Wow! I missed Tuesday's installment and read these together. I say this a a high compliment your story wears me out!!!
T
T
-
Sign up or login, and you'll have full access to opportunities of forum.
The Interrogation And Punishment Centre For Girls
- Thread starter Eulalia
- Start date
flatterer, but the slave earns it
it is a novelle
the writer (my bardslave) is a young damoi·selle (however virgin?
) and before she is a old granny there will be no end at her passion/mania for writing
her cruel stories.................... and we hope that she will be crucified many times or otherwise spanked, whipped, burned and all those cruel other torturing she can just think about
I think in many ways about her figure
the writer (my bardslave) is a young damoi·selle (however virgin?
) and before she is a old granny there will be no end at her passion/mania for writing her cruel stories.................... and we hope that she will be crucified many times or otherwise spanked, whipped, burned and all those cruel other torturing she can just think aboutI think in many ways about her figure
Attachments
looks like a lady waiting (lusting?) for something to happen...
T
is she?
thanks ralmcg - well, we're on chapter 8 now,
as I'm still making it up, writing it and posting it as I go along, I'm not that sure,
but I guess it's about two-thirds of the way now,
perhaps another 4 chapters?
like admi sweetly says,
when it is finished I'll probably write something else,
(even - especially - when I'm an old grannie!)
story or poems!
Fantasmo
Senator
4, 40, 400... who cares?!I guess it's about two-thirds of the way now,
perhaps another 4 chapters?
It will be an entertaining read as long as you enjoy it.
Thanks for that!
And you'll move on when you feel it's enough...
Who needs a schedule...
5
When the President, his family, and the rest of the Junta had enjoyed enough of our mothers' early struggles on their crosses, we Killhope Girls were marched away from the Place of Execution down to a terrace on the hillside below where the crosses stood, much smaller than the plateau where the main stadium was located, but big enough for a sports pitch and a grandstand set against the cliffside, and clearly visible from the crosses where our mothers hung.
Piniero and his entourage occupied the grandstand, on a platform in the centre of the pitch we girls performed our programme, all our dances and our now ritualised wrestling with and being "broken" by The Giant. This was what it had all been for, all it had been leading up to – our final degradation in the presence of our conqueror and ruler, with our tormented mothers forced to watch from their death-torture on their crosses!
We danced as we knew we must, for any of us to do otherwise would have invited God knows what vicious collective punishment for us, and even – scarcely imaginable! – worse suffering for our mums. A Military band accompanied us merrily, we played our parts adequately, though I felt none of that bliss of movement I'd experienced when I was first made to display my ability to the lower ranks in their club at the IPCG – now I, and Laura and my cousins, were just going through the motions.
But it satisfied the VIPs, young female bodies gyrating, leaping, displaying to best advantage were enough to set their hormones racing, they applauded with genuine excitement and demanded encores.
I was expecting we'd be auctioned at the end as usual, but instead we were allowed a much-needed drink of water, then trooped back up to the crosses. Barriers had been erected around them now, Guards were controlling a huge, continuous stream of spectators, laughing and jeering, thoroughly enjoying the holiday spectacle as they moved slowly along the pathway, allowed to pause and enjoy each victim for a minute or two, then ordered on so the next batch could have their turn.
We girls were pushed through the crowd and into the enclosure. Our mothers were now hanging relatively still, though twisting and jerking in spasms of pain. It was the middle of the day, the sun was beating down, their bodies were gleaming with sweat, crawling with flies.
They were supported now by wooden rests screwed to the uprights under their groins. It was no gesture of mercy, the supports were tapered in section to a slender top edge that cut into each woman's vulva as she rested on it, and its purpose was to take their body-weight and ensure they'd go on breathing for much, much longer, to prolong their death-agony as far as possible.
And, looking closely, I could see a metal rod screwed through the wooden seat, pushing up into my Mum's vagina. She could still lift her body to some extent, and when she did so to ease the discomfort of the support, the lower part of the rod, smeared with blood and juices, was briefly visible; when she sank down again, it must have thrust deep into the place where my sister and I began our lives.
She groaned when she saw us, croaked "Lali! Laura!", but no more, she could not summon breath to speak from her aching lungs, and anyway she, and we, would have attracted punishment if we'd tried to communicate. I just smiled at her, trying still to appear strong and brave.
