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BARB’S DYSTOPIAN DOLCETTISH DEMISE
- Thread starter Barbaria1
- Start date
jacksjg89
PROCRASTINATOR
As long as it’s not too salty
Metzger will make sure things go from bad to Wurst for @Barbaria1
She's such a Schwein, isn't she?
Getting some mileage out of that one, aren’t we?
7.
Barb wasn’t sure which was more shocking ... the sheer volume and stinging impact of the jets of water spewed from the three heavy-duty hoses, or their icy coldness.
In any case, neither she nor any of the other twenty-five naked young women lined up against one wall of FNPA Goose River Center’s Intake Unit 2-2 were prepared for what hit them. The force of the cold water jets sent them all staggering back against the wall, where they writhed and squirmed helplessly as the guards relentlessly played the punishing jets back and forth, and up and down.
As she was hit, Barb raised her shackled arms and held her open hands in an instinctive but futile attempt to divert or lessen the impact on her face and breasts. And when that didn’t work she tried to turn her back to the water jet ... only to be knocked off her feet by Sue, who who collided with her while trying to evade being struck by another water jet swinging. The collision left them both sprawled in a tangled heap on the floor.
“Why don’t you watch out!” cried Barb.
Why don’t you?” gasped Sue, seconds before a blast of water caught her full in the face.
A deafening cacophony of sounds filled the room ... a loud and confused mixture of screams, squeals and curses, the thunderous roar of high-pressure water, the smack of water jets bursting on bare flesh and bone, and the gleeful laughter of the guards who obviously enjoyed hosing down the new arrivals, particularly whenever one lost her footing and went down. They also quite plainly got a kick out of targeting the most intimate parts of their helpless victims’ bodies.
How long it lasted, Barb didn’t know. But when it was over she slid weakly to the floor with her back to the wall, buried her head between shaking knees.
To her immediate right she was vaguely aware of the three Grainger girls huddled together against the wall. To her left, Sue lay on her side, sodden red hair covering her face, and teeth chattering as she curled her body into a fetal position. Beyond Sue, was Kristen, back up against the wall, hands held tightly against her face, one of the few still standing but visibly shaken.
“Alright. Nicely done. Everyone’s squeaky clean now,” chortled the programmed voice of Group Leader Metzger from a ceiling speaker. “On your feet and line up, sows! The guards will now escort you to your quarters. Sleep well! Wake up time here at Goose River is 5 am.”
*************
It was past midnight when Rose Whitaker closed the novel she had been reading and reached up to turn out the reading light beside her bed. But just as she was about to do so, the door buzzer to her apartment went off. At first she thought she should ignore it, it was after midnight after all, and she wasn’t expecting anyone at that hour. Just a prank, she thought to herself. Damn kids!
But the buzzing continued. With a sigh, she sat up, swung her legs out of bed and reached for her robe. Muttering to herself she padded into the living room, and pressed the intercom button on the wall next to the door.
“Yes, who is it? What do you want?”
“FNPA Security, Special Investigations, ma’am. Are you Rose Whitaker?”
“Well yes, I’m Rose. What’s this about? Can’t it wait until morning? It is after midnight, you know!”
“Official business, Ms. Whitaker. I’m sorry but it can’t wait. Please open the door.”
“Not without proper identification. Please show it and look into the camera lens.”
“Yes, ma’am, as you can see, I am FNPA Special Investigations Officer, Alfred Newman. Now please open the door.”
Rose relented, and let him in. Retreating to and seating herself in an IKEA POÄNG lounge chair, she motioned him to its twin.
“Now will you kindly tell me what this is all about, Officer Newman?”
“Of, course. You are Rose Whitaker?”
“I think we’ve established that already.”
“Right,” he mumbled, opening and squinting at an open file on his tablet.
“And you are thirty years of age?”
“Yes, as of last April.”
“Right, please note, Ms. Whitaker, that this interview is being recorded,” he said, pointing at the body cam lens attached to his tie clip.
“Yes, I see.”
“Single? Significant other?”
“I’m single. What is this, the census? It’s an odd time to ...”
Her voice trailed off as she tracked his gaze to her chest, where her robe had parted, revealing both her bare breasts, as well as suggesting that she had nothing on underneath ... which she didn’t. Embarrassed, she hastily covered up, firmly holding the parted robe together with her hand so as to ensure it didn’t part again.
Nonplussed, he went on, “Presently employed as a teacher at Alexander Hamilton Senior High School?”
“Yes, I teach American Studies there.”
“Do you know of a student by the name of Barbara Moore?”
“Yes, I do. She graduated from Hamilton in May and was a student in my senior level course ‘The emancipated American woman’.”
“And a Cindy Hauptmann and a Paige Deming?”
