Savage Nights

by W. D. Gagliani

  Meanwhile Marissa had nibbled Daffy's ears and nipples, and now she was licking down his chest and belly to his satin briefs. He stepped back and dropped the thin material and Kit gasped. Her breathing came faster as she watched Marissa take hold of him with her lips. The camera got in close, but its handler was careful to leave Kit's view unblocked. As Marissa worked, the grunts and slurps reached Kit, disgusting her. Her breath came faster.

  Jesus!

  In the lucid part of her brain, she understood that the drug had relaxed her inhibitions.

  What the hell had they pumped into her?

  Suddenly she giggled.

  She was sure none of the boys she knew were hung like that, no way.

  Why would she even think about it? Kit felt confused and on the verge of tears, but when they came, her tears were laced with an unexpected jab of lust.

  Marissa seemed to enjoy performing for the camera. Streams of drool adorned her chin and mascara tears streaked her cheeks. She didn't seem to mind.

  Kit wanted to scream, run, kill Marissa's attacker. But the confusion made her mind fuzzy. Even if Marissa claimed she liked it, he was still a rapist. Wasn't he? They were all rapists. Tears fell from Kit's eyes. Would they get her next?

  She could tell the drug was starting to wear off, because now the lurking lust was gone and she felt terror, building up slowly into a dam-burst. Terror because this wasn't how she wanted to die, and she had a pretty good idea that after using a reluctant actress, they would get rid of witnesses. Her eyes leaked solid streams of tears.

  Marissa's masked attacker pulled himself away from her with a wet smacking sound. He grabbed her lithe body and flipped her roughly onto her back, entering her from above. Now Kit watched, still helpless, as the thug rocked Marissa repeatedly and she moved right along with him, evidently happy and mewling, while the camera guy zoomed on her face. Then thug-Daffy flipped her again and put her on her knees and positioned himself behind her. Marissa gasped, then screamed, her voice fading to a rhythmic groaning as she flattened her face on the bed.

  Kit knew that things had gotten worse. Her heart raced in her chest and her muscles ached.

  Goddamn them, goddamn him, goddamn them all...

  Kit tried to shout, wanted to shout, but nothing came out. Even fading, the drug had silenced her.

  She tried to squirm, but whoever held her, held her too securely. She tried to make her brain take control of her body, but it was no use — it was as if she'd been bound with magical rope.

  On the bed, Marissa screamed again. Now she was screeching in raw terror and pain as the masked sadist thrust furiously from behind. The other one, thug-Elmer, forced himself into her mouth and ran the camera until thug-Daffy grunted repeatedly like a huge flabby pig, while Marissa pulled herself away from the camera guy and tried desperately to crawl off the bed.

  Kit's fuzzy head spun with the violence. Thug-Daffy'd been holding Marissa in an iron grip. And now the other thug pulled her back by the scruff of the neck, handed his camera to Daffy and they traded places, letting the camera run. But now it was all one-way action, as Marissa had been reduced to a blubbering, whimpering mass of flesh.

  Kit almost thought she was dead, except she could see more tears streaking down the smeared face. Thug-Elmer stood there, maneuvering and invading Marissa's body while she lay like a corpse in whatever position he posed her. After he finished, he laughed and spoke with Thug-Daffy in a foreign language, then they wiped themselves on the girl's face, high-fived each other and stalked out of the room.

  Kit was still being held in a sitting position, but all she could see was Marissa, lying silent and still, until she realized that the girl was whimpering the same words over and over.

  "I'm the favorite... I'm the favorite... I'm the..."

  "Marissa," whispered Kit, her voice slurred. She sounded drunk even to her own ears. "I'm all messed – I wish I could have done something."

  "You'll get your turn," the redhead spoke softly between sniffles. "I'm not having all the fun around here."

  Then she rolled over, facing Kit, and smiled.

  She smiled.

  "Wasn't that a great performance?"

  Kit knew her tongue was still thick from the drug, but she realized she'd run out of shock or words to convey it. She tried to turn her head and it seemed that the straps or hands which had held her in place were gone. If they had ever been there.

