by A. R. Braun
His mouth formed an o. “Why, I can not only get you some insulin, but cure your diabetes.” He grinned like a grandpa. “Wouldn’t that be nice?”
Oh, my God, no diabetes, no insulin.
Scout realized she was naked before him. She hadn’t even remembered; she’d been so smitten. Her blush wouldn’t be visible, though. She imagined her face was perpetually beet-red when hanging upside down. She could feel the blood soaking into her head, trying to drown her brain.
“I can make you lovelier, too,” he almost crooned. “Make you able to tan instead of freckle, give you the best breast augmentation with no scars and do something with your face. Why, you’d have to fight men off with a stick!” He chuckled. “I can perform miracles. I’ve been doing it for a while now.
“I can fix you.”
Oh, did she want to let him. And how. She’d never been beautiful like Lelila, never had a boy or a man interested in her for her—not for the perverted desires of Mack and that old “Christian metal” guy—and had always hated her appearance. Her mouth watered when she thought about steak and vintage wine (French Bordeaux claret); this could all be hers, the best salons, health clubs, spas and clothes, clothed in satin and lace. She’d be the queen of the world!
Every girl wanted to be a princess. Here was her chance.
And the best part was that he’d said “lovelier.” He was already attracted to her.
“Come now,” Velvet purred. “Let me—oh, how do the kids put it?—making you fucking hawt.”
And then she remembered. The ones not found in the book of life would be thrown forever into the lake of fire, where the punishment due would make what she suffered now seem infinitesimal, her pain one grain of sand in a beach of eternity.
“No,” she found herself screaming at him. “YOU BURN IN THE LAKE OF FIRE BY YOURSELF!”
With a frown and furrowed brow, he rose quickly. The secret service agents mimed him. Velvet composed himself, smiling with his lips only—showing no teeth—and straightening his lapel. He laughed a bit, then frowned. Velvet cleared his throat. He nodded in her direction. “If this one acts up again, cut off her legs.”
With that he was gone, the entourage on his heels.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
“Yes,” Scout cried. “I’ll do my job!”
The soldiers untied the ropes and let her down. Still traumatized from her encounter with the Antichrist, she wanted to start work so he wouldn’t come by to talk to her again.
I almost gave in and destroyed my soul.
“We’re gonna walk you back,” the gray-haired soldier said. “No funny stuff, dog-worshiper.” They gave Scout her clothes.
She put them on in a hurry; the beady-eyed bastards never looked away. Sweet relief came as the blood rushed out of her head. “Hold on a minute. I don’t wanna fall.” She stood, swaying on her legs, waiting to feel regular again.
They pushed her forward with the rifle stocks of their guns. She allowed it, not wanting to go back onto that cross, and stumbled toward her work site. She was tempted to eat the dirt surrounding her feet and began to think consuming frogs and bugs wouldn’t be that bad after all. Her stomach didn’t rumble, it roared. How she’d have enough energy to work all day, she didn’t know.
The two soldiers walked her back over to buckets, sponge, squeegee and towels. Others in dirty clothes washed execution vehicles lethargically.
Shaven head pointed toward the bucket. “Get to work, you piece of shit. And no grumbling or loafing.”
She sighed and picked up the huge sponge in the soap bucket and began to go over the execution vehicle. She was tempted to wash and rust the blade, but that would get her back onto that upside-down cross.
They threatened to rape me twice, but I haven’t seen any evidence of it. I hope to hell that doesn’t happen. I don’t think I’d be able to take it, not again.
She worked for eight hours, slowly washing, rinsing, squeegeeing and drying the stupid execution vehicles. She worked so hard, they gave her a ShamWow as a “reward.”
I’m no longer scared of death. It’ll be a relief.
***
Scout could barely walk as the soldiers took her back to her tent. She fell inside and breathed heavily. She stayed on all fours.
Her father rushed over, putting a hand on her back. “Scout? You all right, puddin’?”
She shook her head. Scout glanced at her mother who was … who was … eating a beetle.