“Yes, Cindy and Paige were graduating seniors who also took my course. The three of them ... Barb, Cindy and Paige ... were close friends. You know, the kind that do everything together.”
“Were you also faculty advisor to an extramural student group called ‘Exercising You’re Rights to Free Speech’, and were these three senior girls members of that group?”
“Yes, I was. Where is this going, Officer Newman?”
“Are you aware, Ms. Whitaker, of what happened earlier today ... I mean yesterday now ... at 631 Maple Drive?”
“I heard on the evening news that there was a disturbance of some kind there, but no details were given.”
“Did you, in the course of any of your student group meetings with these three students, hear of or encourage a planned protest against this year’s annual FNPA cull?”
“Oh, now I see where this is going. You’re telling me they ... oh dear! ... did they ...? What happened? I hope no one was hurt! Are the girls alright?”
“There was a full scale riot, Ms. Whitaker. And, as a matter of fact, two FNPA officers lost their lives, burned to death by a Molotov that ignited the fuel in their truck. There were also quite a few FNPA personnel and police officers seriously injured in the clash.”
“How awful, and the students?”
“I’m not at liberty to say, ma’am. It’s classified, but FNPA is investigating and we intend to bring the instigators to justice.”
“You’re not suggesting, are you Officer Newman, that I am in some way personally culpable for ... Oh my God, you are, aren’t you?”
That’s not for me to say, ma’am, but I’m going to have to take you in to the FNPA Criminal Investigation Center at Goose River for further questioning.”
“You mean right now? In the middle of the night?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Am I under arrest?”
“Not quite, ma’am. Just ‘detained’ at this point.”
“Okay, but I’ll need a little time to get dressed. As I’m sure you have surmised, I’ve absolutely nothing on under this robe.”
“Yes, ma’am. I thought so. No problem. You may get dressed, of course, but FNPA Regulations require that I not let you out of my sight once you have been detained.”
“You mean ..... ?”
“That’s right ma’am, just you, me and my trusty little camera. Where would you like to get dressed? The bedroom?”
“I guess so,” said Rose, rising to her feet and heading for the bedroom door.
Newman followed.
***************
FNPA Criminal Investigations Sergeant, Matt Surly, set his beer can down to pick up the phone. Stifling the urge to belch, he growled, “Yeah, what is it?”
The voice on the other end said, “Matt, I’m calling to give you a head’s up. There’s a convoy of vans due to arrive at Goose River in about an hour. They’re loaded down with roughly a hundred and forty protesters arrested at that riot yesterday. You’ll need to get your people ready to process and lock them up so the interrogation teams, which will be arriving in the morning, can do their thing. We don’t know the identity of half these kids, so you’ll have to sort that out. I can tell you that most of them are female and they’re not wearing much, so don’t expect them to have much in the way of IDs on them.
“Oh Shit! This couldn’t come at a worse time. My people just did an ‘in take’ on about 200 new sows over at Unit 2. They deserve a rest.”
“No such luck! This bunch of protesters are to be dealt with swiftly, says headquarters. There’s sure to be hell to pay for what they’ve gone and done. Rioting, as you know, is a capital offense, which raises another issue. What’s your gallows capacity like at Goose River, Matt. How many public executions a day can you folks handle there?
“I dunno, maybe a dozen. I mean they’re public, so regulations say they have to be televised for deterrent value, as you know.”
I’ll wager that the top hats are going to be demanding tomorrow that your people start expanding that capacity. It’s not only the rioters who who will swing from a noose if found guilty, it’s also anyone found to have encouraged and helped them plan their crime.”
TO BE CONTINUED
Barb wasn’t sure which was more shocking ... the sheer volume and stinging impact of the jets of water spewed from the three heavy-duty hoses, or their icy coldness.
In any case, neither she nor any of the other twenty-five naked young women lined up against one wall of FNPA Goose River Center’s Intake Unit 2-2 were prepared for what hit them. The force of the cold water jets sent them all staggering back against the wall, where they writhed and squirmed helplessly as the guards relentlessly played the punishing jets back and forth, and up and down.
As she was hit, Barb raised her shackled arms and held her open hands in an instinctive but futile attempt to divert or lessen the impact on her face and breasts. And when that didn’t work she tried to turn her back to the water jet ... only to be knocked off her feet by Sue, who who collided with her while trying to evade being struck by another water jet swinging. The collision left them both sprawled in a tangled heap on the floor.
“Why don’t you watch out!” cried Barb.
Why don’t you?” gasped Sue, seconds before a blast of water caught her full in the face.
A deafening cacophony of sounds filled the room ... a loud and confused mixture of screams, squeals and curses, the thunderous roar of high-pressure water, the smack of water jets bursting on bare flesh and bone, and the gleeful laughter of the guards who obviously enjoyed hosing down the new arrivals, particularly whenever one lost her footing and went down. They also quite plainly got a kick out of targeting the most intimate parts of their helpless victims’ bodies.
