SPOILS OF WAR

The members of the Night Watch, occupying the towers around the main compound, stared out into the semi-darkness unexpectantly. The snow-covered landscape glowed blue against the black sky and the scene was still, aside from the occasional stirring of the cormorants on the wide silver lake to the east.

On a clear night like this, the lights of an approaching vehicle could be seen from many kilometres. And incoming aircraft, increasingly unlikely these days, would be picked up beyond visible range by the surveillance radar and they would be alerted by the AA battery springing to life. So the Night Watch could afford to relax, somewhat. The air was frigid and each counted the minutes until the end of his shift and the long-awaited warmth of the barracks.

Had any of their number been looking for some reason into the compound, they would have chanced upon a more interesting sight. But since there was no reason, they remained ignorant of the faltering progress of the strange figure moving diagonally across the courtyard.

Both the appearance and manner of this figure were eccentric. Clothed in an overcoat several sizes too large, and wearing a large fur-lined hat, it was barefoot in spite of the inch or so of fresh snow covering the ground. A ragged line of footprints traced back to the far side of the yard, irregular marks caused by a stumbling gait supported by a wooden crutch held in the right hand. As the figure made its way towards the door of the detention block on the east side of the courtyard, it dragged a satchel through the snow by a long fabric strap. The satchel was heavy, carving a groove into the snow, exposing the black tarmac beneath, and forcing the figure to pause every few steps to catch breath.

Reaching a metal door, the figure grasped the frozen handle without flinching and entered quietly. Dropping the hat, crutch and bag just inside the door, the soldier produced a pistol from one of the big pockets of the overcoat and proceeded down the weakly-lit corridor. Sounds could be heard from behind a door on the right: two men talking, laughing at some inane humour. Taking up a position squarely in front of the door, the soldier hammered loudly on the metal. After a few seconds the door was opened by a guard whose expression turned from annoyance to shock as he found himself facing the pistol aimed squarely between his eyes. He staggered backwards as the other jumped sharply from his seat, knocking a mug from a table which shattered on the floor.

"Back the fuck off," ordered Yelena, her voice sounding unfamiliar to her. She had not used it for a while. One of the soldiers smiled briefly. "Come on..." he started but trailed off as he recognised an expression he had seen once before, in an enemy soldier: that of someone preparing to kill. At this, he stiffened visibly and stepped back cautiously, eyeing her, searching for a clue to her intentions with him. She felt an echo of how the threat of death could divide and isolate.

Satisfied that she had made the necessary impression on the guards, Yelena cast her eyes around the room, lingering over the rack of rifles, the telephone and the sets of keys hanging from a board on the wall.

"Any empty cells?" she asked. They shook their heads. "Storage room?" Yes, there was one, next door along.

"OK, you," she said, indicating to one of them with the tip of the pistol, "get the keys to the storeroom."

Moving slowly, as if careful not to arouse a dangerous animal, he inched over to the board and, without looking away from her, selected a set of keys.

"Mobiles?" she barked and they looked at her uncertainly. "I know you've got your own. Let's see them.”

"Do it" she ordered again, and both fumbled in their pockets, producing their phones. She told them to drop them on the floor which they did, wincing slightly as the precious devices smashed on the stone floor.

Stepping back into the corridor, Yelena ordered them out of the guardroom. She followed them down the corridor at a distance. By the time they reached the storeroom, the guards had worked out what she had in mind and, without further command, unlocked the door and stepped into the dark interior. She told them to toss out the keys, and bent down carefully to pick them up, conscious that this was their best opportunity to tackle her. But of course the guards had no intention of taking risks with their lives and stood motionless as she closed and locked the door on them.

Yelena let out her breath and replaced the gun in her pocket. The air was cold yet she felt the sweat on her face. Taking her time, she made her way slowly back up the corridor, steadying herself on the damp wall. Returning to the guardroom, she picked the other sets of keys from their hooks and stashed them in her empty pocket. Retrieving the crutch and bag, she hobbled back past the storeroom and to the thick metal door at the far end. Slowly, methodically, she worked her way through the keys until she found the correct one.

As soon as she entered, she became aware of the presence of a number of people: the prisoners. The passage was lit weakly by the lights from behind her and she could make out the bars of the holding pens. To her side was a set of switches and, as she pressed them, fluorescent lamps flickered on, providing harsh illumination of the whole space. She heard the sounds of men stirring behind the bars, coughing, swearing.