“Caught some bugs,” her father said, rubbing her back. “No frogs today. We can usually cook ‘em, starting a fire with sticks and pushing a stick through its body. As you probably know, frog’s legs are a delicacy, but we eat the whole thing.”
She surreptitiously looked over at her mother again, who consumed the insect by bits as if she were finishing off a cracker.
Scout threw up onto the dirt.
“Come on, Scout,” her dad said. “That’s not going to do you any good. Take the nourishment and have some radical acceptance here. It’s the only meal you’re going to get.”
Scout screamed, “You’re acting like we went vegan. Insects carry diseases! I can’t go on like this, I’ll go insane.” She pushed herself away from the pile of puke and sat on her sleeping bag.
Her father covered up the vomit with dirt. “We don’t have a choice. You have to think of it like this: we’re going to glory, not the lake of fire like them. What they’ll go through will be a million times worse than our predicament.”
Scout wept. “I can’t eat bugs. Maybe frogs, but not bugs.”
“You sure?” Her mother retrieved another dead beetle—partially squashed—from a pile. “Don’t knock it till you try it. Think about how people eat roaches for a million dollars on reality TV.” She had insane eyes.
I don’t want to end up like that.
Scout shook her head. “If we’re going to glory, why didn’t we go up in the rapture?”
“Well,” her dad answered. “Maybe we should’ve gone Pentecostal. The people in the Bible are holy rollers. We probably shouldn’t have shunned the Holy Ghost and forbidden others to speak in tongues.” He seemed deep in thought for a few seconds. “You see, we picked out what scriptures suited us and ignored the rest.” He nodded. “Maybe we deserve this.” His eyebrows rose and he grinned. He looked like a crazy on a street corner. “Why don’t we whoop, holler and praise the Lord tonight and beg that he gives us the gift of tongues. That’d show ‘em that they can’t steal our joy. Whadya say?”
I’d say you sound like an insane person if I didn’t know better.
Scout nodded. “I think we’d better.”
He slapped his legs. “There. That problem’s solved. Bon appétit.” He stuck a couple of beetles into his mouth and crunched away.
Disgusted, Scout turned her head.
“John the Baptist ate locusts, remember, kiddo?” her mother asked.
Scout groaned.
“Pumpkin,” her father said, “I just realized something. I shouldn’t have covered up your vomit. We could’ve used that to draw more food. C-could ya do it again?”
“You keep crunchin those beetles over there, and I might.”
“Then I’ll chew with my mouth open.” He munched away on another couple of bugs.
Scout leaned away from her sleeping bag and retched.
***
Scout and her parents stood with their hands raised, praising the Holy Ghost and asking for the gift of tongues. They did their best to imitate the Pentecostals from the times they’d gone to those kind of churches—before getting out of there, assuming them insane asylums.
Scout spoke in a foreign language she didn’t know. Her parents followed suit. Inexpressible joy—which she didn’t know was called Shekinah glory—filled her being and strengthened her during her fast. She whooped and hollered, shouting more praises.
Victory!
The two soldiers from before stomped into their tent.
“What the fuck is going on in here?” the sh
aven-headed one yelled. “You sound like you’ve lost your goddamn minds. Is that God-dog of yours driving you nuts or what?”
Ignoring him, Scout interpreted the message of tongues after it had come into her mind, thankful for the additional gift. “Receive the word of the Lord. Your suffering will only be for a short time—a season—then you will be in eternal paradise while these true dog-worshipers will burn forever in the everlasting fire of that searing lake. But only if you continue in My love.”
“Listen to that stupid shit,” the gray-haired soldier barked. “That cunt’s off her rocker.”
“Don’t you call my daughter that!” Scout’s dad ran for him and got the butt of the rifle in his face for it, knocking him out.
“Dad!” Scout bent down to him. She looked up at the soldier. “You bastard!”
The shaven-headed soldier eyed Scout’s mother. “You’ve got, er, bug juice on your chin.” He chuckled. “How were the insects? Yummy?”