On each of the cross-uprights, metal rings had been fitted, and we girls were now shackled to these by our wrist-irons, arms stretched up above our heads to reach them.
I was chained in position by a Sergeant-Major, the one who'd commanded the squad of Cadets who'd driven us along in the parade this morning and who'd directed them in moving us to the various parts of the Stadium during the day's proceedings. He'd seemed vaguely familiar, but I had other preoccupations and hadn't thought about him.
But now he took hold of my arms and made me stretch them up to be shackled, he looked me straight in the eye with a slight grin, and winked! At once he came back to me – the Sergeant in the Club, the one who'd first made me dance! I grinned back – for all he'd done to me and made me do, I'd formed a strange affection for him and his rough squaddies. He locked me into position, and turned away to check the other girls.
Laura and I were positioned either side of our mother, facing left and right, Carina and Julia were likewise stationed either side of Christina, while Faith was shackled to a ring on the support under her mum's groin, where all the body fluids that came uncontrollably from the cross-victim's outlet's would pour on the daughter – the most degrading position for both of them.
Mum's thigh was close to my face, I could smell her sweat and female odours strongly, see blood trickling down from the spike in her genitals, her nailed foot oozing dark gore fed on by gross black flies, and feel her leg move as she fought to cope with the pain, constantly lifting and sinking, gasping for air.
Between the crosses were two great metal fire-baskets, filled with blazing coals tended by naked slavegirls. Arranged on the coals were various iron instruments, glowing hot – pokers, pincers, and, most evil-looking, rake-like tools with five vicious curved claws.
A crew of Cadets, mainly boys but there were a couple of girls too, had the job of ensuring the victims had no rest from their sufferings. Whenever one of our mothers seemed to grow faint, her head hanging, her breathing slow, a couple of them would use their whips, while two more would fetch a pair of heated metal tools from the brazier and apply it to the woman's body – poking her armpits or groin, squeezing her breasts with the pincers, slashing the strained muscles of her flanks with the cruel rake.
When they'd got her screaming and leaping wildly in renewed agony, they'd use the same tortures on her daughters. These interludes, which occurred increasingly frequently as the day wore on, delighted the crowd, who'd yell at the young torturers telling them to use more force and to inflict pain in our most sensitive parts.
The Sergeant-Major was in charge of these proceedings, giving orders to the Cadets. If he felt any affection for his one-time dancing-girl, it wasn't shown in any mercy, if anything he encouraged his crew to thrash and burn me with even greater viciousness than the other girls – but I felt he was making them treatLaurarelatively lightly, and that was a kindness to me as much as to her.
We were made to stand sharing our mothers' torments throughout the hot, humid afternoon. At one point, when the attention of the Cadets was on Christina, Carina and Julia, I was startled to hear Mum croak, in a hoarse whisper, "Lalia!" I kept looking forward, so as not to attract attention, and hissed "Yes, Mum?" "Take ... care .. take ... care ... of ...Laura...." "Yes, Mum, trust me." I felt a knot of misery inside, knowing how little there was I could do, but I knew I'd try. "You...you're good, Lali...." It was the last thing I heard my mother say.
In the evening, we were unchained from the crosses and taken down to the terrace for another performance, under floodlights, before a public audience. Strangely, although we were of course exhausted and pain-wracked with the beatings and burnings, we danced more eagerly and wrestled with the Giant more vigorously than we'd done in the morning – the uninhibited lust of the predominantly male crowd, their wolf-whistles and obscene cat-calls conjured a spirit that was absent from the cold, cruel formality of the VIPs.
After we'd done our show, we were marched back past the crosses, where our mothers were now hanging quietly, heads bowed, though still moving their bodies slightly. Their tormentors had evidently been commanded to cease trying to keep them conscious, the long wait for death was all that remained.
We were taken on to a park behind the grandstand where our cage-truck was waiting. There was food for us in the trough, tasty food in individual picnic packs, though we were far too weary to enjoy it, the drinking-trough full of water was the most welcome refreshment. We huddled together on the rags and were instantly asleep.
The next day we were taken out and shackled to the crosses once more. Our mothers were still alive, but making little movement and frequently lapsing into unconsciousness, I felt glad when that happened to Mum. There was no more whipping or torture, sheer tedium and the endless attention of flies were the worst we girls had to suffer. Crows were beginning to take an interest in our mothers, perching on the cross-beams, probing cautiously at the lank hair and closed eyes, but not yet daring to bite.
