by Kolin Wood
“Listen to me, you stupid bitch! They will fucking eat you and leave you here to die on this fucking floor! Sarah… Do you understand me? They will EAT you!” She was nearly shouting herself now, all patience gone.
Adrenaline coursed through her bloodstream, blocking her filters and limiting any form of kindness. If they didn’t move now, they would die. It was that simple.
A flicker of something registered somewhere in Sarah’s eyes and she stopped wailing. Her mouth wobbled. Saliva dribbled liberally from her chin and nose. Juliana reached up, wiping the tentacles of hair from the girl’s sweaty, dirty forehead so that she could look her directly in her eyes.
It’s not her fault.
She spoke to her again, trying hard to be softer this time. “Those things down there… they are not boys… they are not even people… they are fucking monsters, Sarah.”
She swallowed hard as images of the emptied carcasses from inside the cell, flashed before her eyes.
“They don’t understand remorse… or compassion… or mercy… and if you stay here…” Her voice broke as pity ensconced her. She cupped her hands around her friend’s face, wiping her tears with her grubby thumbs. She too was crying now. “They will kill you and they will eat you then they will kill me and eat me and I’m not about to let that happen, okay? Do you hear me?! Not here… and not today!”
Juliana leaned in close and planted a gentle kiss on Sarah’s salty skin.
“Now please, love, we have to move now!”
The change in tactic seemed to do the trick. Recognition flicked on in the glassy, green eyes. Juliana stood, this time pulling Sarah successfully to her feet. With a groan, she slipped an arm around her waist to support her wobbling frame.
That’s it; we can do this.
Chancing a look back again at the doorway behind them, Juliana felt a deep twinge of relief in her chest as she saw it was empty, half imagining a dark, blood-covered shape tearing out of the dark recess towards them, gore dripping from yellowed fangs. But it would not be that way for long.
“Come on, let’s get out of here,” she said.
A few minutes later they were safely back in the empty room that had played host to most of their escape attempt so far that evening. The halls were quiet, and this part of the prison felt unnaturally calm and peaceful, almost sleepy under the gentle glow of fifty homemade candles, making travel an easy and mercifully uneventful.
The cell was undecorated but clean, save for a few empty bottles and some discarded cigarette butts. The single bed held nothing, not even a mattress, and around the walls there was nothing but crudely scrawled graffiti. The sparseness of the cell was the very reason for its choosing; there was literally nothing for anybody to come in there for. As with the others, the door could not be locked from the inside, and therefore they had to rely on the weight alone to hold it mostly closed, a job which it seemed to do quite well.
Carefully and stiffly, the two of them clambered as quietly as they could under the table. They held each other in an equally received embrace, both of them shivering from the cold and the dumping of adrenaline into their nervous systems. They sat like that for a few self-meditating minutes before Juliana finally broke the silence with a whisper.
“He wanted to do it,” she said.
She turned to Sarah, but was unable to see anything except the faintest twinkle of a tear in the corner of one eye; such was the depth of the darkness in the room.
“But…” Sarah began, sniffing loudly, catching her breath again as a sob broke through, muting her attempt.
“No buts. Bennet knew that there was no other way; we have no weapons, no strength even—not against all of them. We wouldn’t have made—”
Juliana cut herself off mid-sentence, as an image of Bennet’s swollen and bloody face flashed across her mind. ‘Remember what you promised’ he had said, even managing to offer them a smile before turning back to the door and resting his gnarled knuckles on the handle.
“He was going to die, you know that. His… stomach… he was…” she stopped again, realising the callousness of her manner. The true depth of her gratitude for the man who had effectively just committed suicide so that the two of them might have even the smallest chance of escape could not be measured. He was a martyr and would never be forgotten. She tried again, attempting this time to impart more emotion into her tone, reaching out in the darkness and setting a cold palm on her companions equally frozen cheek.
“It was his last wish to help us,” she said finally.