Feeling the tension rise and adrenaline flow, Yelena once again discarded the crutch, walked to the first pen and turned to face its contents. Recognition flashed on the faces of each of the eight men inside, even those she did not remember. Then, mixed reactions. Several laughed at her, glancing at each other as they did. One lunged at the bars, shaking them, causing Yelena to step back reflexively.

"Whore wants some more, does she?" he hissed.

Another joined in. "Yeah, this slut can't get enough. Come on in and we'll do you, you filthy cunt."

An older man, standing near the centre of the cell, did not speak. He stood motionless and stared at her, unblinking. She saw understanding and, yes, fear in his eyes. She remembered him well and remembered too what she owed him. In a single motion, she pulled the pistol from her pocket and shot him in the face. The bullet demolished his nose and he collapsed, first onto his knees and then to the floor, eyes still wide, as if he was slow to accept that he had died sometime during his fall. The others scattered away, stunned, to a man clasping the tops of their heads in their hands. Even those sprayed with his blood.

No one spoke. Each wondered if he would be next. They stood like a tableau, as if the world had stalled and was waiting for a kick-start. Yelena spoke.

"If you want to live, turn around and face the back wall. All the way back. Hands against the wall. Face straight ahead."

They were shit-scared but her first words had given them hope, so they did as they were told. The remaining seven stood like a bizarre line-up. "I only saw the back of his head, officer...yes, it's number three" came a mischievous voice from somewhere in back of Yelena's mind. And in the foreground was Ivashko's corpse, oozing blood across the floor.

Yelena bent down and opened the satchel. From it she withdrew two glass bottles, wrapped in cloth. These contained a light, clear liquid and were stuffed with rags in place of stoppers. If the men had been closer, they would have caught the familiar smell of aviation fuel. She placed these carefully on the ground and dug in the base of the bag for a lighter. A couple of strikes and she had a flame, which she played over each of the rags which lit easily.

Holding a bottle in each hand, she walked up to the bars. "Face forward" she growled, in case anyone should risk a glance over their shoulder. This was the part she had worried most about. But she felt a great flood of relief as she found she could pass the bottles between the bars. She felt rather odd, chest against the bars holding the two flaming bottles straight out ahead and felt the bile rise in her throat as she flexed her elbows. With as much force as she could muster, she flung the bottles to the ground, just short of the line of men.

She staggered back as she felt the heat of the fireball on her face, blinded momentarily by the flash. For a second, the only sound was that of combustion, as dark shapes moved amongst the flames. Then the screaming started. Several of the men were alight, and the fire rapidly consumed their clothes, enveloping them in flames. They flung themselves repeatedly against the bars, each time filling Yelena's nostrils with the stench of burning flesh. Each would be driven insane by the pain and the horror in the brief moments before he died.

She spotted one of them cowering in the far corner. He had managed to put the fire from out his clothing. Yelena shot him twice in the legs, bringing him howling to the ground. Producing another bottle, she flung it into the pen in his direction without bothering to light it and soon he too was engulfed in flames.

Yelena took in the appalling scene. She watched, apparently impassively, as one by one the shapes collapsed to the ground. The screaming petered out, to be replaced by shouting from the other pen further down the passage. Then, she watched the licks of flame dancing over the blackening bodies. Neither the copious smoke nor the horrendous smell seemed to bother her. She was mesmerised, like a child on her first fireworks night.

After she had seen enough, she picked up the satchel and pistol, and proceeded to the next pen. When she stood facing the remaining six men, they fell silent. No bravado this time, she thought, satisfied with herself.

"What have you done?" pleaded one, in a voice Yelena thought somewhat pathetic. She ignored him. Methodically, she placed the satchel on the floor and removed the last two bottles. She was wondering how she was going to persuade them to turn their backs this time. Suddenly, she heard noises: men entering the building, alerted by the gunshots she guessed. She must hurry to finish her work.