  "You goddamn fucking—"

  "What, whore? Wake up, honey! Tomorrow it's your turn."

  With that, Marissa bounced off the bed and disappeared through the door.

  Kit was still screaming obscenities at her, trying to stand on her shaky knees and feet, when the men — who were now clothed — entered and grabbed her from either side. She spit, screamed, swore, and tried to scratch them with her short nails, but they barely noticed her as they turned her to face the other side of the room. She stared. She hadn't realized how large the room was, or how high the ceiling. The back wall was covered by concrete ranks of stadium seating almost as extensive as those of a small movie theater. Plush red seats with cup holders stared back at her, empty except for three, which were occupied by a large man with long, greasy hair, and a girl who was hunched over sideways in her seat, her head bouncing up and down over his lap, and—

  And Pervy Man, from the mall, who just watched.

  It dawned on Kit that she wasn't even shocked anymore.

  The long-haired man took his hands from the top of the girl's head and clapped slowly, loudly. The sound echoed in the little theater. The girl moved her head faster and he clapped harder. Then he groaned and let the girl lay her head on his lap after she was done. He petted her hair as if she were a dog.

  "A good performance, very good! Very nice!"

  His voice was accented.

  Like Irina's, her mind supplied. She suppressed the thought.

  "She is my favorite," the man (who was clearly in charge) said, turning to Pervy Man, who stared at Kit with no emotion. "But soon," he added, looking down straight at Kit, "soon you will have the chance to be my favorite. Right Elena?"

  The girl whose face was in his lap mumbled and suddenly he cuffed her head hard enough for Kit to flinch. Elena seemed accustomed to it, her dead eyes saying nothing. He laughed, then stood and shoved the girl aside. Pervy Man grabbed her as if she were a bag of trash to remove. The long-haired man stood and stalked down the concrete steps toward Kit and her bladder finally let go, disgusting warmth spreading around her crotch and down her legs. When he caressed her face, his hand obscenely soft and tender, she thought she would retch.

  He reached around her head and grabbed a handful of her hair, yanking it painfully aside.

  "Do not think what you did now, soiling yourself, would keep me away from you. My tastes are, how you say, eclectic."

  He licked his thin lips and she swore he almost drooled. His cologne made her gag. He stepped back and zipped up his trousers.

  "Soon, my new little toy, we shall see where you fit in. Or where I fit in." He lowered his face closer and Kit turned away. He laughed and stalked toward the door. Rough hands grabbed Kit from behind and manhandled her back to her room.

  (Goddamn it, it's a fucking cell, and I'm gonna die here... Goddamn fucking bastards...)

  Marissa was carefully removing her ruined makeup, seated on her bed as if it were her bedroom on the second floor of some suburban family home.

  The new girl was awake and staring at each of them, her face twitchy, her eyes haunted and filled with genuine fear. Kit felt sorry for her, but did not stop her tantrum.

  They tossed Kit onto her bunk and she bounced off, half onto the floor. One of the men snickered, manacled her again, then they left the three girls alone and bolted the door behind them.

  The pungent smell of her own urine sickened her with fear and shame.

  Kit felt sensation returning to her feet and hands, a tingly feeling not unlike the crawling ant sensation when a limb 'fell asleep.' She s
lowly climbed back up onto her bunk and started crying. She couldn't help it, the tears just flowed.

  No way was she going to allow herself to be handled like Marissa had been. Raped like she had been.

  She drew herself into a sitting position, still angry and ashamed of her fear.

  No way.

  She would die first, even if she had to chew her veins open during the night.

  THIRTEEN

  Loot awoke from his nightmare and nearly fell off the bunk.