In her hand, she felt the head nodding slowly before more sobbing began. Thankfully, this time it was quieter and more controlled. Juliana pulled Sarah close, grateful for the limited body warmth, and then leaned her head against the wall.
Their chances were small: probably smaller than they had been at any other time since their incarceration, but she didn’t care anymore. Should the worst happen, and her limbs be torn from her body in a frenzied attack of uncontrolled violence, then she would die with at least a little happiness in her bitter heart and the smallest amount of pride in her trampled soul. She would die happy in the knowledge that the rest of them were destined for the same fate. She would venture into the underworld on her own two feet, proud that she might perhaps have saved some other girls from the same depraved entrapment and endurance that she had been subjected to. She pictured the General’s deformed face, his soldiers lying in pools of their own piss and blood as their little kingdom burned down around their partly-devoured, skinny, little bodies. She pictured all these things and breathed, inhaling deeply in the darkness, a smile slowly creeping across her face.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
“PLEASE!”
The scream sounded like that of somebody in real pain—not that it was anything out of the ordinary given his surroundings. The path from the surgery had led Pock directly through an old room, one which had long-since been used as a communal area. It was a filthy, stained, and well-used space, frequented by the masses in times of drab activity. Horrific events had happened within this room, each and every one scarred into the visual tissue, the floor, and the walls. Pock never ventured here and never felt any compulsion to. Experience had taught him that should he decide to, his day would be undoubtedly be scuppered by some mindless act of violence against him. He moved through the room with stealthy precision, careful not to kick over any of the discarded rubbish. Once safely across, he darted down a hallway, mindful of the candlelight guiding his way.
“Stop… please.”
Unfamiliar feelings suddenly threatened to weaken his legs and cut short his mission. How could he really have been so drawn in to all this? For so long, the screams that plagued the halls after dark had become nothing but background noise; no different to him than the unobtrusive sounds of an elevator’s passive music, there to break up the awkwardness of silence, but at the same time, not meant to be focused upon. So why was this one any different?
He thought about the wails, the pleas, the cries for help which had brought him such solace and closure all those years ago. Was he, James Connelly, actually as bad as all of the other mindless psychopaths he had found himself pitted against and despised so much? Had he simply become desensitised?
“Not that… no, please… NOO!”
The owner of the voice was broken. Body-rattling sobs filled the corridor. Pock turned a corner, and bit his bottom lip. Before him lay the door to Mitchel’s room.
Pock looked behind, back down the corridor, fighting every urge and every voice in his head to turn around and run. But he couldn’t. Not tonight. Not ever again.
He crept towards the door and pulled the knife from the waistband of his ill-fitting trousers.
***
Mitchel wiped the sweat from his face with his forearm, groaning loudly as he came hard again. He leaned in and sucked on the girl’s soft neck, drawing blood to the surface in the form of a love bite. She now had five of them, three on her neck and two on her right breast, the earliest o
f which had started to yellow at the edges. He lay like that, on top of her, still and shivering as his sweat-covered, naked body began to chill in the cold night air.
The girl beneath him was crying. Her wrists and ankles were tied to the bed with straps which had been looped under the mattress, fully exposing her naked body. Both lips were split and she had dried blood densely caked around both of her nostrils.
To the side of the bed, a fat lad called Lex was busy pulling his dirty pants down his legs. His swollen member stood straight and erect, poking out in front of his bulbous body like a fleshy hood ornament. The rank scent of unwashed, sweaty crevice filled the air, surprisingly ripe in the already stale room. Mitchel scoffed; the big lad was going to be a really unpleasant experience for her.
“Your turn!” he said, laughing, looking up at Lex. She was sure learning her lesson today, breaking time had arrived.
Mitchel held his weight on one arm and roughly turned the girl’s damaged face to look at him with his other. Her eyes were vacant now, defeated. He leaned in and kissed her tenderly on her bloody lips, stroking her cheek.
“Ain’t that right, love? Now you gonna let my brother Lex have a go, ain’tcha?”
