The Devil's Pit

by Naomi Martin

  I do my best to keep from rolling my eyes, knowing it will likely only trigger another wave of that breath in my face—and I’d rather avoid that. He lifts my chin again, forcing me to look into his eyes. He very pointedly looks me up and down, letting his gaze linger on my breasts and then even lower as a predatory smile crosses his face. I shudder and try to look away, but he holds my chin tightly.

  And in that moment, I realize just how helpless I am without my powers. I am literally at this man’s mercy. I have no idea where I am—nobody knows where I am. I have no powers, and this man can literally do what he wants to me. I don’t get the idea that this place strictly adheres to the laws of the land or is careful about not treading on my civil rights.

  “The flip side of that coin is that I can make your life here nice and easy, too,” he says, a salacious gleam in his eye. “If you play nice with me, that is.”

  The mere thought of playing nice with this cretin is revolting and makes me shudder. He chuckles low and finally lets go of my chin. He picks up a clipboard from the counter and scans the papers attached to it.

  “Raven McCabe. Eighteen years old,” he reads. “You’re an elemental.”

  “Congratulations, you can read.”

  I hear the crack of flesh meeting flesh and my head is rocked to the side a moment before I feel the flare of pain in my cheek. I put my shackled hands to my face, feeling it burn with pain, embarrassment, and rage.

  “Next time, I won’t pull my punch,” he says ominously. “When I told you I can make your life a living hell, I wasn’t fuckin’ around.”

  “This isn’t legal,” I spit. “I have rights.”

  He laughs out loud like it’s the funniest thing he’s ever heard. Slowly, his laughter tapers off and he glares at me.

  “Girl, where do you think you is, exactly? A country club? You ain’t got no rights here. Nobody even knows you’re here,” he spits. “As far as the world out there is concerned, you’re a ghost. You just fell off the face of the Earth. And ain’t nobody comin’ to look for you.”

  His words send a chill sweeping through me. It’s exactly as I suspected—and feared. And it adds to the feeling of helplessness, and hopelessness, that’s threatening to overwhelm me.

  “So, if I was you, I’d be watchin’ my p’s and q’s,” he hisses. “And I’d damn well make sure I ain’t pissin’ me off. You got me?”

  I nod but say nothing. He grips my chin again, his fingers pressing hard into my flesh. He forces me to look up at him and although the rage is flowing through me in a torrent and I want nothing more than to reach out and claw his eyes out, I restrain myself. Not that I intend to be his friend, but this is clearly not a man I want to make an enemy of.

  “I said, do you got me?” he repeats.

  “Yes.”

  “Yes, what?” His eyes grow hard as he sneers at me. “You’ll refer to me as Sir, or Captain Sherman,” he growls. “Am I clear?”

  “Yes… Captain Sherman.”

  He stares into my eyes for another long moment before he releases my chin. I shrink back from him and look away. Just hearing myself say those words make me sick. I’ve never allowed myself to be bullied into being that deferential in my life, not even before I came into my powers. I’ve never been the kind of girl who takes shit from anybody. But here I am, sounding like a meek, submissive little wallflower. And it sickens me.

  “That’s better. Now, let’s go.”

  He grabs hold of my arm more roughly than he needs to and all but drags me through the doorway in the back. We walk through a twisting warren of hallways before we come to a large room that’s all white tile and fluorescent lighting. There are half a dozen shower heads jutting out of the far wall, each separated by a short half-wall.

  Goosebumps crawl across my skin and my stomach churns when Captain Sherman steps over to me. He grabs me by the hands and unlocks the shackles around my wrists. He tosses them onto a table near the doorway and looms over me, his eyes creepily sliding up and down my body.

  “Strip,” he says.

  “Wh-what?” I say, hating the tremor I hear in my voice.

  “I said, strip.”

  He walks back to the table, which creaks and groans as he sits down on top of it. Sherman folds his arms over his broad chest and watches me closely.

  “You need to shower and disinfect before I let you into the Pit with the rest of the freaks,” he says. “Who knows where you’ve been.”