How long it lasted, Barb didn’t know. But when it was over she slid weakly to the floor with her back to the wall, buried her head between shaking knees.
To her immediate right she was vaguely aware of the three Grainger girls huddled together against the wall. To her left, Sue lay on her side, sodden red hair covering her face, and teeth chattering as she curled her body into a fetal position. Beyond Sue, was Kristen, back up against the wall, hands held tightly against her face, one of the few still standing but visibly shaken.
“Alright. Nicely done. Everyone’s squeaky clean now,” chortled the programmed voice of Group Leader Metzger from a ceiling speaker. “On your feet and line up, sows! The guards will now escort you to your quarters. Sleep well! Wake up time here at Goose River is 5 am.”
*************
It was past midnight when Rose Whitaker closed the novel she had been reading and reached up to turn out the reading light beside her bed. But just as she was about to do so, the door buzzer to her apartment went off. At first she thought she should ignore it, it was after midnight after all, and she wasn’t expecting anyone at that hour. Just a prank, she thought to herself. Damn kids!
But the buzzing continued. With a sigh, she sat up, swung her legs out of bed and reached for her robe. Muttering to herself she padded into the living room, and pressed the intercom button on the wall next to the door.
“Yes, who is it? What do you want?”
“FNPA Security, Special Investigations, ma’am. Are you Rose Whitaker?”
“Well yes, I’m Rose. What’s this about? Can’t it wait until morning? It is after midnight, you know!”
“Official business, Ms. Whitaker. I’m sorry but it can’t wait. Please open the door.”
“Not without proper identification. Please show it and look into the camera lens.”
“Yes, ma’am, as you can see, I am FNPA Special Investigations Officer, Alfred Newman. Now please open the door.”
Rose relented, and let him in. Retreating to and seating herself in an IKEA POÄNG lounge chair, she motioned him to its twin.
“Now will you kindly tell me what this is all about, Officer Newman?”
“Of, course. You are Rose Whitaker?”
“I think we’ve established that already.”
“Right,” he mumbled, opening and squinting at an open file on his tablet.
“And you are thirty years of age?”
“Yes, as of last April.”
“Right, please note, Ms. Whitaker, that this interview is being recorded,” he said, pointing at the body cam lens attached to his tie clip.
“Yes, I see.”
“Single? Significant other?”
“I’m single. What is this, the census? It’s an odd time to ...”
Her voice trailed off as she tracked his gaze to her chest, where her robe had parted, revealing both her bare breasts, as well as suggesting that she had nothing on underneath ... which she didn’t. Embarrassed, she hastily covered up, firmly holding the parted robe together with her hand so as to ensure it didn’t part again.
Nonplussed, he went on, “Presently employed as a teacher at Alexander Hamilton Senior High School?”
“Yes, I teach American Studies there.”
“Do you know of a student by the name of Barbara Moore?”
“Yes, I do. She graduated from Hamilton in May and was a student in my senior level course ‘The emancipated American woman’.”
“And a Cindy Hauptmann and a Paige Deming?”
“Yes, Cindy and Paige were graduating seniors who also took my course. The three of them ... Barb, Cindy and Paige ... were close friends. You know, the kind that do everything together.”
“Were you also faculty advisor to an extramural student group called ‘Exercising You’re Rights to Free Speech’, and were these three senior girls members of that group?”
“Yes, I was. Where is this going, Officer Newman?”
“Are you aware, Ms. Whitaker, of what happened earlier today ... I mean yesterday now ... at 631 Maple Drive?”
“I heard on the evening news that there was a disturbance of some kind there, but no details were given.”
“Did you, in the course of any of your student group meetings with these three students, hear of or encourage a planned protest against this year’s annual FNPA cull?”
“Oh, now I see where this is going. You’re telling me they ... oh dear! ... did they ...? What happened? I hope no one was hurt! Are the girls alright?”
“There was a full scale riot, Ms. Whitaker. And, as a matter of fact, two FNPA officers lost their lives, burned to death by a Molotov that ignited the fuel in their truck. There were also quite a few FNPA personnel and police officers seriously injured in the clash.”
“How awful, and the students?”
“I’m not at liberty to say, ma’am. It’s classified, but FNPA is investigating and we intend to bring the instigators to justice.”
“You’re not suggesting, are you Officer Newman, that I am in some way personally culpable for ... Oh my God, you are, aren’t you?”
That’s not for me to say, ma’am, but I’m going to have to take you in to the FNPA Criminal Investigation Center at Goose River for further questioning.”
“You mean right now? In the middle of the night?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Am I under arrest?”
“Not quite, ma’am. Just ‘detained’ at this point.”
“Okay, but I’ll need a little time to get dressed. As I’m sure you have surmised, I’ve absolutely nothing on under this robe.”