Crowds started arriving from early, not quite so many as the first day, but it was still a popular attraction, a family outing, an educational experience, our naked bodies must have been the most-photographed of the year, doubtless posted, shared and copied over the internet and preserved as souvenirs to show children and grandchildren in years to come! And three times during the second day, morning, afternoon and evening, we were taken to the terrace to dance and wrestle before appreciative audiences.
We slept another night in the cage, the third day started in a similar way, but our mothers were now hanging quite limp most of the time, twitching occasionally, breathing long and slow, sometimes moaning with an ominous rattle. The crows had gouged Mum's eyes now, I couldn't bear to look, though she'd probably been blinded by the constant sunlight and I hoped she was no longer aware of what was happening to her.
Spectators were fewer, but those who came stayed, there was an air of expectation, some even picnicked on the stadium grass behind the crosses. From time to time, Officers came accompanied by a Medical Inspector in his white coat, checking each of the victims with his stethoscope.
We danced again on the terrace in the morning and afternoon, but when we returned from the second performance, the Medical Inspector was with Faith's mum, Sophie. We weren't shackled, the Sergeant-Major told us to stand at the ready, facing our respective mothers. After a minute or two, the Medic spoke to the Officers, one of them gave an order to the Sergeant-Major, he instructed a Guard who hurried off toward the grandstand.
In a few minutes he returned carrying a huge butcher's knife, accompanied by a P-Section slavegirl with a large bucket. I knew from experience at the IPCG what was coming, so did poor Faith, who looked green with sickness at the knowledge. The Guard plunged the knife into her mother's dead flesh and swiftly and efficiently disembowelled her, the slavegirl catching the offal in the bucket, and carrying it away with well-trained sprightliness.
Meanwhile, two more Guards, the heftiest toughs in the squad, had been given another duty, they had fetched a couple of massive iron bars which any but the strongest men would have had a job lifting. One stood before Christina, the other before our Mum. Both women's heads were slightly lifted, there was movement in their bodies as if they were aware of something threatening, though they could surely not have been sufficiently conscious to know what.
On a word from the Sergeant-Major, the Guards lifted their weapons and swung them, crashing them against the victims' defenceless shins. Again and again they struck, half a dozen times on one leg, then on the other. Both women leapt in reaction, hoarse, unearthly howls of agony sounded from their throats.
Their legs totally smashed, they continued to heave and haul on their arms, their bodies sliding up and down on the cruel spikes, evilly raping them throughout their final minutes of agony.
Christina expired after perhaps ten minutes, suddenly vomiting up a mass of blood and bile and sinking down onto the spike that must have finally impaled her deep into her stomach. Laura and I had to watch our Mum labouring for a good while longer, her movements almost mocking the efforts she'd made when she gave birth to us. At last she too gave out a long, rattling groan and dropped, lifeless, on to her spike.
Both dead women were disembowelled in front of their daughters, then we returned, pale and shaking, to our cage. As soon as we got in, the engine started and the truck moved off, taking us away from that dreadful place of death, into the night. We hardly ate anything, said not a word, just clung to one another not daring to think what more our conquerors had in store for us.
..again, an epic work. I do not know how you do it...
Tree
Tree
Chapter IX
The Sharp Taste of Freedom
"Crash!" A huge explosion followed by the rattle of bullets around the truck woke us startled from the sleep we'd lulled into with the motion of the truck. Now it lurched, skidded sharply and ground to a halt, leaning precariously. We huddled together petrified in the corner of the cage where we'd been thrown. In seconds, a gunshot smashed the lock on the cage-door, a shadow in black from his head down yelled "Out, quick!"
We obeyed instinctively, he grabbed us and hauled each of us down, another couple of hooded men waving handguns made us run across the road to dark bushy woodland on the far side, more men there pushed us through the briary undergrowth up a steep slope into the gloom.
I glanced back, the driver and his companion, I guessed he was our Sergeant-Major, were leaning with their foreheads pressed against the side of the wrecked truck, arms raised. The man who'd ordered us out of the cage was approaching them with his weapon raised. Was he going to kill them? For a moment of dread I hoped not, then glimpsed the man reach down with his free hand into his dark combat-jacket, pull out something and place it in the uplifted hand of the Sergeant-Major.