  I bite back the scathing reply that shoots to the tip of my tongue and look away. The last thing I want to do is get naked in front of this man. I glance around, looking for somebody—anybody—who can help me. But there is nobody else. It’s just me and him.

  “Shouldn’t there be a female guard here doing this?” I ask.

  “Like I told ya, you ain’t got any rights here,” he hisses. “Now strip, or I’ll come over there and strip you down myself.”

  I can taste the bile in the back of my throat, and tears well in my eyes. The rage is flowing through me and I hate myself for feeling so weak. For being so helpless. As a lone tear traces its way down my cheek, I turn my back to him and start to unbutton my shirt.

  “Just throw it all in a pile to the side,” he orders.

  More tears flow as I toss my shirt to the side. My bra follows it, along with my pants. I’m left standing there in nothing but my panties, trembling, feeling my heart race and my stomach churn.

  “All of it,” he commands. “Get rid of the panties, too.”

  A choked sob escapes me as I step out of my panties and kick them away. My hands covering my intimate parts, I stand completely naked—except for this fucking collar—with tears spilling freely down my face. I have never felt more exposed or more vulnerable than I do right now.

  From behind me, I hear a grunt and a low whistle. “Well, ain’t you a sight,” he says. “Yes, ma’am, you’re a pretty sweet piece of meat.”

  I say nothing, my hands covering as much of my body as I can. I try to fight back my tears and the waves of nausea rolling through me.

  “Now, step on forward and turn on them shower handles,” he orders. “I’ll even let you use the warm water.”

  I do as he says and turn on the water as hot as I can stand it, hoping the steam that billows around me will provide me some cover and keep him from leering at me. Turning my face up into the spray, I wince at the heat as it scalds my skin. I run my hands through my hair, trying to work out some of the knots and tangles.

  The warm water sluicing all of the dirt and grime from the streets feels nice. Hot showers are hard to come by when you’re homeless and this, as much as I hate to admit it, feels almost luxurious. Decadent. It’s something I took for granted before I was forced to flee my home, and something I definitely miss. As I let the warm water rain down over me, I feel some of my strength returning and I don’t feel quite as helpless or hopeless anymore.

  But as I revel in the warmth of the water, I’m aware of Sherman’s hulking presence and my arms automatically move, covering my nakedness. I open my eyes and turn to see him leaning against the wall of the next stall over. He’s tall enough that the half-wall hides nothing, and he’s just standing there, leering at me. Still covering myself, I glare hard at him, furious at the violation.

  “Use these.”

  He hangs a plastic box on the half-wall. It’s got a sponge, soap, shampoo, and an unmarked plastic bottle, which he taps his finger on.

  “Use this one after you dry off,” he says. “It’s a disinfectant. Smear it all over your body and don’t miss any spots.”

  “Afraid I’ll give your pets cooties or something?” I ask.

  He smirks. “Somethin’ like that,” he says. “But it’s orders from Dr. Fry and Dr. Keene, so do it.”

  We stand there in silence, eyes locked for a long moment. There is an amused light in his eyes as well as something… darker. It’s lust, but it’s more than that. He’s looking at me like he owns me. Like I’m his to do with as he pleases.
Like he can use me whenever and however he wants. He looks at me like I’m his toy to play with, and it not only sickens me, but it fuels the rage burning inside of me.

  “You don’t need to stand here and watch me,” I spit.

  “Afraid I do,” he says. “Have to make sure you’re gettin’ yourself squeaky clean.”

  I shudder, and part of me wants to break down and cry. But as I come back to myself, I know that doing that will only be giving him power over me. Men like Sherman thrive on the fear they instill in others. He wants me to feel weak. Powerless. He wants me to collapse into a blubbering heap on the floor at his feet.

  I stand up straighter, stiffening my spine. Lifting my chin in defiance, I glare at him, doing my best to quell the maelstrom of emotions swirling through me. It’s difficult as hell to do but I lower my hands, letting him see my body. I wash myself, doing my best to shut out the fact that this creep is standing there, watching me and licking his lips like he’s a starving man staring at a juicy steak.