At this, the girl squeezed her eyes shut. Tears streamed down either side of her face.
Mitchel laughed, pushing her face aside with his hand. “Don’t move.”
He climbed off of her, rolling his muscular shoulders and neck in an attempt to ease some of the stiffness that had set in. He had no clock but he guessed that he had been at her for several hours. A dull ache throbbed in his lower back. Normally, he wouldn’t share with them; it wasn’t his style. Normally, he would have kept her for himself for a while and then passed her out into circulation. But not this particular utility; this one was getting it, and not just from him, but from anyone who happened to be passing by. Served her right too—she should have given in to him when he gave her the chance.
He watched, smiling, as Lex lumbered over. His eyes were full of deviancy and lust, and his fatty flesh wobbled as he walked. Mitchel couldn’t blame him; she sure was a pretty one. It had been a while since they had acquired one quite so attractive. Lex wet his lips then leaned over and ran a pudgy hand across her flat stomach. The girl flinched and a low whimper escaped her as he followed the contour of her naval, up through the middle of her exposed ribcage and cupped one of her small breasts.
“Sure, you ain’t all used up, baby, huh?” he said, sounding like a slimy, b-movie actor on the set of a badly produced porno film.
“GET THE FUCK OFF ME!” screamed the girl, suddenly no longer meek. The veins in her neck strained though the skin, and her red and bloodshot eyes shone full of hatred. As she thrashed, spittle flew from the corners of her broken mouth.
Mitchel laughed, emitting a mocking whistle.
“Oh, behave yourself, slut,” he said as he patted Lex on the shoulder. “Enjoy it, mate; she’s a peach.”
Needing no further invitation, Lex climbed onto the dirty mattress, straddling her and holding his weight off of her with his thick arms. His eyes trailed slowly down her bound and helpless form, absorbing every detail.
“Mmmmmm,” he said.
He began to lower himself, taking his time at first, smiling at the tears as they started to flow once again. Then with a grunt of effort, he dropped his whole weight down on top of her. The bed creaked. To either side, his blubbery belly hung down until it was fully covering her thin body like a sweaty blanket of rancid fat. The girl screamed.
Mitchel guessed that if the fat lad’s weight didn’t suffocate her then his stench would. He smiled as her eyes met with his, letting the full omnipotence of his position hang like a decorative banner between them.
“I… will… kill you,” she said between coughs, clearly struggling for breath.
The threat surprised Mitchel, who burst out laughing.
Lex cuffed the back of her head hard. “Shut up!” he said. And with that he reached down and guided himself between her spread-eagle legs.
Mitchel, topless, sparked a cigarette, blowing smoke as the fat lad pushed into her with a grunt and a moan. The pain of the invasion caused her to break the stare with him, which in turn drew another smile. Even now, after all this, the bitch was not still not broken. It had already taken hours, but she was not yet finished. One thing he knew for sure, however, was that they all broke eventually. This little firecracker was taking way longer than most, but she’d go too.
Lex let out a loud, ecstatic groan. He began to grind and move backwards and forwards on top of her, grabbing at her hair and slamming her head back onto the filthy pillow.
Watching the show, Mitchel suddenly realised how thirsty he was. All the hours fucking had left him parched. He thought about the stores from the house; the bottles of brandy they had found and stored away under instruction not to tell any of the others until ready for equal distribution amongst the masses. Fuck that. If he was going to enjoy this little bitch till the end, then he sure as shit wasn’t going to do it sober. He reached for his t-shirt from the floor.
“I’ll be back in a sec. Anyone stops by and wants a go on her, you tell ‘em to wait for me, okay?”
This last comment drew the eyes of the girl back to his. Her head had been yanked by the hair into a static position on the pillow now. Hate burned brightly from behind the bruises and Mitchel laughed loudly again, turning his back as Lex got to work, drawing mouse-like squeals from the girl in time with his abusive and painful thrusts.