The two soldiers barked loud laughter.
“You leave them alone,” Scout shouted.
“Worse than hood rats, eating the infestations,” shaven head cried.
Scout bowed up on them. “I said leave them alone! You don’t want to listen to our Pentecostal service, then leave!” She pointed to the open-flapped “door” of the tent.
Each soldier grabbed an arm.
“Oh no!” shaven-head said. “You don’t make a racket like this and not pay for it.”
“Let me go!” Scout said.
“Yeah,” gray hair agreed. “I’ve been wantin’ to do this since we brought the dog-worshiping bitch to the camp.”
They dragged her out of the tent. She thrashed and flailed, screaming the whole way. Her parents tried to intervene and got rifle-whipped after they briefly set her down. They picked her up and led her to an unlit spot by the electric fence, where they threw her onto the ground.
We’ve experienced a holy blessing, and here comes the backlash.
“Backlash” was putting it mildly, however.
The men undid their belts.
“Take your clothes off,” shaven head commanded. “Or we’ll rip ‘em off ya.”
“No,” Scout sobbed, tears leaking out of her eyes. “Please! I was kidnapped and raped repeatedly! I can’t take any more.” She bawled.
But they ripped her clothes off and took her anyway.
***
The soldiers threw Scout into the tent. She landed between where her mother and father sat, drinking the sweat they’d wrung out of their clothes. Scout lay on her back, staring at the roof. She couldn’t think, couldn’t feel, didn’t want to come back to reality. She mused over riding a pony as she had when a child, and had throughout the whole rape. She could hear her parents, but didn’t respond.
Her mother and father bent over her, pulling the hair out of her face and stroking it.
“Oh my baby,” her mother cried. “What did they do?”
“She’s got bruises,” her father said.
Her mother pulled up Scout’s shirt. “And bite marks on her bre-ea-heasts,” she sobbed.
Her father stood. “So that’s what they did.” He nodded emphatically. “Then they die.” He rushed out of the tent.
“No, Walter,” Scout’s mother cried. “They’ll kill you!”
“They’ll have to,” he answered from outside the tent. “Before I kill them.”
Her mother continued to kneel over Scout, who breathed heavily and stared at the open tent flaps.
Her father yelled a series of expletives. Shots rang out. Her father grunted in pain. There was a thud. Suddenly, the groaning stopped.
“You pieces of shit,” her mother cried, running outside the tent. “You killed my husband!”
More gunfire rang out and Scout knew she was alone now.
All the more reason to stay where she was, escaping reality in her mind, to a happier time, in a much better place.
***
Scout woke the next day, not remembering falling asleep. What she did recall was too much to take, and she curled up in a ball and wept.
Shaven head peeked in. “Get your ass up and take a shower. It’s time to go to work, dog-worshiper. Don’t make me kill you like I did your mom and dad.” The memories of halcyon times with her parents ran through her head, and she wept so vehemently, she thought she’d dry up.
Scout sat up, looking … at the … other sleeping bags … which contained … her bloody, dead parents, stuffed inside like beef in burritos.
She shrieked.
***
She bawled as they pushed her toward her work area. “No-ho-ho! My parents! NOOOOOOO.” She keened and screamed.
They threw her down in front of the buckets and towels. Her ShamWow was missing.
Again, she curled up in the fetal position, not able to stop crying. She covered her face and willed this reality away. Yet it stayed. She didn’t think she could keep her sanity much longer.
“Get up or you’re gonna get beat,” shaven head cried.
But Scout didn’t have the strength to rise. She simply couldn’t deal with this anymore. She continued to keen.
So gray hair and shaven head yanked her to her feet and beat her with the butts of their rifles, knocking the wind out of her, splitting her lip, making her cry out. Shaven-head bashed her over the head, and she fell onto her back in the dirt. “Ooomph.”
Then they kicked her when she was down. Over and over.
Soon, she quit crying and went to work. She’d learned not to cross the soldiers.