"Back," she shouted, shooting the nearest man in the gut. They responded, but stepped back only a little, allowing the wounded man to fall to the floor, where he lay squealing in pain. Seconds to go. Dropping the gun, she rolled the two bottles under the bars, towards the side wall. They did not break, and the men tried to retrieve them. Yelena felt in the bag and closed her hand round the grenade. As she withdrew it, she pulled out the pin and rolled it into the cell towards the opposite wall. One of the men spotted this and dived for it. Incredibly, he succeeded and, with a flick of his wrist, flung it back towards her. The soldiers were in the room. The grenade hit one of the bars and bounced back towards the pack of men. Someone cried out. It detonated while still in its arc, and Yelena was lifted off her feet by the shockwave and thrown back with tremendous force against the stone wall. The impact knocked her senseless.

She came round lying on the floor against the wall, feet out in front of her. She was unable to feel her legs. The grenade seemed to have wrecked the whole fabric of space: the bars of the cell, still parallel, were at a strange angle. The walls were distorted and doubled and, as she looked at them, kept flexing, shimmering. Through the flames and searing smoke, she saw bodies, some incomplete. White noise hissed in her ears. She felt wetness on her face and chest, and realised that she was blind in one eye. A hand lay at her side, torn from a body. She wondered if it might be hers.

A bloodstained face loomed, lips moving, filling what remained of her visual field. She looked into its searching eyes. But the hand on her shoulder was enough to upset her precarious consciousness and she was sent spiralling into teeming blackness.

***

Major Liashenko sat uncomfortably next to the only occupied bed in the medical block. He hated coming here and was thankful that he was called upon to do so only rarely now. He was looking at Corporal Savchyn, who lay in the bed, under what passed here for intensive care. An IV bag hung from a stand, a clear tube plugged into her arm. Other tubes disappeared under the blanket. Her right eye was closed, her left hidden behind the bandages which covered half her face. She was asleep, her chest rising and falling with her shallow breaths. He felt genuine sorrow at the sight of her broken body. He remembered her when she had been so vital, so committed, so young and attractive. The camp doctor had told him that her spinal injury was not operable. What an awful, terrible waste, he thought.

The nurse arrived holding a small syringe, responding to his order. She looked at him briefly before lifting the girl’s forearm and delivering the dose. She inspected the patient briefly, lifting her eyelid with her thumb, then nodded curtly at the Major and departed. After just a short while, he saw Yelena stir, then open her eye. Her pupil darted around, eventually settling on him. She made no attempt at a greeting, just lay staring at him, or more accurately the Major thought, through him.

“Corporal Savchyn, can you hear me?” he asked, in an overly loud voice.

“Yes,” she responded, softly, calmly, barely moving her lips.

“Corporal,” he began again, too harshly he realised immediately and checked himself. “Yelena,” he continued, searching for the right words which would get him what he needed. “Yelena, why…why in God’s name did you do it? I didn’t even know…they didn’t even tell me you’d come round.” He received no response.

“Look, Corporal, we needed them alive, we needed the information. Do you know what you’ve done? Aside from committing a war crime. There’ll be a court martial, it’s unavoidable. I know what they did to you. I…But we would have dealt with them. They would have been punished…” his voice trailed off into uncertainty.

“Are they all dead?” asked Yelena, in an unemotional tone, her concern betrayed by a stiffening of her neck and jaw. Yes, the Major replied, the last had finally died the previous day.

“Good,” she commented, exhaling, relaxing with a thin smile passing briefly across her lips.

“For Christ’s sake, Yelena,” pleaded the Major, exasperated, “you would have been OK. Your injuries, they were…you would have been OK. Look at what you’ve done to yourself.”

Both remained silent for a time after that, the woman lying passively, staring into space, the Major shifting awkwardly in his chair. Finally, he tried again.

“Yelena, listen. We…we didn’t find any of the others. I’m sorry. Do you…” he cleared his throat noisily, “do you know what happened to them?”

“All dead,” she replied at once. She did not elaborate.

“Are you sure? What about Corporal Volnyiak?” he asked, tipping forward a little. Yelena looked at him, saw it in his eyes. She was not surprised by his specific interest.

“She’s dead,” she confirmed, bluntly. “I killed her myself.” She continued to stare at him, checking for his reaction. If he was shocked, he hid it.

“I see,” he said, his face falling. “I’m sorry. Corporal, you must be honest with me: what did you tell them? You understand why I have to ask.”

Again, Yelena responded without hesitation. “Everything. On the first day.”

