Mark Townsend - White captive

Shorty, as his name implied, was slight of height. But not really quite as much as he should have been to justify the nickname. In fact, he was just about Susan's height, five feet five. What he lacked in height, he certainly made up for in build. He was broad and stocky, and as she studied him, she remembered the way he had walked from the car to the cabin. It had reminded her dimly of an ape with his long swinging arms that were out of proportion to the rest of his body. It almost appeared as though he could touch the ground without bending over much farther than his natural stance. His face was thick and his broad flat nose, of the central African type negro, set deeply between his cheeks.

Coke, who had been her guardian in the kitchen, was tall and thin with a slight pencil-type mustache that was currently so popular with negro singers. His eyes stayed blatantly on her as she moved around the table serving the others. There was an innate cold cruelty in them that she couldn't really explain, but she knew he had held it in check out of fear of Duke's rebuttal and she found herself again grateful again for his presence, fearing what would happen to her if he were not there.

Duke was a strong, well-built negro who carried himself with an arrogant confidence befitting his position as gang chief. He had long sensuous hands that she could still remember coursing over her body as he had ravished her in the car. His nails were long and sharp and she still winced slightly each time she moved from the marks he had made on her body while he was stroking her. He, too, had a certain cold aloofness about him that repulsed and frightened her. It was almost as though he possessed nothing what-so-ever in the way of human compassion. There was no doubt of the tremendous strength he possessed; she could still feel the welts from his finger on her hips and upper thighs where he had grasped her when he was pulling himself into her.

Stitch was one of the most repulsive persons she had ever seen. His build was much like Shorty, except that it was completely out of proportion. He had a large oversized head that seemed as though it belonged on a body many times the size of the one he possessed. When he walked, the enlarged head tilted to one side as though he could not support it and the slight limp he had added to the off-balance physical effect. His eyes were small and sunk deep in his head with the typical idiot half-smile always playing across his mouth, even when he was angry or hurt.

She feared him more than all the rest of them. At least the others looked half human and might have some reasoning power left in them, but not Stitch. There would be no reasoning or mercy if she ever came under his power. It was unpredictable what he might do if his natural instincts were unleashed from the accepted human restrictions now placed on him.

She finished filling the plates and stood back a few feet from the table with the dishes still in her hand, watching them eat silently with their thoughts. And, there could be no doubt what these thoughts were about. She could detect each of them in turn staring at her out of the corners of their eyes with hungry animalistic gazes that could mean only one thing.

She kept her eyes on Duke as she cowered back from the table. The firelight now burned brightly, elongating weird silhouettes of his profile across the cabin floor. Out of grim necessity, she had accepted him as protector, and for the first time in her young life began to understand more behind the reasoning of the survival of the human race. A few short hours ago, she had been a sheltered and innocent girl, who believed in all the things she had learned about the inviolability of the virgin female form, and how it would be and should be protected at all costs. Now, she shared a sympathy with all abducted females since time began. The tender young vestal virgins of the Roman Empire who were carried off by the Huns from the north; the pioneer women who were carried off to become the wives of savage Indians; and, the ravaged women of Berlin after World War II. They all, from want of food or protection from greater indignities, had accepted protectors that they would have otherwise been repulsed by. It all became ultimately a matter of what one had to choose from, and not what one wanted to choose. The weakest had to choose the strongest of their group for mere survival sake, providing of course, the strongest wanted them. Duke wanted her now and she had no choice if she were to escape the others. She had to give herself to him or suffer a far worse fate at the hands of the likes of Shorty and Stitch.

It was also apparent that Duke could feel the power he now possessed over the young, naive white girl as he ate with a quiet confidence, never once raising his eyes to look at her like the others. He knew she was there and knew she was his, by virtue of his leadership of the gang. His hold on her was his strength and the protection he offered her.

"Git me some whiskey outta the box," he spoke for the first time since beginning to eat, "and bring four glasses, no, bring five. One for you, too, honky baby."

Susan went to the kitchen without hesitation and brought the bottle back with the glasses and watched silently by his side as he poured a drink out for all of them. He poured hers a little more full than the others and pushed it toward her on the table.

"Drink it down without stopping," he commanded, reveling in demonstrating his power over her to the others.

Susan raised the glass and took a small sip, feeling the hot liquid burning all the way down to her stomach. It made her feel slightly sick until she saw Duke's eyes glued to her out of the corner of her eye, and she tilted the glass up again to take a greater swallow. She almost coughed it up, but with a supreme effort, managed to hold it down. A faint light-headedness swirled through her as she raised the glass again and turned it bottom-up, finishing the warm fluid to the last drop.

"S-S-She d-done it," Stitch said with a gleeful ring to his voice.

"I told her to, didn't I," Duke said proudly. "She's gonna be my chick and I don't wanna see none of you bastards layin' a hand on 'er without my okay."

"Aw com'on now, Duke," Shorty protested. "We gotta right too, we all took her together."

"I got the right, remember the club rules," Duke cut him off. "The Chief Leopard gits first choice on all the spoils o' war."

"She ain't no spoil o' war," Coke remonstrated hesitantly. "We got 'er off the street."

"Man, that's the honky war. You heard what cats like Stokley Carmichael and Rap Brown say; we're at war with them honkies. Why you think we're heah, boy?"

"She ain't no part o' it, Duke," Shorty objected again. Susan could see that they were pushing him for all it was worth, and clenched tightly to the empty glass in her hand as the tension between them grew. She knew that the result of this little play of words could decide her fate for the night and she prayed with all her heart that Duke would be strong enough to hold them off.

"She's a honky, ain't she," Duke answered, "'lemmne show ya what I mean, man."

He rose from his chair and grabbed Susan by the arm, pushing her roughly over to the fireplace. Though it appeared to the others that he was hurting her, she could feel a certain restraint in his movement that almost bordered on gentleness. She understood that he had to be firm in front of the others to maintain his status, and she let herself be carried limply along with him across the room.

"Now you cats take a look and see if you don't think she's a honky."

With that he reached to the back of Susan's tattered gown and ripped it down the hack in one mighty jerk. The flimsy material split without effort and floated uselessly to the floor.

She gasped when she realized what he had done and tried desperately to recover the last remnants of clothing she had left to cover her nude body.