini, probably, or any vehicle whose doors opened upward—and who could afford to see the world, make everything go his way, not dependent on anyone. People depended on him.

  “They don’t use nine-inch nails?” Velvet asked in an amiable tone. “They tie them with rope?”

  “At your word, chancellor,” the general said, “we will implement the nails.”

  He nodded again, smiling like a kind TV evangelist. Pastor Joel Osteen hadn’t been as likeable as this man. He waved the general off. “Yes, do it, but after this one’s taken down.” He pinned Scout with his eyes. “I wish to speak with her.”

  “With one of the prisoners?”

  Velvet turned his head the general’s way and the latter clutched his heart. Smiling, Velvet turned back to Scout. “General,” he said in the kindest, grandfatherly tone, “don’t ever question me.”

  The tough old man seemed to recover. “Yes, Mr. Chancellor. Sorry, Mr. Chancellor.”

  Velvet stepped forward and the two secret service agents moved forward with him.

  The chancellor bent to look Scout in the eye. The guard dogs parroted him, the two “men” seeming mindless.

  Velvet smiled so sweetly, Scout thought candy canes would pop out of his mouth. “What’s your name, child?”

  She was frightened, more than she’d ever been. This was the man of sin, the son of perdition, but that’s not what scared her. What bothered her was how she couldn’t hate him, couldn’t dislike him, couldn’t even be a little angry with him
. This man had the face of an angel and the manners of a gentleman. And power, so much….

  “Scout,” she forced out. “I-I’m not a child. I-I’m eighteen.”

  He grinned, showing square-shaped pearly whites. “‘Scout’ is it?” He cocked his head to the side. “That’s a lovely name.” He closed his mouth—still in a grin—and nodded. “You know, young Scout, it doesn’t have to be this way. I suppose you’re here with your parents?”

  “Y-yes,” she squeaked.

  “If you’ll just get a little harmless chip embedded into your right hand, the side effects are nonexistent, and besides …” He chuckled. “I could heal you of them if they did dare rear their ugly heads. If you’ll join my team …” He touched her hand and his was soft like a hand model’s. “I’ll make you an important businesswoman in my plan, give you a—well …” He seemed deep in thought for a few seconds, as if reading her mind. “A Lamborghini or some kind of car with doors that open upward.”

  Scout’s mind lurched. He’d read her like a book.

  “You’ll have the best meals, the most upscale salons, why, I’ll clothe you in satin and lace, in the latest designer fashions. I’ll take care of Mom and Dad, too.” He spread his arms out before him as if seeking a hug. “If you’ll trust me and join my force, for the better of mankind, your quality of life will improve. I dare even say your life will change—the opposite Stryper, the King Diamond band with middle fingers bravely raised.”

  “The opposite who?” she asked. “What band?”

  He shook his head and chuckled. “Never mind that. I’ve cured world hunger, sickness, old age and there’s nothing to be afraid of. No hell from a God who fails that leaves his servants feeling desolate, like something’s missing, going without the things they want out of life until they go insane.

  “You, young Scout, will be my richest, chiefest advisor.” He paused to draw a deep breath. “If you’ll let me help you.”

  “Why me?”

  “I have a thing for fresh, feisty redheads. The feistiest. It’s in my nature to take on the most dangerous kind of woman.”

  Dangerous? Me?

  “You hold a special place in my heart,” he added.

  She wanted to resist this beast she’d seen turn into Lucifer a few minutes ago, wanted to say no with every fiber of her being, but blurted, “I’m diabetic. I need my insulin.”

 

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