“Yes, ma’am. I thought so. No problem. You may get dressed, of course, but FNPA Regulations require that I not let you out of my sight once you have been detained.”
“You mean ..... ?”
“That’s right ma’am, just you, me and my trusty little camera. Where would you like to get dressed? The bedroom?”
“I guess so,” said Rose, rising to her feet and heading for the bedroom door.
Newman followed.
***************
FNPA Criminal Investigations Sergeant, Matt Surly, set his beer can down to pick up the phone. Stifling the urge to belch, he growled, “Yeah, what is it?”
The voice on the other end said, “Matt, I’m calling to give you a head’s up. There’s a convoy of vans due to arrive at Goose River in about an hour. They’re loaded down with roughly a hundred and forty protesters arrested at that riot yesterday. You’ll need to get your people ready to process and lock them up so the interrogation teams, which will be arriving in the morning, can do their thing. We don’t know the identity of half these kids, so you’ll have to sort that out. I can tell you that most of them are female and they’re not wearing much, so don’t expect them to have much in the way of IDs on them.
“Oh Shit! This couldn’t come at a worse time. My people just did an ‘in take’ on about 200 new sows over at Unit 2. They deserve a rest.”
“No such luck! This bunch of protesters are to be dealt with swiftly, says headquarters. There’s sure to be hell to pay for what they’ve gone and done. Rioting, as you know, is a capital offense, which raises another issue. What’s your gallows capacity like at Goose River, Matt. How many public executions a day can you folks handle there?
“I dunno, maybe a dozen. I mean they’re public, so regulations say they have to be televised for deterrent value, as you know.”
I’ll wager that the top hats are going to be demanding tomorrow that your people start expanding that capacity. It’s not only the rioters who who will swing from a noose if found guilty, it’s also anyone found to have encouraged and helped them plan their crime.”
TO BE CONTINUED
jacksjg89
PROCRASTINATOR
That's not the worst thing that can happen when you raise your shackled wrist above your head to prevent a blast of water.
How the mighty have fallen. Still don't feel sorry for her yet, but I'm sure you'll find a way to redeem her.
This should solve the overpopulation and food shortage issues right quick. Anyone who complains gets eaten.
M
montycrusto
Guest
A new character! I love it! The Barbalicious Dolcettish Dystopian Cinematic Universe expands...
..but should someone point out that characters named Rose generally come to a sticky end in Barb’s adventures..??
cruxlover
Tribune
This story of Barb's reminded me of this Dolcett pic from his "Feast Day" story.
I had dreamed up a sequel to this pic, involving the young lady on the far right, who is on her way to be "processed" and has stopped to watch. The abattoir staff are spitting the family members of the sow who tried to run away.
The young lady (shall we call her Barb for want of a better name) decides to help the young sister of the escapee by distracting her from the aony of live impalement.
I imagine the following scenario:
"Hello, my name's Barb. Let me help you, I can distract you from what's about to happen if you will let me."
"Ohh, thank you so much Barb. How will you do that, my name in Cindy."
"Just spread your legs a bit Cindy and I will give you such pleasure as you will hardly feel the pain."
Cindy spreads her legs as Barb kneels before her and starts to skillfully lick her love spot, spreading Cindy's labia with fingers and tongue.
Cindy is soon moaning with pleasure from Barb's skilled tongue work, scarce feeling the spit as it enters her anus and begins its upward thrust.
Meanwhile the younger butcher has also knelt and proceeds to impale Barb from behind with his own "spit".
Both Barb and Cindy join in cries of lust, in concert with the young man's shouts.
Cindy is soon ready for the roasting pit and Barb takes her place to help Cindy's mother in the like manner.
The older butcher takes his place in Barb's anus , moans of pleasure are soon heard all round.
When the mother is fully spitted, the young butcher collects a spare spit from the rack, "We have one with your name on it Barb, how about it?"
"Go on, do it now quickly before I change my mind!"
Barb has wrists bound and the new spit soon enters her arse, beginning to thrust forcefully upwards.
"Yes, Ohh Yes! Impale me fuck me hard!"
The young butcher needs no further urging and is soon pounding at Barb's cunt like a Trojan.
Two other staff come to look for Barb, but are glad to find her ready spitted. They had thought she might give them trouble, no worries now.
I had dreamed up a sequel to this pic, involving the young lady on the far right, who is on her way to be "processed" and has stopped to watch. The abattoir staff are spitting the family members of the sow who tried to run away.
The young lady (shall we call her Barb for want of a better name) decides to help the young sister of the escapee by distracting her from the aony of live impalement.
I imagine the following scenario:
"Hello, my name's Barb. Let me help you, I can distract you from what's about to happen if you will let me."
"Ohh, thank you so much Barb. How will you do that, my name in Cindy."