The Major sat back with a sigh. “The others, do you think…?” She replied that she did not know.

He looked again at the poor girl, his old, hard eyes stinging with tears until he controlled himself. The brief questioning seemed to have drained her. I’m sorry, he thought, the apology directed nowhere in particular. He forced himself to think of her just as he would any other soldier, to understand what she might need now. If it were him, in her place.

He stood up and walked slowly round the bed. She followed him with her eye. He took her hand, turning it to see the palm, squeezing it gently with his thumb. Into it he placed a small device which had been lying on the side table. It was a thin black tube with a plunger set into the end, crudely improvised. As he closed her hand around it, he moved her thumb so that they both depressed the plunger together. A few seconds passed and then he saw the effect of the morphine drift across her face.

“Goodbye, Corporal Savchyn,” he said. Getting no reaction, he turned and strode swiftly out of the room.

Yelena felt the warm glow spread and the pain recede from her upper body. Below her waist she was numb and she knew what that implied. But, perhaps due to the effects of the drug, it did not bother her especially.

She was relieved that she had succeeded. She had been so determined but had not been at all confident that she could pull it off. Now it was over, closed, done. For the first time since her rescue, she began to think of herself and her own future.

She thought about returning home, to be cared for by her mother. She was sure she must be still alive –she would felt it otherwise. She thought about how her life would be and imagined it like her early childhood, being bathed and dressed and fed by her Mama, tucked in at night with a kiss on the forehead. She remembered it now, for the first time in her adult life, remembered the happiness. And the innocence.

But she realised too that return was a fantasy. She could not let her mother know what had happened to her. Could not wake her in the night with her nightmares, so powerful that they had had to strap her down and sedate her when she was first brought to this ward. Even now, she felt them. Dark, evil shapes circling the warm glow which protected her, searching for a chink and a route inside. As a precaution, she pressed the plunger again and waited for the surge of the morphine.

With reassurance she contemplated the device she held in her hand, that subtle instrument of death. How many clicks would it take to end it for her? Five, six, maybe more. God, it felt good to possess it. She had felt the same sensation before, when she had been in the detention block, before she killed them, and earlier. The power to take life. In this world, she realised, that was all that mattered. As before, the knowledge that she held it brought her peace.

She looked around the ward. All the other beds she could see were empty. A nurse, on the far side of the room, was occupied with some activity, her back to her. Yelena was all alone in the world, and it was a good feeling. She smiled.

She pressed the plunger again. Rapidly, repeatedly, until she was sure it was enough. She waited. She felt it begin to rise inside her, now swelling fast, too fast, huge, accelerating, threatening to crush her and for a moment she was afraid. But then the glow overtook her and it felt like a great wave of warm water, submerging her, picking her up and carrying her away. She was expanding as still it grew inside, effortlessly, endlessly. Then she realised that it was not she that was expanding but the world that was diminishing, contracting until it became a tiny point and then, at last, blinking out.

***

“No way, man!” shouted Panych as he scrambled back towards them, diving behind the low, partially demolished wall. “No fucking way. Gunship. Two maybe. And on the ground!”, he screamed his report. Gunfire erupted nearby and mortars, two in quick succession, struck the building opposite, shaking the ground, bringing masonry tumbling to the ground. Clouds of white powder blew across the small band of soldiers huddled together in the ruined building.

“Fuck,” the commander spat. “OK,” he shouted above the noise, looking around at the seven of them. “Ossie, Savchyn, covering positions, over there by the corner. You and Volnyiak, on the opposite side. You two, hold it here. Rudiak, recce, down to the end. OK?”

They scrambled to their positions, Yelena and Natasha catching each other’s eyes as they crouched on either side of the narrow entrance, raising their weapons. Between them, Rudiak sprinted over to the far side of the street. How, thought Yelena, how could we have got cut off like this?

Down her gunsight, she watched Rudiak progress rapidly down the street. His body cast a long shadow in the late summer evening sun. “Go, Pavlo,” she muttered. She could hear helicopters, overhead, behind them to the east.

“Hold steady,” came the commander’s voice from behind.

Pavlo had reached the end of the street. He paused, back to the wall, checking his weapon. Then Yelena saw him poke his head round the corner. Almost immediately, he was tearing back towards them. Not good, she thought, not good. Without orders, they left their positions and moved out cautiously to meet him.