At once the stranger turned away and ran to join his colleagues in the woods, and I was pushed to hurry up behind my companions. As I struggled along in the blackness, brambles tearing at my bare legs, frequently stumbling in muddy pits, stubbing my bare toes on sharp stones, I was too confused to think about what was happening.
But gradually we got into a rhythm, striding along with our captors alongside, beating a way along a narrow deer-track that would have been scarcely visible even in daylight, but they seemed confident in knowing where they were driving us. Who were they? Clearly we'd been hijacked, kidnapped, rescued, guess what you will. But what was the mysterious handover to the Sergeant-Major?
As we made our way over a ridge, down into a deep valley, up another hillside and along a further ridge, one thought took shape in my mind – my Sergeant (as he then was) had been seriously pissed off at the way "his" dancing-girl was commandeered by Zeta for the Officers' Mess. Was this his revenge? I hope he gets away with it, I thought. I never said a word about what I'd glimpsed to anyone, perhaps I'd imagined it!
At last our forced march came to a halt, we were signalled to crouch down, sweating, panting, tending our bruised and scratched bodies, in a hollow on a ridge-top overlooking a narrow road or forestry track in the valley deep below. The balaclava-hooded leader spoke a couple of words, some coded signal, into his phone.
Very soon we heard the rumble of an approaching vehicle. The men got us moving again, down a narrow, zigzag route to the roadside. As we arrived, a lorry drove up, a cattle-truck. My heart sank, I remembered wagons like that rolling in and out of the market at Badegan, loaded with slaves. Our captors are slave-raiders!
But when the lorry stopped by us, deep, gloomy mooing told me things weren't that simple, the cattle-truck was full of cattle! The tailgate door was opened and we were hustled in, two of the men prodding anxious cows out of the way as they lifted a trap in the floor of the trailer. We were quickly dropped down, one after another, into a space below the cattle compartment. "Whatever happens, keep quiet – when the truck's stopped, don't even breathe!" growled the leader, then the hatch was slammed shut.
The door closed, the vehicle moved off. As each of us was thrown down, we slithered on a slimy wet surface, tumbling against each other. The stench was appalling. We'd been dumped into the tank where the excrement from the beasts above rained down constantly through the grid on which they stood. Gasping for air, we dragged our bodies through the mess to corners where the least amounts of foul stuff was falling, but it was hard to find any firm hold that could stop us sliding about helplessly as the truck speeded along a fiercely bumpy road.
It seemed endless, even without the command of silence it would have been impossible to talk, the noise, the effort to breathe without filling our throats with the acrid taste, the struggle to keep from slaloming in the muck, all prevented more than a reassuring hand-clutch between one girl and another.
At length, there was a stop, the engine kept running, the cattle kept bellowing. We glimpsed bright lights shining through the grid above us, heard men's voices, loud and officious. Then the rear door being opened, yapping of dogs. Laura clung to me, terrified. The cows too were frightened, the outpouring from their entrails was all-too-obvious evidence. We girls held our breath, we hardly needed to be told - if we'd dared to call out, God knows whose hands we'd fall into, best to keep quiet and hope.
The smell of the dung must have saved us from the sensitive noses of the hounds. The door slammed, the engine revved up, we were off again. Our journey continued, though the road was a bit less potholed, the driving a little more relaxed, and it wasn't quite so long before we stopped again. This time the engine stopped, driver himself got out, came round, opened the door and then the hatch.
"Come on, out!" We crawled through the manure, and raised our arms so he could tug us up and swing us out to stand on muddy ground. He soon had us all out, and immediately returned to his cab, started up the engine and sped away.
But he had not left us alone. There were no electric lights, but in the starlight I could tell we were in a courtyard surrounded by fairly low buildings, and there were two people there to receive us. A woman's voice spoke, a mature voice with a strong northern ring, "Phew! Ye'd better rinse 'em doon Bridget, afore they come inside!" "Aye, Mum, come on you lot, over here!" a bright, younger voice replied.