"Just spread your legs a bit Cindy and I will give you such pleasure as you will hardly feel the pain."
Cindy spreads her legs as Barb kneels before her and starts to skillfully lick her love spot, spreading Cindy's labia with fingers and tongue.
Cindy is soon moaning with pleasure from Barb's skilled tongue work, scarce feeling the spit as it enters her anus and begins its upward thrust.
Meanwhile the younger butcher has also knelt and proceeds to impale Barb from behind with his own "spit".
Both Barb and Cindy join in cries of lust, in concert with the young man's shouts.
Cindy is soon ready for the roasting pit and Barb takes her place to help Cindy's mother in the like manner.
The older butcher takes his place in Barb's anus , moans of pleasure are soon heard all round.
When the mother is fully spitted, the young butcher collects a spare spit from the rack, "We have one with your name on it Barb, how about it?"
"Go on, do it now quickly before I change my mind!"
Barb has wrists bound and the new spit soon enters her arse, beginning to thrust forcefully upwards.
"Yes, Ohh Yes! Impale me fuck me hard!"
The young butcher needs no further urging and is soon pounding at Barb's cunt like a Trojan.
Two other staff come to look for Barb, but are glad to find her ready spitted. They had thought she might give them trouble, no worries now.
M
montycrusto
Guest
Ah yes, Miss, the Complaints department is down the stairs, along the corridor, through the rotating blades and on into the processing and packaging facility.
Praefectus Praetorio
R.I.P. Brother of the Quill
M
montycrusto
Guest
suddenly it all makes sense...
Praefectus Praetorio
R.I.P. Brother of the Quill
Music to my ears!
In tough jobs like these, a sense of glee is important!
Love men who enjoy their work!
Now we see where this whole tragedy started. What a total waste of educational time. The title itself is an oxymoron.
And very wide regulations they are! Where can we get a copy of the recording?
Budget cuts led to a seriously underprepared facility. Maybe some spitting and roasting can be used to supplement the gallows?
Loxuru
Graf von Kreuzigung
For once, FNPA was on the wrong side of the barbecue.
8.
Rose kept her back to FNPA Special Investigations Officer Newman as she rummaged through an open dresser drawer to find some clean underwear. It gave her the creeps to have this strange man sitting, with his body cam, at the edge of her unmade bed, watching her get dressed.
At the same time her mind was racing over the implications of the line of questioning Newman had pursued just minutes before, out in her living room.
Could she potentially be held responsible for aiding and abetting her students in planning their ill-fated protest action against the annual FNPA cull of female high school graduates? An action of that sort was certainly discussed on a number of occasions during group meetings, and it certainly was true she had done nothing in those meetings to warn her students against taking such action.
Could that be interpreted by the FNPA investigators to be a tacit form of approval? And if so, what kind of penalty would be imposed? She knew that rioting ... and that’s what the protest at 631 Maple Drive apparently had devolved into ... was a capital offense. But she was not actually a participant in the actual crime, was she? After all, she didn’t even know about the riot until Officer Newman informed her of it.
So, logically speaking, she might well get off with being identified merely as an accessory, which surely would carry a lesser punishment ... most likely a public flogging or caning. Just the same, that would be awful enough, for it would be videotaped and aired repeatedly on the popularly-viewed, government-run ‘Judicial Punishment’ media outlet. And such a conviction would almost certainly trigger an immediate termination of her employment as a teacher at Hamilton, along with a career-ending black listing on the education job market.
Behind her, Officer Newman cleared his throat.
Startled, Rose wondered how long she had been frozen in thought, her hand motionless in the open dresser drawer.
Quickly she picked out a matching black bra and panties set, turned around to face Newman, and said, “should I wear a dress or something else?”
“Doesn’t really matter. Just get a move on it, okay?”
She nodded, walked over to the closet and pulled out a gay floral print on a dark blue background summer dress, held it to her and sad coyly, “What do you think?”
“It’s fine.”
“Great. Now I’ll just pop into the bathroom, get dressed and freshen up a little.”
“Nice try, but no. You’ll do it right here where I can keep an eye on you.”
“But, there’s only one way in or out of the bathroom. It’s not like I can get away or anything.”
“Just do it, Ms. Whitaker.”
“Well, what if you look away, and just let your body cam watch?”
“Do it! Now!”
“Alright, alright!” she grumbled, stepping back over to the dresser, laying her underthings and dress on top of it, and then with her back to him, dropping her robe to the floor. Reaching for her panties, she bent over, stepped into them and pulled them up over her hips.
“Nice ass!” admired Newman, his voice a little husky sounding.
“Isn’t that kind of commentary rather unprofessional for a man in your position?”
“On the contrary, we in the FNPA are expected, in the course of our duties, to be keen observers and evaluators of the female body,” he quipped.