  It was no nightmare. It had happened exactly as he remembered. Every detail had been inscribed into his brain and he relived it every night, sometimes also reliving the visions he had had of his men's lives. He had requested the Army's files on several of his men, just to check on the accuracy of the visions the old man had triggered. They seemed to be accurate. Smitty was a rapist who had chosen the Army over prison. Digger was a psychopath — though his lust for blood was surpassed only by his loyalty, so he was a consummate soldier in Loot's squad. Sarge had been disciplined a half dozen times, but his file was mostly clean. Loot had asked around, though, and had learned Sarge was setting up a contraband network for the smuggling of various types of black market goods. They were all tainted people, every one of them. A misdeed here, a crime there, suspicious circumstances. Each of them had shadows in their past. Maybe that's what made them good Tunnel Rats. None of what he'd seen caused Loot to treat his men any differently — when he'd thought about it, they were only an effective unit because of their unique traits, not despite them. He never confided in anyone what happened in the day and a half he'd spent buried with the two Vietnamese, and no one had officially asked. Although word had spread about his nightmares and interrupted sleep, he had also proven with every operation since then that he now led a charmed life. He saw booby traps and VC tunnel fighters hiding in ambush, and the only fatalities in his squad happened when he was not on point or at the trapdoor.

  When the infantry called for an experienced Tunnel Rat squad south of Ben Suc, Brant and his men were helicoptered in and dropped off by the two Huey gunships in a clearing the perimeter of which was nervously guarded by ragged-edged guys who looked like they'd seen the mouth of hell. Loot and Sarge quickly directed their men to the company commander, a major with a bloody bandage on one shoulder. The major, who seemed shell-shocked by the losses his unit had taken, showed them a map on which he had marked not one but three tunnel entrances.

  "Where there are three are likely to be more, Major," Loot told him. His designation of intelligence officer — as well as Rat Six, Tunnel Rat squad commander — gave him official status almost equal to that of the other officer. "Keep your men alert, but if we go down into more than one hole, your men have to hold their fire — we might come out anywhere."

  The major nodded wearily. "The bastards have been sniping at us from spider holes the last three days. We sit down to eat some rations and five minutes later I'm down one guy. We send out a patrol, and lose a guy or two an hour. We heard about the tunnel thing back at base, but this is a fucking nightmare they didn't prepare us for."

  The word nightmare echoed in Loot's head. He nodded.

  "Weren't the tunnels wiped out in Cedar Falls? That's what we were told." The major grimaced and held his wounded arm.

  Loot laughed bitterly. "Cedar Falls did squat. We found probably a hundredth of what's there, under the jungle. Let our guys do their jobs. Just make sure you don't shoot any of us by mistake."

  "I'll make sure my NCOs all understand the situation."

  From somewhere beyond the trees they heard a tearing burst of M-16 fire, quickly cut off by a larger blast.

  "Jesus, that's another of my guys, guaranteed." The major turned away in disgust. "Just get in there and get the bastards before they cut my unit to ribbons."

  "Sir." Lieutenant Brant saluted. He noticed the sky had turned a steely grey color, washing out the green of the jungle foliage.

  Around the nearest tunnel mouth, his squad had assembled awaiting orders.

  "I'm going in," Sarge said. He stripped off shirt and undershirt and checked his own revolver. Digger handed him a flashlight. Sarge checked his knife and back-up knife.

  "I'm taking that one," Lieutenant Brant pointed to one of the other tunnel openings. "Who's on third?"

  "I'll take it." Digger started to strip clothing and equipment from his lanky frame.

  "Usual rules," Loot told them when the other two volunteers were ready. "Drop in a grenade first. No firing pistols more than three times in a row, fire through trapdoors before proceeding, and retreat if you see light ahead." He didn't want his men to go through anything like what had happened to him.

  On the outside, Lieutenant Brant was calm and business-like as he prepared to crawl into a black hole and face a hidden, lethal enemy. But on the inside, in his mind, he screamed uncontrollably at the mere thought of feeling those clay walls touching his skin. The insects crawling in his hair and into his mouth and nostrils. The knowledge that a booby trap would kill him, or even worse, maim him for life. He was not calm, but somehow he was able to remain in control and project the illusion of coolness needed to lead these extraordinary men on such near-suicide missions.

  With Smitty left in charge of the above-ground Rat squad, each volunteer and an assistant worked the dowsing sticks on the cleverly-camouflaged trapdoors.