We followed Bridget to a shadowed corner of the yard, where there was a concreted surface with a drain, a place for washing down tractors or livestock I guessed. She took up a hosepipe, turned a tap and suddenly we were yelping, with shock but pleasure too, as cold refreshing water sluiced the worst of the cow-shit off our bodies and faces and out of our hair. "Shush!" she hissed, "Oor neebours are twa mile awa, but ye never ken wha's listening!"
After two or three minutes, she turned off the tap, and took us across to a doorway where her mother was waiting with an armful of towels. "Wrap these aroond you, we'll find you some cloots, but first ye'll be needing some nourishment!" We followed her into a big farm kitchen. There was a fire in the grate and a low light was on, but I noticed blackout blinds on the windows. And on a big wooden table there was porridge, bread, cheese, fruit, milk and hot tea.
After the trauma of the last three days, and indeed the sufferings of the last many months, our appetites had almost dwindled, none of us had felt like eating after seeing our mothers destroyed on their crosses, but this meal was what we needed, Carina and Julia tucked in enthusiastically, Faith and Laura were a little more hesitant but once they'd started they went on increasingly happily, and I certainly relished every mouthful.
Bridget and her Mum watched us smiling, both big, buxom women. When we'd begun to slow down our intake of food and hot drink, the housewife spoke. "Weel, ye're safe noo, no-one's going to hurt you, not ever again, if we can help it. Ye're oot of that hell they ca Elmeda, ye're in Elclud noo." I sighed with deep relief – so that's it, we've been smuggled over the border. Thank God, thank the Resistance, even thank the Sergeant-Major if he had anything to do with it!
"But," she went on, "We hae to be carefu, the Elclud government kinda turn a blin eye, but they dinna want trouble, they certainly dinna want war, and those MSC bastards are everywhere. So ye'll hae to lie low. We've got a safe hidey-hole for you. What ye need noo is a good lang rest, an we'll try and get a doctor to tak a look at you. Any questions?"
We were dumbstruck, it was all too much to take in, too much to believe. As none of the others spoke, I just smiled, shook my head, and said, "Thankyou, thanks for everything!"
Bridget, equipped with a torch, now led us via a cupboard under the stairs in the corner of the kitchen, a hatch in the cupboard floor, steps down to a cellar, through a concealed door behind shelves stacked with boxes for farm produce, along a passageway, through another combination-locked door, and into a wholly new environment, a spacious underground dwelling.
There were washrooms, then a series of cubicles with bunk-beds in them, no bigger than the cells in the Interrogation Unit, but only four to a cubicle, and the doors weren't locked – in fact, I spotted through an open one that some bunks were already occupied by sleeping figures.
She showed Carina and Julia into one, Faith, Laura and me into the next. We chose our beds, already made up with clean sheets, pillows and duvets. Bridget went away for a few moments and returned with a bundle of clothes. "We dinna seem to hae any nighties or pyjams for you, but here are some clean undies, ye can wear them in bed." She handed them out with a smile and a wink, we dressed in them gratefully and finally discarded our filthy rags that had been thongs.
"Weel," she said, "I'll leave you the noo, mind ye get a guid rest!" She departed, we enjoyed the facilities for yet another wash, dried ourselves on fresh towels that were provided on the bunks, then climbed under the bedclothes, turned off the bunkside lamps, leaving only a modest light in the central passageway.
The others were soon asleep, but I lay awake for a time. It was deliciously cosy, Bridget and her Mum seemed such lovely people, there seemed no reason to doubt that we'd really been sprung by the Resistance and smuggled across into Elclud ... and yet ... and yet....
I couldn't forget the cruel trick Dr.Sheng had played on me, pretending Laura and I were going to be released. I'd been betrayed so many times, was it surprising I'd lost any confidence in other humans? But life in the IPCG had taught me there was no point in thinking about the future or what might happen. Comfortable now, might as well sleep ....
Fantasmo
Senator
I'd bet
I'd bet
We'll see!
Allow a bit of sunshine in Eulalia's life,
even a hint of romance!
But don't worry guys, my trials aren't over,
not by a long stick -
Eul doesn't do happy ever after!
2
"Ye'll no be getting breakfast in bed every morning!" laughed Bridget, bringing in trayloads of tasty nourishment for us. While we tucked in, she found us some clothes, from the bags she brought along I selected some tops, shorts, a skirt, a change of underclothes – it was quite strange to be dressing again in more than minimal garments, and I, like my cousins, was so used to being nude we preferred to keep our limbs bare, though jeans and sweatshirts were on offer.