  Taking back my power like that fills me with a sense of confidence—a confidence that grows with every passing moment. By the time I’m done washing and using the disinfectant on myself, I feel strong. Powerful. The intimidation Sherman had inspired in me that nearly broke me is gone, like a puff of smoke on the breeze. He leers at me and I stare back at him, unafraid.

  He may think he has power and control over me, but I have news for him—if he thinks he can take me, use me, or try to break me, he has another think coming. I will fight, tooth and nail, to the bitter end. I will use every tool at my disposal to keep him at bay and I will die fighting before I let him have me. He can rape my corpse.

  “Are you going to stand there staring like a fucking pervert who’s never seen a naked woman before?” I growl. “Or are you going to give me something to wear?”

  He snaps out of it and comes back to himself, a slow, greasy grin spreading across his face. His chuckle is low. Menacing. Meant to intimidate. But I’m having none of it.

  “Seems like ya got some of your fire back, huh?”

  “Whatever,” I spit. “Clothes. Now.”

  He grins and nods at me as he walks over to a set of shelves mounted to the wall. He checks the shelves then pulls down some clothes and sets them down on the table next to him. He pats the pile of clothes, beckoning me over.

  “Here ya go,” he says. “Come get dressed, now.”

  My chin still raised in defiance and my face a mask of cold indifference, I stride over to the table and shuffle through the pile of clothes. I pull on a pair of white cotton panties followed by red cotton trousers, a white T-shirt, and a red smock. It’s all stiff and scratchy. But at least it’s clean, I suppose.

  I pull on the thick socks and laceless slip-on shoes, and I’m done. I made it through showering and dressing in front of him without having a major meltdown. Kudos to me.

  “What now?” I ask.

  I can see, by the look in his eyes, what he wants to happen right now, but he takes a step back and lets out a long breath—thankfully not in my direction. He clears his throat and scowls at me. Clearly, it’s not as fun for him when I’m not afraid.

  “Let’s go,” he mutters.

  He leads me out of the showers and down a long corridor. We take a right and there’s a door at the end of a shorter hallway. We stop, and I watch as he swipes a keycard then submits to a hand and optical scan. A moment later, there’s a beep, and the hand scanner turns green. I hear the loud clank of the locks being disengaged. He turns to me, his scowl deepening.

  “What are you looking at?” he hisses.

  “Just making a mental note that I’ll need to cut off your hand and scoop out your eyeball when I make my escape,” I tell him.

  “That’s cute,” he says. “Real cute.”

  His laughter is a low growl as he pulls the handle and the door swings outward with a loud squeal. Sherman tries to play it off, but I can tell he doesn’t like being talked to in the way I’m speaking to him. Bullies don’t like it when their victims stand up to them. It’s a universal truth, and one I’m glad I remembered. It’s not that I’m not still afraid; it’s simply that I’ve been able to make the anger inside of me louder and brighter than my fear.

  We step into a short corridor made of a burnished steel, with another thick steel door at the end.

  “You take your security seriously around here,” I note.

  “Have to,” he fires back. “Got to be able to keep you freaks in here.”

  “There is going to come a day when I will make you regret the way you treat us, Captain Sherman. Rounding people like me up and sticking us in camps? We might as well be living in Nazi Germany,” I hiss. “What you people are doing to us is downright evil, and you will pay the price one day.”

  “Yeah, okay. Let me know when that day comes, because I’d hate to miss it.”

  “Trust me, you won’t miss anything,” I tell him. “You’re going to be the first person I kill.”

  He draws his hand back quickly and I flinch, my veneer of confidence and fearlessness shattering in an instant. I straighten myself up again and fix an expression of indifference on my face, but it’s too late. Sherman laughs, giving me a lascivious smile.

  “Yeah. That’s what I thought,” he says.

  “Go fuck yourself.”

  “Don’t worry, darlin’, we’ll get to that.”