“Get back!” he shouted. Behind him, at the far end of the street, Yelena caught sight of the front of an armoured vehicle emerging from the adjacent street. A puff of smoke. Then automatic fire, high calibre, whistling through the air. Ripping through Pavlo, shredding him. Yelena leapt back in shock.

Cowering behind the wall, she looked over at Natasha, whose eyes were fixed on Pavlo’s body which lay strewn about the street. The AFV was bearing down on them and soldiers were scattering around it, jogging down the sidewalks. The band fell back, taking cover behind the stonework. Yelena looked over at the commander desperately. “What now sir?” she cried out. He raised his head above the low wall to respond to her. A single shot rang out, high-powered, reverberating across the street. Yelena watched, frozen, as a hole appeared in the middle of his forehead and he fell back out of sight.

“Christ!” screamed someone, scrambling behind her.

“What do we do?” Yelena asked Ossovitch, next to her, who was now technically in command.

“Nothing,” he replied, despondently, and threw his weapon out into the street. Lifting his hands above his head, trembling, he staggered out.

***

The truck bounced along roads blasted by landmines, throwing the prisoners roughly against each other. The six of them were hooded, their hands tied tightly behind their backs with packing straps. Conscious of the guards seated amongst them, they remained silent, each receding into their private worlds, facing their fears individually.

A brief stop and voices outside told the prisoners that they had arrived at their destination. The vehicle continued a short distance then turned sharply before jerking to a halt. Its rear doors were flung open and the prisoners roughly manhandled out and onto the tarmac. All around them was noise: people walking, running, shouting, engines revving.

After being dragged a further distance, the prisoners were made to kneel on the ground and, one by one, had their hoods removed. They found themselves lined up at one end of a temporary hangar formed out of corrugated steel. At the other end was a loading bay, where the truck which had delivered them was being reloaded with wooden crates. Armed guards paced amongst them. In front of them was a man standing behind a battered metal office desk, scrutinising them. He walked around it until he stood immediately before them, bearing down.

“Filthy cowards,” he sneered at them, enjoying the looks of surprise he obtained. “Letting yourselves be taken alive.” He spat at Panych, who did not react.

“That’s why you scum are getting such a lathering. No guts.” Yelena thought about all the prisoners she had seen being escorted into their own compound but made no attempt to comment.

“Well, boys and girls, I better tell you now that you’re going to wish you bought it out there, after we’ve done with you. Don’t think you’re going to be treated like anything but the vermin you are.” He paused to let the words sink in, his eyes searching for evidence of their effect. Ossovitch, straightening up and speaking out of turn, interjected.

“As leader of our group I demand rights under the Geneva Convention.” He spoke very quickly, nervously, intent to get out all the words before being interrupted or silenced.

“Ha!” exclaimed the officer, who then abruptly changed tone to one less confrontational. “Sure. No problem. Not quite sure exactly about the details though. Not as educated here as you lot. Sergeant Medvid,” he called out to one of the guards “you’ve been to Geneva.”

“Zurich actually, sir,” replied the sergeant. Yelena felt her heart sink. They were being toyed with.

“Well, that’s the closest we’ve got I’m afraid. Sergeant, can you show this lot your understanding of the Geneva Convention?”

“Yes sir, gladly sir,” came the response.

The sergeant marched round in front of the line of prisoners and walked up and down, inspecting the kneeling figures. When he passed in front of Natasha, he paused and Yelena saw him nod to someone behind them.

Suddenly, Natasha was being lifted to her feet, a big man behind forcing her forward, in front of them.

“Bring her here,” ordered the sergeant, now standing near the table. Natasha tried to look back at her comrades, a flash of shock and fear on her face. She was held in position, her left side to them. Yelena watched as the sergeant put his hands to her waist, tugging at her trousers. Natasha tried to call out but the soldier behind placed his big hand over her mouth, muffling her. Then her trousers were around her shins, revealing her white panties, preventing her from defending herself with her legs.

Yelena and the other prisoners looked on in horror as Natasha’s panties were ripped down, exposing the dark triangle between her legs. Then she was thrown down forward over the desk, the big guard holding her down with one hand on her strapped wrists and the other holding a clump of hair. She was now crying out for help, pleading with them to leave her alone. Yelena’s eyes were drawn to her white buttocks, quivering as her legs trembled. She glimpsed the sergeant’s erect penis as he dug it from within his clothing, before he turned his back to them.

