Red Fox (15 page)

“Don’t be sulky,” she says, stopping in front of another door. “Here we are,” she says as she opens the door and enters.

15.
 

I smell it immediately—the scent of burning flesh—the same as when you run over some week-old road-kill on a hot, bitumen road. The smell is sweet, sickly, and overpowering. My feet stop on their own accord and refuse to go forward. My instincts scream at me to run. How can I? If I run, she will just yank me backwards again.

The scent of it burns my nostrils and makes my throat tighten. The room is small and very clean looking with its spotless white tiles, and there is a big, metal dish towards the back of the room that resembles a fire pit. I can’t see its contents but white vapour streams from it in hazy wisps. Smoke maybe? A steel-restraining table with leather bindings sits in the centre of the chamber and I sense instantly that bad things have happened on the table. My entire body balks in the doorway, and Warden stops here to address an overweight man with small, beady eyes who standing over the fire pit instrument at the back, holding a rod of metal, which has a very defined ‘B’ stamp at the end.

“Ah, Warden. Managed to get the new ones here?” he says, clapping his gloved hands together with a horrible grin directed at me.

No! My mind goes blank with disbelief and terror. My body won’t move. I don’t know what to do. I feel the world drop from beneath my feet as I realise this room’s purpose—the purpose of the table and the steaming fire pit. I sway on the spot, gut churning with nausea.

“We did. She’s mad. Tie her tight,” Warden says. “Good luck.”

“I will,” the man says. He walks towards me, one hand outstretched to take my chain from Warden. I see every brown hair of his handlebar moustache and the curl of his lip as he attempts to smile.

I finally turn to run. I don’t care where. Anywhere is better than this room. I don’t even think it’s the thought of having the searing hot stamp pressed against my skin that terrifies me. It’s the vile presence that surrounds this man. The way he claps his hands together like a show is about to begin, the sickening twist of his smile and the perverse glint in his eyes.

I only get two steps out the door when the chain is jerked and the man’s massive, hairy arms wrap around my body. I scream for someone to help me. My blood-curdling voice echoes off every wall, bounding back to me, magnifying my terror. No answer comes. Whil is probably in this exact situation too. The man lifts me clear off the ground like I weigh nothing and carries me back into the room. He slams me down onto the metal table. The back of my head hits it hard and a metallic thrum pierces my ears. My lower back feels as though it has been set on fire and then slowly, the cold metal of the table eases the pain. Despite my dizziness, I try to sit up but a broad hand pushes me back down and wrestles off the handcuffs.

For one instant, hope surges within me. I strike out, screeching in wild anger. My fist collides with the man’s face, but he hardly flinches. He seizes my wrist as I yank my arm back to strike again, leans across the table so his entire torso pins my struggling body down, and wraps new bindings around each wrist. When he straightens, I see leather bindings attached to the edges of the table are now wrapped around my wrists so each arm is pinned by my sides. For good measure, the man gives each leather strap a hard tug, and the straps are pulled so tight that I cry out in pain. Writhing against the straps, I bawl so loudly my throat is left hoarse.

Warden is gone. I can see her standing outside through the little frosted viewing window, but the door is closed, and she can’t hear my screams. I doubt she would care anyway.

“Aren’t we a pretty one!” the man says, reaching towards the top of my parka and clasping the zip in his fingers.

“Don’t you dare touch me!” I snarl.

My arms move to strike, but my wrists are firmly tied. I try to tear away from the bindings, but pain shoots through my shoulders and arms, and I fall back with a clamour, panting. The man opens my jacket, eases it off my shoulders and then lifts up the collar of my t-shirt and peers down the front. A sickening grin sweeps across his flat face and suddenly Seiger seems angelic in comparison. I gnash my teeth towards the man, but the brute jerks away before I can close my teeth on his hand. My teeth are certainly becoming my most frequently used weapon.

“It’s alright,” the man says silkily. He moves towards the bottom of the table, watching me like a predator does its prey. I kick wildly at him, but he easily catches both of my ankles and ties them down too.