Soon after this, a woman doctor came to see us, one by one in an unoccupied cubicle. She examined each of us thoroughly and gently encouraged us to talk about what we'd been through, though she didn't pressurise – poor Laura was still totally silent, and Faith was too upset by the memories even to try to find words for them.
I told her my story in a flat, matter-of-fact way, as if it was just the normal ups and downs of a young woman's life. She listened quietly, but her expression registered shock. "Of course we guessed what they'd be doing to girls in their Interrogation and Punishment Centre, but it's far worse than I'd ever imagined," she said when I finished with the crucifixion of our mothers.. "I'd like to get all of you into hospital, especially your sister, but there's no chance of that. And in spite of everything, they've made sure to keep you pretty fit physically – the bastards!"
I smiled wanly and shrugged. As far as medical matters were concerned, my only persistent troubles were gynaecological – irregular bleeding, copious when it did come, a lot of soreness and itching. She gave me some painkillers and cream, and another cream for my skin-scars. The others had similar prescriptions.
We thanked her as she left, then Bridget took us along to another big room, a kind of common room with a kitchen and good supplies of food. We could cater for ourselves here, she explained. While we were there, several young women came through, or stopped to fix themselves snacks, they greeted Bridget cheerfully.
Now she sat us around a table, and began explaining. "Ye'll be wondering where the hell ye are?" We nodded. "Weel, as ye ken, ye've been got oot of Elmeda by the Resistance. This place is one of their depots. We store stuff for them here. We're a proper working farm above groond, ye ken, all this is secret, weel hidden awa." We listened intently, this made sense. "The lassies ye see are like you, girls wha've got oot of the clutches of the MSC one way or another, and are helping the Resistance noo – like we hope ye will."
We sat back, all looking thoughtful – right, so this is the deal. How? How can we help?" I asked. "Weel," she replied, the main jobs are packing up food, medical supplies, ammunition and stuff, and carrying it up into the hills and the forest. There are secret hidey-holes where squads working across the border can pick up what they need, we check on those and make sure they're kept stocked."
I could see Carina's and Julia's eyes were shining with excitement, Faith and Laura looked more bewildered and anxious. I nodded to Bridget, who went on, "Nae pressure, mind – of course we'd like you to help, but if ye dinna want to, if ye dinna feel ye can efter a ye've been through, we'll understand, we'd get you somewhere else, safe. Think about it for noo, we won't make you start work just yet!"
She smiled reassuringly, and was getting up to go when a couple of young women came in from the far end of the room, smiled at Bridget, then one suddenly jumped and cried "Cari! Juli!" The two leapt up and hugged her, I realised too – it was Erica, Carina's and Julia's older sister!
We moved to some armchairs in a corner of the room, Bridget said, "This calls for a celebration!" and went to fetch some party provisions. Erica introduced her friend, Barbara, a good-looking girl with dark hair and bright, lively eyes, though – like Erica's – her face was camouflage-painted. They were wearing combat-style shirts and shorts and sturdy-looking boots, their arms and legs were camouflage-painted too, and as they sat down they discarded large, empty rucksacks.
Between them, they told their story – they were both at the Libertarian Students' camp at the time of the coup, they'd made a quick getaway by night and managed to find their way to Houl Water, the great reservoir in the forest on the border. They'd managed to swim across, hours before the MSC had swamped the area with dog-patrols, speedboats, floodlights and everything else to stop escapes – Anna-Michaela, the President's daughter, was one of those who got there too late; as I'd been forced to witness, she was the first girl they crucified.
And swimming in the dark in that perishing cold water was dangerous, plenty of refugees died trying, but these two girls made it, then wandered, wet, cold and nearly naked until they ran into a Resistance squad searching for fugitives, and so were brought here. Barbara had returned with bottles of beer and sandwiches. They listened as we recounted our lives since the coup, the horrors of the IPCG.
They were shocked, Erica sighed deeply to hear how her mother had died, but she said she was not surprised. Barbara listen with bright-eyed, sympathetic interest, I felt her gaze especially focused on me as I talked about my experiences, showing some of the scars on my arms and legs.
They left us eventually to get washed and have some sleep. We girls talked about the choice facing us. Carina and Julia were absolutely determined to join their sister in working for the Resistance, and I was happy with the idea myself, but concerned about Faith and, especially, Laura.
