Authors: The Rising
"Thank you, sir!" He snapped off another salute and Torres walked away.
"Oh hell yeah," Blumenthal cheered, "I'm heading for the bowling alley and then the Meat Wagon!"
"No you're not," Ford told him, "first you and Lawson are going to transfer the prisoners to the containment center. Make sure you tell Lapine to separate them from the rest of the scabs. I don't want anything happening to them until after the Colonel has interrogated them." Lawson leered, grinding his pelvis against Worm's backside. "They'll make you squeal like a pig, boy!"
Worm hooted in indignation and Baker leapt forward.
"Leave him alone, god damn you!"
214 "Shit, you'll wish we'd kept him with us once the Colonel's done with you!"
Baker's fists clenched in anger, his nails digging into the skin of his palms. Blumenthal shoved him forward. He stared at Lawson as Blumenthal led him away, and he did not back down until the other man looked away, busying himself with Worm's bonds.
The containment center was an old movie theatre, one of the single-screen kind that had gone out of fashion with the arrival of the multiplex. Heavily armed guards patrolled the sidewalks surrounding the building, and stood watch from the roof. More loitered in the lobby, eyeing the new arrivals indifferently.
Blumenthal approached the ticket booth and addressed the guardsman inside.
"Two newbies for you, Lapine. Sergeant Ford wants you to keep them apart from the others."
"How the fuck am I supposed to do that?" the man complained. "We ain't got room for the townies we have now, and now you want me to find separate room for these two fucks?"
"I'm just doing what I'm told. You figure it out."
"There's a balcony we can put them in, I guess." He pointed at Baker.
"What'd you do before the rising started, dickhead?"
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"I'm a scientist," Baker told him, and bit his tongue to keep from saying and I'm the one of the guy's who brought you this.
"Scientist, huh," Lapine scoffed. "Well, I guess you can pick up trash or toss sandbags like everybody else."
"Not these two," Lawson informed him. "At least, not yet. Colonel wants to see 'em."
"Ooooo," Lapine mocked, "visiting dignitaries are they? Well then, let's get them stowed away safe and sound."
He stepped out from behind the glass window and motioned for two guards to relieve Blumenthal and Lawson. Then he marched them through the double 215 doors and up a winding flight of stairs, stopping in front of a chained and padlocked door.
One of the burly guards pointed his M-16 at them while Lapine produced a key ring from his pocket and unlocked the chains. Then they escorted them inside.
"Most of the townies sleep below," he motioned, as if he were a tour guide, "but you two will be up here in the penthouse." They stood in a balcony, overlooking the movie theater. The alcove had four reclining red velvet seats that were covered in mildew, and not much else. Below them, most of the chairs had been ripped out and thrown into corners. Moldy mattresses and heaps of straw littered the floor in their stead. The movie screen itself still stood, but was covered with scrawled graffiti and gouged in places.
Baker noticed a fifty-caliber machine gun protruding from the window of the projection booth. He also noted that steel plates had been welded over the two fire doors at the rear of the theatre, on each side of the screen.
The center aisle was filled with glittering shards of glass, visible even in the dim light. Baker looked upward and saw a brass chain dangling from the ceiling.
"Chandelier," Lapine said conversationally. "It was a beautiful thing-all crystal. The townies knocked it down and used the glass to try and cut up a bunch of our guys. Didn't make it far, but we lost some good men. Rounded up the ringleaders and crucified them out along the highway. You probably saw the crosses on the way in." Reluctantly, Baker nodded.
"That's one way of dealing with them." His braying laughter echoed off
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the high-domed ceiling and dirty alabaster walls. "Of course, the funny part is when they die after they've been crucified. We really nail them down; restrict their muscles and everything.. They come back as the living dead and they're stuck! Ever see a zombie starve to death? Well, neither have I. So they just hang there, day in and day out. A couple of them
216 eventually got to the point where their hands or feet rotted enough that they could tear free, so now we use 'em for target practice."
"Sounds very economical," Baker muttered sarcastically. "I'm sure Uncle Sam's accountants would be proud."