Never have I felt such a terrible fear. I imagine what it feels to be an animal in an abattoir or pound; smelling the stink of your own kind’s flesh around you, seeing their blood on the walls, and feeling the very manifestation of dread lingering in the air like an odour. I am the defenceless animal. I am the prisoner.

I would prefer to die from fear than continue down this path. I batter my body against the steel table, screaming against the metallic rattle I create, and try with every fibre in my body to somehow frighten or injure my enemy as he surveys my body. I cry. I can’t help it. My chest feels like it is going to collapse because my heart is thundering so fast. The man looms over the top of me, his gaze ravenous. After surveying me from my face to my feet, he presses a hand onto my stomach and it begins to slide up my shirt. I scrunch my eyes closed and bite the inside of my mouth as the man’s hand slides further and further up.

Suddenly, I hear the door swing open.

“Cut it out, would you!” Warden’s sharp voice suddenly comes. “You’re not paid to sexually abuse our Bs!”

The man’s repulsive touch is gone instantly. I open my eyes and see Warden standing beside the table, looking livid. Terrified and consumed by rage, I start swearing at the top of my lungs and writhing against the fastenings: infuriated with both Warden and the sick man. Warden looks at me as I cuss and fight, and her face shows a skerrick of pity.

“Sorry ma’am. The young ones are hard to resist,” the brute says.

“Well, resist it!” Warden snaps.

Surely even this devil woman understands how I feel right now. Surely she can imagine herself strapped to this table, shivering so horribly that the entire table shakes with her? The metal bench top feels like a slab of ice and cold sweat breaks out on my brow. Tears continue streaming down my cheeks, and I crunch my eyes closed again, unable to believe that twenty-four hours ago I was in a place of total peace and security.

“I won’t be leaving you alone with any other Bs,” Warden says. “You are not a B, and you are not permitted to touch any of them in a sexual way. We can’t have outside people contaminating the gene pool. So get your job done, and we will be going.”

“Yes, ma’am,” the brute says. I open my eyes to glare at him through my tears, but he has already turned his back.

He walks over to the metal dish, thrusts the branding iron into the centre of it and waits. More pale vapour streams from it, and eventually, the branding man steps away with the rod in hand. As he approaches, I notice the bronze rod has remained a steely grey colour and is dripping moisture, perhaps condensation.

My mind reels.

Hot branding requires a red-hot prodder! The stupid man is just going to singe me and have to do it all over again. I have seen hot branding done many times before, on cows and horses, and I know how excruciating it will be—especially with a rod that isn’t at optimum temperature. I would prefer to be branded a thousand times over than be strapped to a table and left alone with this twisted barbarian of a man. For some reason, I am not frightened of the branding iron, just confused by the unskillfulness of the brander. The fear of being violated is much worse than physical pain.

Warden has no sympathy for this part of the procedure. As a female, she’s probably had fears about being violated, but when I flinch away from the branding iron, Warden shows no repentance.

The aftershock from the man’s forceful advance is still pumping so much adrenalin into my blood that I hardly feel the branding iron press into my right upper arm. It’s so freezing cold that my skin numbs instantly, and I feel just a prickle of discomfort. I’m momentarily startled that I’m not screaming in agony. I look at the thing pressed to my flesh, smoking and hissing, and then at Warden for explanation.

“Freeze branding,” she says simply. “Much less painful than hot branding.”

So the dish is filled with liquid nitrogen? The rod is not hot and going to burn my flesh and scald me—it is chilled cold and going to scar me: freeze away the pigment of my skin. My whole body relaxes and only in the last few seconds of contact does the freezing iron actually begin to sting and by the time I jerk away, the process is over and Warden is unstrapping me from the table quickly and handing me my parka. I look at my shoulder and almost faint at the sight of the B brand, which has turned white and looks as though the maimed skin will just dribble away like putty in a mould. I don’t dare touch it, but as I watch, the white colour turns an angry red and the skin swells up. I feel the skin tissue boil and bubble itself away as my nerves realise the damage. Real, searing pain surges over my arm, and I grit my teeth. Now I have a constant reminder of my group. Now anyone who sees me will know what I was forced to do for the government’s sake.