  Brant's newfound senses came in handy again as he and his assistant slowly lifted off their trapdoor, exposing the black hole that awaited him. Brant waited to make sure the others had done the same — the volunteers waved after they'd blown their trapdoors. Then each of them readied an M-26 fragmentation grenade, pulled the pin, and dropped it into their respective holes. The blast was almost always contained by the clay walls, and VC fighters were adept at crawling past radical bends in the tunnel, which easily defeated the shrapnel's effective blast radius. Occasionally, a grenade took a VC fighter unawares at the bottom of an entry tunnel and the Tunnel Rat would find the shrapnel-mangled body when he finally reached the bottom.

  In this case, Lieutenant Brant saw what happened almost as if he were watching a film, slowed down to frame-by-frame for analysis. As he ducked sideways to prepare for his own grenade's underground blast, he saw his two other teams do the same, but at Digger's hole the grenade popped back up, apparently caught by a waiting VC fighter and tossed straight up and out of the tunnel. Unfortunately, both Digger and his assistant with the divining rod had turned away to cover their faces, and they did not see the grenade arc upward out of the hole and land at their feet.

  Brant shouted even as his own grenade detonated below him. "Grenade! Digger!" But his words were swallowed by three blasts, one of them above-ground and devastating to the two men who'd huddled over the hole.

  By the time he and Sarge had reached the hole, Digger lay wounded but alive, his head and back covered in blood and gore. His assistant, however, had taken the brunt of the explosion. His legs and left arm were ragged, bloody stumps, and his throat squirted out the last of his blood in a torrent where a piece of shrapnel had torn through his jugular.

  "Medic!" Brant called out as the rest of the team converged on the tunnel mouth, firing long bursts into the hole in case the enemy had somehow remained in place.

  Brant reached Digger and saw that he would live, but when he turned to the assistant, a recent addition to the team named Ramirez — a kid who'd shown great promise as a Rat, given his pugnacious attitude — he knew there was no reason to hurry.

  Brant turned the young man's face toward him, cradling the bloody mass of the back of his head, and suddenly he recoiled in horror and shock, because the assistant was Kit and her body was ruined by the shrapnel, her camouflage gear torn to bits by the strength of the blast. Her mangled legs and arm lay nearby, smoldering like pieces of burned meat in an outdoor market stall. Her face — her beautiful young face — was a mass of awful welts and wounds, but the blood that had poured from her neck had nearly covered her features like a mask.


  Brant cried out in anguish, cradling her body with his arms, letting her blood soak into his skin and pants, blubbering at her that it was his fault, he was to blame, it was all because of him...

  And then the corpse of Kit, his niece, almost his daughter — what was he thinking? she was his niece — turned its face toward him and opened its eyes —

  but that was impossible, because she had to be dead with the extent of those wounds

  — and said, clearly, her mouth delineating the words carefully so there would be no mistake:

  "Help me, Uncle Rich. Please help me. They're doing terrible things to the others, and I can see it's going to be my turn soon. Please, please find me."

  Brant snorted through his tears and hugged her body to himself until he felt hands pulling him away, and then he allowed them to tear him away from her and other hands lowered her to the ground reverentially, but now it was Ramirez again, it was the new kid again, not his daughter — his niece! — not Kit, not Kit, not Kit...

  ***

  He awoke now, from the nightmare within a nightmare, and found himself slumped over sideways in his car, his neck twisted at a strange angle that sent shooting pains into his cranium. He felt the headache pound through his brain and down the back of his neck, and slowly straightened into his seat, meanwhile trying to slow his breathing and heart rate, knowing his hands were trembling at what he had seen.

  What he had relived.

  The death of Ramirez had sent home one of his men, a medium-built kid named Hill, with a psychological discharge. In fact, it was Hill who had reached Ramirez first. They'd been buddies through basic training, through two other assignments, and had volunteered for the Rat squad together. Hill was a ruined man afterwards, of no value to the Tunnel Rats — in fact, he had become dangerous to them.

  But it hadn't been Brant who'd cradled the dead Ramirez. And it hadn't been Kit lying there, broken like a child's castaway doll. Couldn't have been Kit except in Brant's fucked-up mind, because she hadn't been born yet by almost twenty years.