Mitchel pulled open the door, turned to the right and strode out in the direction of the stores, straight into somebody standing there in the gloom.
“What the-?!” he said, jumping backwards.
His eyes strained in the murk for signs of recognition.
“You!” he said as realisation set in. “You got a fuckin death wish?”
It was Pock. Even in the dim light, it was clear he was smiling.
Mitchel raised his fist, bearing down on him. There was no Doyle around to help now, and the episode in the canteen still rang fresh in his mind. It was time to teach the little weirdo a lesson. He pulled back his elbow.
Suddenly the corridor went dark. A breaking candle jar shattered in the darkness and small red imprints danced in front of his eyes on their black canvases. He reached down, blindly trying to grab Pock’s shirt, but his hands found nothing. Agitated, he swung hard to his right. The whoosh from the fist was audible in the dark. But the blow missed.
“Where’d you go? You best show yourself, if you know what’s good for you!” Mitchel hissed. He looked left and then right, blinking hard to try and clear the black fog.
A sharp searing pain at the back of one of his legs, just above the knee cap on the reverse of his thigh, caused him to bellow aloud in agony.
“AAAAAARGH!”
He tried to turn, but the same leg gave way under his weight, sending his face into the roughly painted wall. He could taste the blood as it began to flow liberally into his mouth; the familiar metallic tang in his throat. The back of his thigh felt as though it was on fire, and the pain only intensified as he applied more pressure.
A hand grabbed the back of his head, and something pressed across his neck. A stinging sensation, barely noticeable next to the agony of his legs, registered weakly just under his Adam’s apple.
“I told you not to mess with me, Mitchel,” Pock’s slightly nasal voice whispered, not an inch from his face.
Mitchel swallowed a mouthful of blood and laughed loudly, holding his arms out to each side. It was real laughter too.
“Ha ha ha, what are you gonna do about it?” he shouted, his tone condescending. “You seriously gonna step to me like that? Huh? Shit, I knew you was stupid but I didn’t think you was suicidal!”
He laughed again, this time higher in pitch, more maniacal.
“You know what? I was gonna let you have a go on that slut in there. Truly I was. But now, I’m thinking that maybe we should let her go… and fuck y
ou instead… wha’d’ya think about that… bitch?”
He heard a low growl in the dark and the fingers gripping the back of his head tightened. More pressure brought a fresh stinging sensation to his neck followed by a tickle on his chest as hot blood trickled there. Wet lips came in close enough so that they were now touching his ear lobe. For a second or two, there was no sound, almost as if Pock was relishing the moment.
When the voice finally came, it was dead and devoid of any emotion. “The only person getting fucked tonight is you… bitch.”
His face was slammed into the wall again, and Mitchel felt a tooth shatter into his mouth. Sharp fragments stabbed his tongue. The hand from behind held his head forehead first on the paint, as a hot intense pain—the worst that he had ever felt—set fire to his throat. He groped at his neck; hard pieces of windpipe and severed tendon poked out from the slippery mess. Warm fluid coated his hands then splattered to the floor, unseen in the darkness.
He tried to call out through the shards of shattered enamel, but the only sound that came was a hiss like a deflating balloon before it turned into a gargled, popping sound as the air fought through the blood.
***
Pock held his nemesis triumphantly as the life drained in punctuated, unceremonious splashes from his body. Soon, nothing but a lifeless lump of bleeding flesh remained, a soulless, empty carcass, lighter with every passing second. Years of pain and ridicule flashed through him, and he closed his eyes as he felt the last of Mitchel twitch and turn in his grasp.
I told you I would end you, Mitchel. I told you I would end you all.
The movement finally stopped.
Behind him to one side, the door to Mitchel’s room was slightly ajar, spilling a thin shard of dancing light out into the hall. Pock released his grip and Mitchel’s body dropped with a heavy thud, lost in the gloom forever. From within the room, the grunting and squealing continued undisturbed. Thankfully, it seemed that whoever was in there had not heard the commotion outside.
