Monica O'Rourke: Suffer the Flesh

Tamara crawled over. The four slumped in the corner of the room, useless limbs pressing limbs, temples resting against hair.

Kim, still unconscious, was cold and clammy to the touch, her extremities chilled despite the mucky air.

“What the hell do we do now?” Tamara asked through chattery teeth.

“Did they say what they were planning? Did you hear anything at all?” Zoey asked.

“No,” Tamara said.

“I heard them talking,” Jessica said. “And I saw some of the stuff they brought in.”

“Stuff?” The hair on Zoey’s arms prickled.

“Torture devices. Like things out of a museum. Or a horror movie. Video equipment too. They were carting it all into Room Twelve.”

Room Twelve was sparsely furnished, just a few rings suspended from the ceiling, rubber padding on the floor. The orgy room.

“They were saying how much fun they were going to have. Complaining that James never let them do what they really wanted. The only thing they said to us was ‘see you soon, ladies,’ and then they left. But that was a while ago now.”

“They’ll be back,” Zoey whispered, shivering. “We have to do something.”

“Like what? ” Tamara asked. “They’re men, big men, men with guns. What are we supposed to do?”

Zoey shut out the limited light by closing her eyes.

“Where were you hiding, Zoey?” Jessica asked. “They tore this place apart looking for you.”

“In the linen closet in the bathroom.”

“Linen closet?” Tamara said. “How? Those shelves are tiny.”

“It’s amazing what you can do when you’re desperate. At one point they opened the closet door. I thought I was going to have a stroke.”

“Good for you,” Tamara said, laughing lightly. “You had them going crazy.”

“And they just gave up looking?”

“I guess they had to. They probably figured you escaped somehow.”

“I need my shirt,” Jessica said. She roamed in the dark room, apparently knowing the layout as well as Zoey did. She retrieved their shirts and handed them out. Zoey slipped one over Kim’s head.

“We’ll have to be ready for them when they come back.” As the words came out of her mouth, Zoey realized how futile they sounded.

“You have any suggestions?” Tamara said. “They never travel alone, those fuckers. Always in pairs. Or more.”

Kim groaned, stirred in Zoey’s lap.

“Kim? Can you hear me, Kim?” Zoey took her hand and massaged it between her own.

Kim’s head nodded in Zoey’s lap. “What…?”

“Long story, Kim. Just rest. Tamara, Jess—let’s go.” She slid out from beneath Kim, rested her gently on the floor. “Stay here and rest, okay?”

Zoey stood, fighting the return of pain in every tiny bit of movement. The three approached the door, and Zoey closed the gap, leaving it open a couple of inches.

Ear against the tiny opening. “We have to be ready,” she whispered.

“We’ll just have to hope too many don’t come back for you. Maybe we can overpower them.”

“Oh, fuck ,” Tamara groaned. “That’s your plan?”

They waited in silence, sounds of hoarse, rushed breathing, of rattling, abused lungs. Strained for sounds of voices or footsteps.

More time passed, an impossible stretch of endless minutes, leading to the better part of an hour. Zoey’s nerves sizzled, felt electrified, adrenaline replacing the blood in her veins.

“Got a plan B?” Tamara muttered, breaking the silence, but Zoey shushed her. Someone was in the hall.

Three men, she could see through the inches-wide gap. Frank she knew. The other two she had seen in the cafeteria but didn’t know their names.

“This should be the last of them,” Frank said. “I’ll get the one in Room Two. Think you can handle these bitches?”

“Jesus, Frank, just go.”

“How many are there?” he asked.

“Two. Three. I think we left two.” He tittered, briskly massaging his face with his palms. “Too many poppers, Frank! Good coke though. Fucking with my few active brain cells.”

Frank shook his head and disappeared down the hall, away from Zoey. The other two men headed toward her. Two! They’d never overpower these men, especially in their weakened condition. Maybe if they were in better shape, but they were a mess. Beaten, exhausted.

“I gotta take a leak.

“For cryin’ out loud, Pete. Now?”

“Yeah, now ,” Pete, the one who’d enjoyed too much coke and poppers, whined.

“I’ll wait for you. Hurry up.”

Pete scratched his head. “Don’t wait for me, just go. Unchain them, get them up. I’m not carrying them. Go get started.”

“Yeah, but hurry. You’re not sticking me with all the shit work again, asshole.”

“Yeah, whatever.”

Zoey’s heart throbbed as he approached the door. The anticipation was like jagged wire digging into her flesh.

He came inside, groped the wall for the light switch. It wasn’t beside the door where a switch would traditionally be but was further down the wall.

“Hello, ladies,” he said to the torture devices. “Daddy’s home.” He was fully inside now, his hand sliding up and down the wall. “The fuck are the lights?”

Zoey slammed the door shut, and the elements of darkness and surprise were on her side. She attacked, knocked him off his feet. Sat on his chest and repeatedly bashed him in his face, fought off his fists as they punched her chest. She pinned his arms to his sides with her knees. Someone behind her now, leaning into her—Tamara. She recognized the much-larger frame.

“Get the fuck off!” He thrashed beneath her.

“Jessica, get the lights! Tamara, you got him?”

“Yeah, got him!” she panted.

A second later light exploded into life, blinding Zoey.

“Get off! ”

“Fuck!” Jessica cried. “They’ll hear him.”

“No, soundproof.” Zoey punched him again, glanced back.

Tamara was sitting on his legs, and she leaned forward, groped his waist.

The gun.

“Get off me, you fat cunt!”

“Jessica, get something to stuff in his mouth.” Well-aimed spittle flew from Zoey’s lips, landed on his cheek. “Fuck you.”

Jessica returned with the first-aid kit and stuffed gauze in his mouth, wound surgical tape around his head.

“That other asshole will be here any second,” Zoey said. “He just went to use the bathroom.”

“What should we do with this one?” Tamara said. “Can’t shoot him—too much noise.”

“Unzip his pants,” Zoey said. “Hurry. Pull them down. Underwear too.” When Tamara finished, Zoey said, “Now get up, and hold the gun on him. We’ll shoot the fucker if we have to. Won’t bother me one bit.”

Tamara climbed off, and the gagged man started to buck, kicked his legs, tried to throw Zoey off. She leaned back and grabbed his testicles. Immediately his movements stopped. She squeezed, tightened the grip. He grunted, spasmed once.

“Now get up. Nice and easy.” She slid off his torso, her hand a death-grip on his balls, and she led him off the floor. Walked him across the room that way, directed him to the rack.

“Jess, tie him down.”

His wrists and ankles were secured, and he screamed into the gag.

Zoey rushed to the front of the room, Tamara directly behind her. “We’ll have to do this again in a minute. Kill the lights and—”

But Pete burst into the room.

“Kurt! Kurt! Guess what I found! Bloody rags, and a toilet full of—”

For a moment nobody moved. Just stared at one another in shock, until Pete broke the freeze.

“Ah, shit!” he said, reaching for the gun jutting from his waistband.

Zoey attacked, slamming into the wall, pinning him back. He recovered quickly and yanked the gun out of his pants. She grabbed his wrist, and they struggled for control.