When Bridget next came to check we were okay, we discussed things with her. The upshot was, if the Resistance Command Office agreed, Carina and Julia could work with Erica, opening up some more bases in the parts of the Forest where she'd been working, and I'd do the same with Barbara. Faith and Laura could stay in the Depot helping with packing the supplies – also Bridget's mum had said she'd like to have Laura with her helping in the kitchen sometimes, they had people with various kinds of issues and handicaps working on the farm, a mute little housemaid wouldn't be conspicuous.
So, after a few more days of compulsory rest and recuperation –Bridget's orders – we started on our new pattern of life. Barbara took me first to a room where an efficient-looking woman working at a computer gave her a number, orally. We had to memorise it, it was the grid location for the base we were to supply tonight. Akthough we were issued with GPS, we weren't allowed to enter the number in the memory, in case we were captured or lost the device, we'd have to enter it each time we checked our position.
We then located the place on a map, and Barbara showed me the route we'd follow – again, we were to memorise it, we weren't allowed to carry any maps. It seemed alarming, could I cope? But Barbara assured me that, once I'd got to know the terrain and the regular bases, I'd soon be on top of it.
Next we collected our backpacks. They were good rucksacks, mine hung on my back comfortably, chafing my whip-scarred skin a bit, but far less painful than much I'd endured in the IPCG. A few necessary items hung on my belt – a nice leather one round my denim shorts – GPS, compass, pocket-knife, torch. We were ready.
The way out from the Depot was away from the farm, a door led into what were evidently old mine-workings, seeming a labyrinth to me, but Barbara was confident. There were several exits, she led me to one that emerged from the hillside in pretty dense forest. There was daylight, though not much under the trees, it was growing dark.
She led me sure-footedly through the woodland along barely perceptible tracks, pointing to inconspicuous waymarks carved on some tree-trunks. When it became totally dark, we rested for a while in a hollow sheltered by bushes, ate some of the snacks packed for us in the outer pockets of our rucksacks. In the darkness, Barbara was able to detect sounds I wouldn't have heard, nothing to be frightened of, just forest animals – deer, badgers, foxes, pine-martens.
We moved on again at the first hint of light, as birds began to wake, keeping mainly to forested parts, or bushy clefts up the hillsides, and quickly across the boggy moorland at the summits. After several hours, we found the base, quite unrecognisable, simply a pile of stones, perhaps it had been some prehistoric tomb, but Barbara knew where to locate the entrance, moving two or three stones aside.
She felt inside, took out a list she found there with items crossed off on it, checked around the interior space noting what was still there from the last delivery, and then we emptied the contents of our packs into the space, finishing with a new list, and closed it up securely.
So this was the routine. As Barbara had said, I soon got used to it, began to form a mental map of the wide, wild territory we were working in, learnt the whereabouts of the existing bases and the network of secret routes linking them to the Depot.
And Barbara and I became very good friends – she'd been an enthusiastic Young Libertarian, and she'd been studying natural sciences at the University when the coup came and she made her escape with Erica. As she said, she believed in the Libertarian cause, but her main pleasure was just being out of doors, in the wild, seeing the animals and birds – the fieldwork and camps, with navigation and survival training, had been her favourite YL activities, much more than the political stuff, and they'd proved very helpful for the role she had now.
And she made no secret of the fact that she was fascinated by my stories of life in the IPCG – the bondage and branding, the tortures, the whippings, the slavery, the systematic humiliations. She didn't press me to talk about them, but I could detect her thrill of delight when I did, and I felt good when I talked about it all with her, it didn't upset me. There was a special chemistry between us.
In the Depot, Erica moved her stuff into the cubicle with her sisters, and I told Faith and Laura I'd move out so I wouldn't disturb them, coming and going at odd hours of the night and morning – which was true enough – so I took Erica's place in the cubicle where Barbara stayed.
(disclaimer: Though pronounced the same Eul's Bridget is not Messa's mom Brigitte)
...or is she????
Great chapter, Eul
T
...or is she????
Great chapter, Eul
T
or faith?...............................or?
Big difference - "Bridge it" versus "BrizzzhEEEEETe" !
!Thanks Tree - Stuff Happens takes interesting turns tonight, too!