"Oh, that's not the only way Colonel Schow has for dealing with troublemakers," Lapine assured him. "Hangings are pretty effective. Firing squads. My favorite is the helicopter rides."
"And what are those, exactly?"
"Piss the Colonel off, and maybe you'll find out." They left, shutting the doors behind them. Baker heard the chains rattle and the lock snap into place.
"Moovee," Worm said, pointing to the screen. "Moovee, Baykher."
"Yes indeed," he sighed to himself, collapsing into a damp seat.
"Perhaps it's a double feature. Night of the Living Dead and Apocalypse Now. All we need is popcorn."
Because the interior of the HumVee was crowded with people, booty, and weaponry, they forced Frankie to sit in Skip's lap. The seating arrangements changed quickly when Miccelli discovered her working the ropes around her wrists against the Private's belt buckle, trying to saw through them. This earned them both a beating, and Frankie was thrown to the floor, where she was used as a footstool for Miccelli and Kramer. Defiantly, she sank her teeth into Miccelli's calf, relishing his screams as his blood welled around her mouth.
That was when they raped her.
Frankie made no sound; did not move-even as they laughed, even when the pain started, even as they thrust in and out of her orifices, as she was battered inside and
217 out, as they spilled their semen on her stomach and face. She lay completely still; drifted, going to her special place and reminding herself that it wasn't so bad, it was just like any other business transaction, and if she submitted, she would live.
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Don't be ashamed, she reminded herself. It's not your fault. You can't fight back now. If you do, they'll kill you. It's just your body. They can't touch your mind.
She stayed in the secret place as Kramer relieved Miller at the wheel, and the Staff Sergeant took his turn with her.
In the secret place, she did not think about heroin or the baby. This time, her fantasies were of revenge.
I'm a survivor. I've lived through worse, I can live through this. Grunting in orgasm, Miller rolled off her prone form and wiped himself on her shirt.
"What do you think of that, bitch?"
"Is that the best you three can do?" Frankie replied. "I bet your wives all left you, didn't they?"
"She needs to be hosed off," Miccelli muttered. "Hold her down, will you Sarge?"
Perched atop her, Miller straddled her breasts, crushing her back to the floor. Miccelli unzipped his pants and urinated, the bitter yellow stream arcing over her face and running in rivulets down her neck. Frankie closed her eyes against the flow, gagging and coughing as the urine flowed over her eyes and nostrils and mouth.
"Don't you hit me with it!" Miller warned, then joined them in laughter.
"You bastards!" Skip groaned from his seat. "Leave her alone!" Miller backhanded him, and Skip's already swollen lips burst open again.
"Don't worry about your girlfriend, Private. Better worry about yourself instead."
"Feel better after your shower?" Miccelli jeered. 218 "Shit," Frankie grinned. "My pimp was doing that when I was seventeen, you dickhead. And he did it better. At least he had a prick to pee with."
Miller and Kramer laughed at this, and Miccelli glared down at her.
"We'll see how you talk after the rest of the boys have had a turn with you."
He raised his foot, aiming a kick at her head, but Miller stopped him.
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"Enough. Don't mess her face up. Let her rest for now. She'll be getting hers soon enough, that's for sure."
They went to work on Skip next.
Frankie was horrified by the same things Baker had seen as they drove into town, but she stared at them anyway so she wouldn't have to see Skip's face. Kramer, Miller and Miccelli had taken turns with him, just as they had her, and while he hadn't been raped, physically he was in worse shape than she was.
His broken nose had swollen to a bulbous, fleshy knob, and dried blood had crusted both nostrils. More blood caked his battered lips and when he breathed through his mouth, she could see the raw spaces where teeth were missing. There was a massive gash above his left eyebrow and another on his forehead. The skin of his right cheek had been flayed open and hung in a flap down the side of his face. One eye had swollen shut and the other was dark and bruised.
Despite all of this, he had remained conscious, and Frankie thought that perhaps that was the most horrible part of all. Skip apparently had no secret place in which to mentally retreat. He had been brave at first, but after numerous merciless and savage blows and cuts, he had begun to scream. It was a long time before he stopped.