  At the end of the hall, he goes through the same security protocol as with the first door—keycard, hand, optical scan. The locks disengage with a loud thunk and the door slides open automatically. He shoves me in the small of the back, propelling me through the door and into an enormous cavern. Above us is a hole that’s at least a football field long and half that wide. It’s covered with a mesh that seems to glow in the silvery luminescence of the moonlight outside.

  I turn in a circle, marveling at the fact that they seem to have scooped a giant hole out of the earth and built a prison inside of it. Starting on the ground floor, there are three tiers of steel doors, each of them with a narrow viewing slit that reminds me of what a solitary confinement cell in a prison might look like. The hole in the ceiling is crazy high above the third tier of the prison, making the thought of escaping that way impossible. Unless you can somehow scale a sheer rock surface, anyway.

  There are a bunch of tables and couches set up here on the ground floor, creating a common room. Several dozen girls wearing the same red outfit I’m in are milling about. All eyes turn toward me as I step in and I can feel them all sizing me up, carrying on whispered conversations amongst themselves. I feel my face flare with heat—I don’t like being the center of attention. Never have.

  The walls of the cavern are rough-hewn rock, but the floor beneath my feet is steel. To our left is a small booth that has plexiglass windows all around, giving the man inside an unobstructed view of the ground floor of this place. I notice that strange symbols have been etched into the plexiglass along the very top and bottom. I also see a door in the back of the booth that opens into what looks like some sort of office or supply room or something. I can’t tell.

  Sherman leads me over to the booth, leans on the counter, and raps on the plexiglass. A bored older man with graying hair and greasy, pockmarked skin slides open a panel, leaning down on his side of the counter.

  “What can I do fer ya, Ty?”

  Sherman jerks his thumb at me. “Fresh meat.”

  The man’s eyes slide up and down my body and he nods. He has that same lascivious look in his eye that Sherman does, and it sends goosebumps marching up and down my skin. What the hell is wrong with the men in this place? Do they only hire fucking perverts?

  “All right,” the man finally says. “Hang on a minute.”

  He turns away and disappears into the back room. Feeling their eyes pressing down on me like a physical weight, I turn around and glare at them all. Most of them turn away, giggling to each other like the vapid idiots I used to deal with back when I was in school. They used to sta
re and giggle at me in the same way. A couple of the others, though, openly glare back at me and, given my history with people like that, I have a feeling I’m going to have problems with them.

  “Here ya go.”

  I turn around and see the older man is back at the counter with a bundle. He slides it through the panel to our side and Sherman looks back at me.

  “Pick up your shit,” he says.

  I walk over and pick up the bundle—a sheet, blanket, pillow, towel, and toiletries. Wrapping my arms around it, I hold it to my chest. The old man behind the glass grins at me.

  “See you ‘round,” he says with a wink.

  Feeling revolted, I turn and look at Sherman, who’s busy leering at some of the other girls in the common room. I clear my throat.

  “This a bad time?” I ask. “You can always let me out of here and—”

  “Y’know, you really got a smart mouth on you, little girl,” he snaps. “It’s gonna get real old, real quick.”

  I give him a smirk I hope looks more real than it feels. I can’t show weakness—not here, in front of the other girls. If the movies and TV shows I’ve seen are any guide, showing weakness would be putting a target on my back.

  “You’re in cell A54,” he says. “Let’s go.”

  I follow him through the common area, keeping my back straight, chin up, and eyes forward. I walk like a queen, ignoring the whispers and snickers that flow in my wake. I see some of the girls looking dreamily at Sherman and notice that he winks at a few of them. Obviously, some of the girls here have decided that playing nice with the man will make their lives easier. It’s a thought that sends a shudder of disgust through my body.

  He leads me over to the row of open cell doors on the first tier and points me to the one that has A54 stenciled in white on the frame. He turns and gives me a predatory grin.

  “Home sweet home,” he says. “Get real comfy. You’re gonna be here a while.”

  “And how long is a while?”

  “You’re eighteen, so… probably the next sixty, seventy years or so.” He grins. “Unless you die early.”