“I see,” she replied as she reached for her bra, and was about to put it on but stopped short when she realized that the dresser mirror offered him a full frontal view of her nakedness, which made turning her back to him pointless.
Spinning about to face him, she made a deliberate show of putting on her bra while staring him down with such a look of total contempt that he finally looked away.
“I’m not a bad man, Ms. Whitaker. I’m just doing my job.” he said softly. “Under different circumstances we could be good friends, perhaps even lovers.”
“I doubt that very much, Officer Newman.”
“Whatever you say, ma’am. Now please finish dressing because we need to be on our way.”
Several minutes later they were back in the living room. She grabbed her shoulder bag, paused for a moment to feed the goldfish, searched for her sandals, which she had left under the coffee table, and before leaving the apartment allowed him to handcuff her wrists in front of her body when he insisted he must do so.
He led her to his car, and guided her into the back seat.
“How far is it?” she asked, as he pulled away from the curb.
“It’s around a hundred and twenty kilometers from here to Goose River. It won’t take too long this time of night. Sit back and get some rest while you can, Ms. Whitaker.
*************
FNPA Criminal Investigations Sergeant, Matt Surly, and his crew were ready and waiting when the police vans full of arrested protesters rolled into the receiving area at Goose River Center.
There were six vans. Matt and three of his people ran to the back of the first one and flung open the back doors to find a solid mass of humanity crammed inside. The arrested protesters had been packed in like sardines, so tight they could scarcely move. The stench from so many bodies pressed together in stifling heat was overwhelming.
Matt tugged at the arm of the first body he could get his hands on, a blond girl, and pulled her free from the mass. She fell limply into his arms. Looking down at her as he stepped back, he saw that she was half naked, wearing nothing more than a pair of cut-off denims. At first he thought she might be dead, but she had a pulse and as he carried her over to a place where he could set her down, he saw her eyelids flutter.
“Hey! What’s your name?” he said.
“Cindy,” she replied.
“Okay, Cindy. I think you’re going to be alright. Get some rest. I’m going back now for your friends.”
“Find Paige, please,” she said, gripping his hand tightly before letting go. “Please find her!”
Feverishly he and his people worked to empty the vans, sorting out the living who were helped over to a staging area, from the dead, who were piled in a heap on a flatbed wagon. He felt a certain amount of revulsion over the latter, despite the fact that humans dying was an inescapable part of his work. But this was a case in which the suffering and dying resulted from a purposeful act of vengeance. It didn’t take a genius to see that rather than driving directly to Goose River, these vans must have been driven around in circles, or allowed to sit idle during the heat of the afternoon, just to create living-hell-like conditions for those poor kids jammed inside.
By the time the unloading was completed and the survivors transferred from the staging area to group holding cells, the first rays of dawn could be seen in the eastern sky. Returning to his desk, Matt sat back and threw his feet up on the desktop. Opening a fresh can of beer, he downed half of it in a single quaff.
After a while one of his subordinates came by to drop off a clipboard with a final report on the unloading.
“So what’s the final tally,” asked Matt wearily.
“A hundred and nine living, and thirty-seven dead,” was the reply. “Bad business, eh?”
“Yeah. Thought it might be something like that.”
“What should we do with the dead ones?”
“Lay them out in Block B until tomorrow. They’re gonna have to be identified somehow.”
**********
Following their hosing down, Barb and the others in her group were marched to one of the dozens of wooden barracks that housed the sows of Goose River Center until they were sent to the roasting pits.
Barb, Sue and Kristin were assigned according to the IDs to one of the three tiered bunks in Barrack 2B. Barb got the top bunk, and Sue the middle one. Kristin occupied the lower one. The three Grainger High girls were assigned to an adjoining tier.
Barb climbed up to the top bunk, a bit awkwardly ... nothing being simple with shackled wrists ... and rolled over the side rail and onto the thin straw-filled mattress. There was a pillow at the head of the bunk and a single threadbare blanket lay folded on top of the pillow.
Before long the overhead lights were extinguished, and in the dim light of a few side lamps everyone in the place quieted down. Barb rested her head on the pillow, covered herself over, and was about to close her eyes, when Sue’s face appeared at the side rail.
“Don’t you think we ought to be trying to get some rest?” whispered Barb.
“Yeah, sure, Barb. But I wanted to ask you whether you think we can trust those Grainger High girls?”
“I dunno, Sue. Possibly. Why?”
“Because, I’m cooking up a plan to get us out of here, and we may need to involve the Graingers.”
“You are? What’s the point. You can’t fight the FNPA, Sue. They’re too powerful. Look what happened to my friends who staged a protest? It was a friggin disaster!”
“Who said anything about staging a protest. Your friends were stupid. You don’t fight the system, Barb. That never succeeds. What you need to do is figure out how to work the system ... not fight it! I’ve been doing just that all my life and look where it’s gotten me!”
