Thomas Greanias - The 34th Degree

“Who are your friends, bitch?” they chanted. “Give us their names.”

“No!” she screamed.

The leader grabbed her throat and started choking her while the others struck her face. “Give us their names, bitch!”

The blows to her head began to take their toll. Her mind began playing tricks on her. She thought she could see her father standing in the corner by the cell door. His face was sad, and tears were in his eyes. His hands were at his side as he stood there, watching.

“Father!” she cried out. “What are they doing? Oh, God, help me!”

Her father held his hands open, and she could see the holes in his wrists. “They know not what they do,” he seemed to be telling her, then dissolved away.

“Don’t leave me here!” she cried. “Don’t go!”

But the image was gone, and she was barely conscious, numb from the pain, suffering one blow after another.

“Give us a name, bitch!” demanded their leader.

She started choking, gasping for breath.

“Give us a goddamn name!”

She couldn’t hold out any longer. She couldn’t stand the pain.

“LaRoche,” she wheezed. “The LaRoche family hid me.”

“Joseph LaRoche? That miserable little theater producer?”

She nodded.

“Excellent.” With a deep laugh, he let go of her neck.

Her body fell limp on the floor of the cell. She looked up to see him wipe his hand across his smiling mouth.

Oh my God, she thought, they broke me. “What are you going to do to him?” she asked desperately.

“Nothing.” He laughed. “It’s what we’ll do to that little girl of his that will make him talk.”

Not little Michelle, she thought. What have I done? Dear God, don’t let them get their hands on her! She had resolved not to break down. But those bastards had beaten her into submission, and God had abandoned her.

“It’s about time we made Michelle a woman,” said the leader. “This one’s all used up and good for nothing. Aren’t you, bitch?” He kicked her in the side.

She heard a crack and then another-two ribs gone. “God help me,” she cried out, “I’ll kill you all if you bastards touch that little girl!”

There was an explosion of laughter. “That’s going to be a little difficult, considering where you’re going.” They all started kicking her, chanting, “Beat the bitch! Beat the bitch! Beat the bitch!”

Each blow unleashed a fury inside her until something finally snapped. She was furious at God for letting this happen to her and terrified to think that Michelle was next. She had to save her, because nobody else would. She had to survive if only to see these bastards dead and save poor Michelle.

“Good-bye, bitch!”

She was on her last gasp when she managed to free a leg and kick one of the guards in the groin. He moaned in pain and collapsed to the floor.

“You need to learn some manners!” said the leader, and brought down his belt with a swinging blow.

But she blocked it with her cuffed hands, grabbed it, and pulled him down on her knee. He groaned in pain. She brought the cuffs crashing down on his skull so hard that everybody could hear the sickening crack. She pushed him off her until he rolled across the floor, a halo of blood forming around his head. She picked herself up and got on her feet.

There was a stunned silence as the four standing guards stared at the corpse.

“You killed him!” someone said.

Another said, “She’s hard as nails!”

“I’ll break her in two!” One of them came forward, swinging wildly at her.

She ducked, turned, and drove her knee into his testicles. The blow brought his head forward and down, and she followed by delivering a chin jab full force, using the weight of her body to drive the heel of her hand up into his chin, spreading her fingers so as to reach his eyes. She dug them deep into the sockets, and he cried out in pain. Then she pulled his skull forward and drove it into her knee again, knocking him unconscious and dropping him to the floor.

The remaining three guards closed in on her.

She felt a terrific pain as one of them seized her by the hair from behind and pulled her head back. In one rapid and continuous motion, she grabbed his wrist and arm with a firm grip and swiveled into him, twisting his arm.

“Hey, what are you doing?”

She stepped backward as far as possible with her right foot, jerked his hand from her head, and twisted it down and back between her legs. This sent him headfirst toward the ground.

“Stop her! She’s breaking my arm!”

One of the two remaining guards moved in to help. Keeping a firm grip on her captive’s wrist and arm, she followed up with a smashing kick to his face, sending him into his friend’s arms with enough force to make them both stumble backward and crash both heads against the wall. They dropped to the floor, unconscious.

The last guard came forward, fury in his bloodshot eyes. She stepped out of his reach, wrapped her chains around his neck, and pulled as hard as she could. For a wild moment he spun in circles, practically carrying her on his back as he tried to pry the chain loose, choking desperately. He slammed her against the wall, but she wouldn’t let go. Finally, he dropped to the floor.

Breathing hard, feeling dizzy, she looked around at the bodies strewn across the cell. She threw up. Doubled over, she could see blood dripping down the insides of her thighs, and the horrible pain between her legs made her fall to her knees.

There was no time for pain, she told herself. In a few minutes Frederick would be back.

She dragged herself over to the guard who had unlocked her leg chains and found the key. With a little work, she managed to unlock the wrist chains. As she rubbed her sore wrists, she heard a soft groan. She looked over to see a semiconscious guard starting to stir.

Oh, God, she thought, it wasn’t over. Not as long as they knew about the LaRoche family. She would have to make sure they were all dead. If only she hadn’t broken…

She found a half-empty bottle of beer on the floor, smashed it, and picked the most useful shard of glass. Crawling on all fours, she approached the semiconscious guard and slit his throat. The moaning stopped instantly.

She proceeded to move from one unconscious guard to another, slitting their throats, even the one whose skull she had crushed and the one she had strangled. She couldn’t afford to have one of them wake up on this side of death. She didn’t want to think about what they would find on the other side.

When she was finished, she found a guard who looked about her size. She stripped off his uniform and put it on. She slipped her swollen feet into the oversize jackboots, snatched a cap, and stood up, leaning against the wall to keep her balance. She rolled her hair up into a ball and put the cap on.

She waited by the door, drawing deep breaths, waiting for Frederick to return. He would open the door and see the bodies strewn across the floor. That moment of confusion would be her chance. She would kill him. She would snap the neck of Frederick Hoffer, a preacher’s kid like her, and she would feel no remorse. Then she would kill the sentry at the back door and stumble into the misty night.

A few minutes later, she heard the echo of Hoffer’s steps coming down the hallway. The key hit the lock, and she held her breath. The door opened, and a hulking figure entered the cell and turned toward her. But it wasn’t Hoffer.

It was Stavros.

She woke up, gasping for breath, wet strands of hair plastered across her face. She sat up in terror.

It was early morning, still dark, and she realized she was in her hut at the National Bands camp in the middle of nowhere, drawing deep breaths. It was only a dream-this time.