Ever.
***
Sitting in the tent after work—she’d hauled her parents’ bloody sleeping bags with them in it out and buried them in shallow graves after digging in the dirt so vehemently her fingers bled—she ate a raw frog because she couldn’t start a fire by rubbing two sticks together. When a child, she’d thrown a fit to get out of being a girl scout—Scout the scout—and she considered giving in to Velvet’s demands. This plight made that memory seem like heaven, even though she’d been spanked by her father for dropping out.
How could she live like this? How could anyone?
Lake of fire, lake of fire, lake of fire.
It was hard to believe. What she’d seen was satanic supremacy, not victory. The backlash from hell had ruined everything. Now she was alone.
She choked on a sob.
I’ve got to remember what Daddy said. Right now my parents are in glory, and these soldier pieces of shit are going to burn forever. Remember what the Holy Ghost told you.
She’d have to endure the suffering. She really didn’t have a choice.
Accepting the mark of the beast is a choice, but it’s not a very viable one. Just a sign of weakness.
She ate the reptile to the bone while thinking of the video game, Frogger. It tasted like the inside of someone’s ass.
I should rejoice. My parents received the Holy Ghost and were saved right before they died.
Scout considered getting herself killed. If she rushed the soldiers like a madwoman, perhaps they’d shoot her, and she could get out of this stinking death camp and go be with the Lord and her parents in paradise forever, as the Holy Ghost had said.
Wringing sweat out of her shirt to drink, she mulled this radical plan over.
It’s the only way to stop the pain.
Then she knew what she had to do. If she stayed, they’d cut off her head.
Tonight, the end.
Scout exited the tent.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
The scent of shit dominated Scout’s nostrils as she stepped outside the tent. Porta potties, that’s where they did their business here. The June, night air was perfect, not too hot, not too cold, a great time to die.
The two soldiers who’d raped her stood smoking and joking two tents down. In the sky, a quarter moon kept watch over the camp.
It’s now or never. Time to end my torture.
She knew they’d shoot her if she ran for them, threatening their l
ives, so she picked up one of the many small sticks that had blown in from the trees surrounding the compound and took off.
“You killed my parents, you pieces of shit!” Scout ran for them at full speed, like she’d done at track, ready to gouge them in the eyes. “I’ll fuckin’ kill you!”
They turned to look at her, then flipped their guns from around their back and pointed them at her.
“Halt,” gray hair cried.
“Stop, dyke,” shaven head cried, “or I’ll blow your head off.”
She growled while closing the distance between them … and got a rifle butt in the face, courtesy of gray hair. She went down, seeing stars.
“Can’t lose our piece off ass,” gray hair said.
Shaven head straddled her, whipped out a handgun and pistol-whipped her. She didn’t try to block the blows, hoping he’d beat her to death so she wouldn’t have to suffer anymore, but instead, the lights went out.
***
Blinking, Scout woke to someone shaking her shoulder. She remembered her parents were dead, so it had to be one of the soldiers wanting to rape her again. The pain in her crotch was so bad, she might as well have been bored out with a shovel. They’d sport-fucked her this time. She sobbed, then noticed it was an older gentleman with a gray-brown hair to the collar and a beard.
Great, now the other prisoners are coming in here to rape me.
Crickets carried on their deafening chorus.
“Get out of here,” she cried, rubbing her eyes. “This is my tent.”
He put an index finger over his lips. “Shush, they’ll hear you.”
“I hope they hear me! Get out!”
He shook his head. “I mean you no harm,” he almost whispered. He held eye contact with her. “I know they’ve been especially cruel to you. I have … had a daughter about your age, and I want to help.” He looked downward, at his shoes as he Indian-sat. “Her name was Muffy—cute little thing, never got into any trouble—I lost her when they took me here, and I haven’t seen her since.”
Muffy? Yeah, I pistol-whipped the bitch—beat the shit out of her, actually. She’s a raping lesbian now, sold out to the beast.