“Same place as me, Sue. Sitting in an FNPA barrack waiting your turn to be spit roasted.”
“Barb, I’m going to get us out of here. Give me a little time and I’ll figure something out, but It’ll require some team work ... you, me, Kristin, and possibly the Graingers ... to pull it off successfully.”
“Yeah, Barb” piped up Kristin, who had been listening. “You know, it’s like school spirit, being true to your team!”
TO BE CONTINUED
Rose kept her back to FNPA Special Investigations Officer Newman as she rummaged through an open dresser drawer to find some clean underwear. It gave her the creeps to have this strange man sitting, with his body cam, at the edge of her unmade bed, watching her get dressed.
At the same time her mind was racing over the implications of the line of questioning Newman had pursued just minutes before, out in her living room.
Could she potentially be held responsible for aiding and abetting her students in planning their ill-fated protest action against the annual FNPA cull of female high school graduates? An action of that sort was certainly discussed on a number of occasions during group meetings, and it certainly was true she had done nothing in those meetings to warn her students against taking such action.
Could that be interpreted by the FNPA investigators to be a tacit form of approval? And if so, what kind of penalty would be imposed? She knew that rioting ... and that’s what the protest at 631 Maple Drive apparently had devolved into ... was a capital offense. But she was not actually a participant in the actual crime, was she? After all, she didn’t even know about the riot until Officer Newman informed her of it.
So, logically speaking, she might well get off with being identified merely as an accessory, which surely would carry a lesser punishment ... most likely a public flogging or caning. Just the same, that would be awful enough, for it would be videotaped and aired repeatedly on the popularly-viewed, government-run ‘Judicial Punishment’ media outlet. And such a conviction would almost certainly trigger an immediate termination of her employment as a teacher at Hamilton, along with a career-ending black listing on the education job market.
Behind her, Officer Newman cleared his throat.
Startled, Rose wondered how long she had been frozen in thought, her hand motionless in the open dresser drawer.
Quickly she picked out a matching black bra and panties set, turned around to face Newman, and said, “should I wear a dress or something else?”
“Doesn’t really matter. Just get a move on it, okay?”
She nodded, walked over to the closet and pulled out a gay floral print on a dark blue background summer dress, held it to her and sad coyly, “What do you think?”
“It’s fine.”
“Great. Now I’ll just pop into the bathroom, get dressed and freshen up a little.”
“Nice try, but no. You’ll do it right here where I can keep an eye on you.”
“But, there’s only one way in or out of the bathroom. It’s not like I can get away or anything.”
“Just do it, Ms. Whitaker.”
“Well, what if you look away, and just let your body cam watch?”
“Do it! Now!”
“Alright, alright!” she grumbled, stepping back over to the dresser, laying her underthings and dress on top of it, and then with her back to him, dropping her robe to the floor. Reaching for her panties, she bent over, stepped into them and pulled them up over her hips.
“Nice ass!” admired Newman, his voice a little husky sounding.
“Isn’t that kind of commentary rather unprofessional for a man in your position?”
“On the contrary, we in the FNPA are expected, in the course of our duties, to be keen observers and evaluators of the female body,” he quipped.
“I see,” she replied as she reached for her bra, and was about to put it on but stopped short when she realized that the dresser mirror offered him a full frontal view of her nakedness, which made turning her back to him pointless.
Spinning about to face him, she made a deliberate show of putting on her bra while staring him down with such a look of total contempt that he finally looked away.
“I’m not a bad man, Ms. Whitaker. I’m just doing my job.” he said softly. “Under different circumstances we could be good friends, perhaps even lovers.”
“I doubt that very much, Officer Newman.”
“Whatever you say, ma’am. Now please finish dressing because we need to be on our way.”
Several minutes later they were back in the living room. She grabbed her shoulder bag, paused for a moment to feed the goldfish, searched for her sandals, which she had left under the coffee table, and before leaving the apartment allowed him to handcuff her wrists in front of her body when he insisted he must do so.
He led her to his car, and guided her into the back seat.
“How far is it?” she asked, as he pulled away from the curb.
“It’s around a hundred and twenty kilometers from here to Goose River. It won’t take too long this time of night. Sit back and get some rest while you can, Ms. Whitaker.
*************
FNPA Criminal Investigations Sergeant, Matt Surly, and his crew were ready and waiting when the police vans full of arrested protesters rolled into the receiving area at Goose River Center.
There were six vans. Matt and three of his people ran to the back of the first one and flung open the back doors to find a solid mass of humanity crammed inside. The arrested protesters had been packed in like sardines, so tight they could scarcely move. The stench from so many bodies pressed together in stifling heat was overwhelming.