Warden tells the branding man to fetch a bottle on a table in the corner. He does as he’s told and hands Warden a bottle of brown liquid. Warden sprays my morbid new mutilation with the liquid, which must be iodine. The burning sensation lessens a little, but not much.

Once she’s done medicating my wound, I yank my parka back on and cringe at the pain as the fabric touches my burnt arm and my mutilated back. When she leads me out and up the hallway, I follow her like a lost puppy, not daring to look behind.

My body is completely robbed of energy. The absence of strength and life has left a hollow, quivering husk behind. The handcuffs jangle against my wrists. As my body’s natural pain killers dissolve into my blood for good, I feel immense pain everywhere; my face, my back, my shoulder, and even my head throb as psychedelic colours dance past my eyes. The hallway swirls around me like an angry ocean, and I feel myself sway violently and almost fall. I’m about to faint from the pain and exhaustion when Warden comes to a stop in front of the last door at the end of the blinding white corridor. I stop just in time. Black sweeps over me for just a moment, but then I regain consciousness and widen my stance to stay upright.

“Alright, Freya,” Warden says. “This room is the common room. All of your bedrooms join to the common room. Your room number is three. There is a courtyard out the back where you can exercise, relax, or read, but I warn you to do your job. Seiger has told you what it is. If you don’t do your job, we have other ways of getting people impregnated, and I don’t think you want a repeat of what could have happened with our lovely brander. Besides, the percentage of success of impregnation increases if it happens naturally and when you are comfortable. Stress isn’t good for women who are trying to get pregnant.”

“Right,” I say, and although I intended it to sound sarcastic, no mocking tone sharpens my words. My voice sounds tiny and shaky. Just how I feel.

As weak as I may become, I have no intention whatsoever of doing what these people tell me to. So long as there aren’t those who will force their will upon me beyond this door, like the huge, revolting brander, I won’t be doing what this facility intends. Warden opens the door, unlocks my handcuffs, and pushes me inside ruthlessly. The door slams closed behind me, and I hear it click locked. I stumble forward into the room, only just managing to collect my feet and legs beneath me. I take a deep breath and slowly stand upright, unsure what to expect.

Dozens of eyes settle on me standing in the doorway as I struggle for consciousness. There are about a dozen people in the enormous room, all of them now staring at me over the tops of books or looking up from a plate of food in front of them. Of course, they have a reason to stare. Perhaps if I hadn’t been whipped to oblivion and sexually assaulted in the last half an hour, I wouldn’t be so interesting to look at. But a near unconscious, blood-stained young girl certainly catches peoples’ attention. I discern no face in particular but perhaps that is because I am struggling to stay conscious.

I lean against the door, slumping a bit, taking deep breaths that feel void of oxygen. After a few moments, my vision focuses again, and I slowly look up. I don’t smile. I don’t say hello. I’m not really even looking at them. Instead, I take in the prison to which I’ve been led.

The entire right wall of the flashy, modern styled room is made of windows and beams of natural sunlight fall into the room. The windows reveal a beautiful courtyard outside with lush green grass like I’ve seen on golf courses. The walls of the room are painted a dark, dull colour. Opposite to where I stand, there is a long white marble counter with two dozen iron chairs pushed against it to suffice as a dining table. Behind the counter is a clean white and black kitchen, with a few top cupboards, a sink, and a massive stainless steel fridge that is at least three metres wide and looks like some sort of machine from an old sci-fi movie.

Between the kitchen and where I stand are three absurdly long black leather sofas in the centre of the room. They are pushed together at the edges so they create a three-sided square shape, and the seats are turned inwards so those lounging are forced to face one another. Most of the people in the room are sitting there, and I note that there are a lot of women, and very few men. Perched between the three lounges is a metal bookshelf that stretches right up to the high roof like a chimney and it has the obscure shape of a DNA strand. The luxurious wooden floor boarding is polished so much I can almost see my sickly reflection in it. There are multiple doors leading from the common room, all marked with a bronze number like that on a letterbox. I count from one to fourteen and there are four doors labelled
bathroom
.