The screams still rang in her ears, though now the injured man only wheezed. 219 The squad was met by Second Lieutenant Torres, just as Michaels'
squad had been, and were given their orders. Torres nodded grimly when he was informed of Skip's dissent, and ordered him confined to the containment center.
"Put her with the rest of the whores and let her get cleaned up," Miller told Kramer after Torres had left. "And Miccelli, you take this traitorous fuck over to the movie theater like the Lieutenant said. I've gotta go to the debriefing."
Kramer grabbed Frankie's arm and dragged her away, while Miccelli forced Skip to walk ahead of him at gunpoint. Suddenly, Frankie whirled.
"Skip!"
He turned slowly, with great effort, and Miccelli shoved the gun into his back.
"Thank you," she said simply, and despite the pain that it caused him, Skip smiled at her. It was a horrible image to behold, and Frankie had to struggle not to turn away at the sight. Then Miccelli shoved him, leading him away from her.
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"Blow your boyfriend a kiss goodbye," Kramer jeered. "You won't be seeing him again."
"You're name's Private Kramer, right?" Frankie asked.
"Private First Class Kramer," he corrected her, puffing out his chest proudly. "And don't you forget it."
"First class asshole is more like it," Frankie said calmly. "Before this is all over, Private First Class Kramer, I'm going to kill you. And don't you forget it."
He glared at her, his face turning red with fury. He swung the M-16 up, aiming it at her face and grunted something unintelligible.
"What was that?"
"I said move!" he screamed.
As she let him lead her away, Frankie couldn't help but smile. 220 Miller entered the debriefing room to find Michaels, Torres, Captains Gonzalez and McFarland, and Colonel Schow already seated and waiting for him. A service station map of the state of Pennsylvania hung from one wall and a topographical survey map hung from another. He snapped off a quick salute, poured himself a cup of instant coffee, and took a seat next to Michaels.
"Sorry if I kept you all waiting."
"That's quite alright," Colonel Schow smiled. "Sip your coffee and relax, Sergeant Miller." His voice was soft, and there were times when the other men had to strain to hear it; but it was also cold. Very, very cold.
Schow was not a big man, but his presence filled the room regardless. His five-foot eight, one hundred and seventy-five-pound frame wasn't imposing, but the way he carried it was. He moved like a cat; swift, graceful and deadly. He never raised his voice above the brittle, clipped tone, but when he spoke, people listened. He displayed the uncanny ability to finish the thoughts and sentences of those under his command, almost as if he could read minds. But perhaps the most disconcerting thing about him, Miller thought, was that Colonel Schow never blinked.
Never. He'd bet Michaels a case of beer on it one time, back when they were still both new recruits, fresh out of boot camp, and he'd won. Schow was like a snake; silent and watchful.
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And venomous.
Captain Gonzalez cleared his throat.
"Staff Sergeant Michaels, why don't you begin." It was not a question.
"Yes sir. We did recon on Harrisburg. The city is uninhabitable. High undead concentration, and what survivors are left are mostly marauders-gang-bangers, bikers-groups like that. No heavy weaponry-nothing 221 that would withstand an armored regiment at least. We could take it as an expansion base, but if we went in, we'd be doing a lot of urban combat, for which the tanks would be useless; we'd just destroy what we were trying to obtain. They have enough resistance to where I feel our casualties would be excessive. The city presents no desirable incentive for re-supply either, as scavengers have looted most of the non-perishable food stores and other goods."
"What about the two prisoners you captured, Sergeant?" Schow asked. Tell us about them."
"Well sir, we ran into them, almost literally, on the return trip. The zombies launched an aerial and ground attack, primarily using undead birds. During the skirmish, we lost Private Warner."
"Otherwise you were unscathed?" Schow interrupted.
"Yes sir."
"That's acceptable then. Please continue."
"During the confrontation, we encountered the two men in question, and after obtaining their I.D., we were able to determine that one of them worked for the Havenbrook National Laboratories facility in Hellertown; a Professor William Baker. He was the director for the RHIC project. You might remember that from the news?"
"That thing that was gonna make a black hole, right?" Miller asked.
"The Relativistic Heavy Ion Collider." Schow steepled his fingers together. There was a series of fascinating articles about it in several of the trade publications."