Matt tugged at the arm of the first body he could get his hands on, a blond girl, and pulled her free from the mass. She fell limply into his arms. Looking down at her as he stepped back, he saw that she was half naked, wearing nothing more than a pair of cut-off denims. At first he thought she might be dead, but she had a pulse and as he carried her over to a place where he could set her down, he saw her eyelids flutter.
“Hey! What’s your name?” he said.
“Cindy,” she replied.
“Okay, Cindy. I think you’re going to be alright. Get some rest. I’m going back now for your friends.”
“Find Paige, please,” she said, gripping his hand tightly before letting go. “Please find her!”
Feverishly he and his people worked to empty the vans, sorting out the living who were helped over to a staging area, from the dead, who were piled in a heap on a flatbed wagon. He felt a certain amount of revulsion over the latter, despite the fact that humans dying was an inescapable part of his work. But this was a case in which the suffering and dying resulted from a purposeful act of vengeance. It didn’t take a genius to see that rather than driving directly to Goose River, these vans must have been driven around in circles, or allowed to sit idle during the heat of the afternoon, just to create living-hell-like conditions for those poor kids jammed inside.
By the time the unloading was completed and the survivors transferred from the staging area to group holding cells, the first rays of dawn could be seen in the eastern sky. Returning to his desk, Matt sat back and threw his feet up on the desktop. Opening a fresh can of beer, he downed half of it in a single quaff.
After a while one of his subordinates came by to drop off a clipboard with a final report on the unloading.
“So what’s the final tally,” asked Matt wearily.
“A hundred and nine living, and thirty-seven dead,” was the reply. “Bad business, eh?”
“Yeah. Thought it might be something like that.”
“What should we do with the dead ones?”
“Lay them out in Block B until tomorrow. They’re gonna have to be identified somehow.”
**********
Following their hosing down, Barb and the others in her group were marched to one of the dozens of wooden barracks that housed the sows of Goose River Center until they were sent to the roasting pits.
Barb, Sue and Kristin were assigned according to the IDs to one of the three tiered bunks in Barrack 2B. Barb got the top bunk, and Sue the middle one. Kristin occupied the lower one. The three Grainger High girls were assigned to an adjoining tier.
Barb climbed up to the top bunk, a bit awkwardly ... nothing being simple with shackled wrists ... and rolled over the side rail and onto the thin straw-filled mattress. There was a pillow at the head of the bunk and a single threadbare blanket lay folded on top of the pillow.
Before long the overhead lights were extinguished, and in the dim light of a few side lamps everyone in the place quieted down. Barb rested her head on the pillow, covered herself over, and was about to close her eyes, when Sue’s face appeared at the side rail.
“Don’t you think we ought to be trying to get some rest?” whispered Barb.
“Yeah, sure, Barb. But I wanted to ask you whether you think we can trust those Grainger High girls?”
“I dunno, Sue. Possibly. Why?”
“Because, I’m cooking up a plan to get us out of here, and we may need to involve the Graingers.”
“You are? What’s the point. You can’t fight the FNPA, Sue. They’re too powerful. Look what happened to my friends who staged a protest? It was a friggin disaster!”
“Who said anything about staging a protest. Your friends were stupid. You don’t fight the system, Barb. That never succeeds. What you need to do is figure out how to work the system ... not fight it! I’ve been doing just that all my life and look where it’s gotten me!”
“Same place as me, Sue. Sitting in an FNPA barrack waiting your turn to be spit roasted.”
“Barb, I’m going to get us out of here. Give me a little time and I’ll figure something out, but It’ll require some team work ... you, me, Kristin, and possibly the Graingers ... to pull it off successfully.”
“Yeah, Barb” piped up Kristin, who had been listening. “You know, it’s like school spirit, being true to your team!”
TO BE CONTINUED
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M
montycrusto
Guest
Fantastic stuff!! Loving the Rose sub-plot.. Getting a little more dystopian and a little less dolcettish (and I haven’t forgotten the word “demise” is also in the title!)
I do hope our main characters are at least going to be tenderised before they escape to Canada..
..I wonder why you didn’t go for :”The Ham-Maid’s Tale”
I'm hoping the story has elements of Meredith's Last Interview
Steak, Mr President?
twonines
LIMERICUS
Very good Barb, you are on top form with this one!
jacksjg89
PROCRASTINATOR
I'm ok if this doesn't end in erotic spit roasting. I'm invested in these girls and their escape plan. Let's work some systems!
P.S. Still, it would be beautiful tragedy if they failed.
Praefectus Praetorio
R.I.P. Brother of the Quill
Nice continuation, but too much sympathy for the girls, especially the dead. They had it coming!
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Servus Venandi
Magistrate
I still find myself hoping for the worst for Sue, but this point I'm attached enough to Barb and Rose to halfway hope they pull off a miracle. Blasphemous thinking, I know.