“No! Stop!” cried out one of the others. Yelena heard the butt of a rifle clash against bone and he collapsed to the floor. Then she listened to Natasha scream as the sergeant thrust into her. Please no, she was begging as he assaulted her, brutally, the desk squeaking as he hammered each stroke into her helpless body.

The remaining prisoners watched open-mouthed as Natasha was raped in front of them. Yelena, appalled, terrorised, began to feel increasingly afraid herself. While all of them were shocked by what they were witnessing, she alone was particularly vulnerable. Suddenly she thought it: Oh God, I’m going to be next. The lights are on me. I can’t cope...no…

She was totally isolated now, between the men, who would not share her fate, and Natasha, who had already found hers and from whom Yelena wanted to separate herself as far as she could. This is the beginning, she thought, filled with gloom.

Natasha by now was bawling like a child as the sergeant quickened his pace, pounding her against the desk. Then he stiffened, grunting, and Natasha let out a long, wounded cry. He withdrew and, before she forced herself to close her eyes, she saw Natasha’s labia close around the black seeping hole between her legs.

Tears and mucus streaming from her eyes and nose, Natasha was led back over to the line where she knelt, two places down from Yelena, snivelling.

“How was it, sergeant?” asked the officer in charge.

“Nice and tight, sir,” he replied, breathlessly, as he zipped himself up.

“Good,” he concluded. “Right now. Let’s get on with it. You” he ordered, pointing at Panych, who knelt at one end of the line. “Stand up!”.

Panych got clumsily to his feet. A guard, standing behind him, produced a combat knife and cut the plastic strap around his wrists.

“Take off your clothes and boots. Place them at your feet”, the man behind the desk commanded. Panych showed no sign of dissent as he bent down to untie his bootlaces. Soon he was standing in his underwear, his clothes in a pile in front of him.

“Good. On your knees, hands behind your head,” he was instructed. One by one, each of the prisoners undressed. Yelena now knelt in a white vest and panties. She hoped Natasha was all right but had been afraid to turn her head to check on her. She heard the clink of metal and soon found her wrists being shackled together. Her hands now between her knees, she was startled but did not resist as she was told to open her mouth and a metal bit was placed between her teeth, held in place by a strap fastened around the back of her head. She choked a little but accustomed herself to the gag. A hood was placed back over her head and strapped in place. She listened to muffled noises as they finished with the others.

When they were all similarly restrained, the order was given to stand and they were escorted away, stumbling now and then as they were force-marched into a second building.

***

Yelena was pushed forwards and she struck a wall. Rough hands turned her around and lifted her shackled wrists high above her head, stretching her body. They were fixed there and she hung free for a second before her legs were forced apart, making her stand on tiptoes. She felt straps against her ankles, not tight, but enough to prevent her closing her thighs. Someone pinched her nipple, hard, through her vest, as they withdrew, making her cry out in surprise. She stood, breathing heavily into the hood, as she heard the sounds of the others being chained up.

Their captors left them for some time and they all hung, listening to the clinking chains, the odd cough, the pitiful sound of a woman sobbing. Yelena was haunted by the vivid image of Natasha a few minutes earlier. The sight of her black bush as her panties were yanked down, the look of surprise and terror in her eyes, her quivering buttocks before the sergeant mounted her. Please don’t let them do that to me, she prayed.

She began to wonder how long they would be kept there. Her strained position was becoming increasingly uncomfortable, especially around her wrists and shoulders. And she needed to go to the toilet. She squeezed her pelvic muscles to keep it in.

Abruptly, men entered the holding area and paced around.

“Who shall we begin with?” asked a voice, unemotionally. Yelena was terrified that they would pick her. For a moment she was transported back to the schoolroom, trying to avoid the teacher’s eyes as the roved the room, searching for a victim. Please, pick one of the men.

“Let’s take that one first. She’s already broken in.” Oh no, thought Yelena, as she heard movement opposite her. Natasha was trying to scream through her gag and struggling as she was manhandled. One of the male prisoners cried out. There were shouts. Then the remaining five hung listening to the receding footsteps and the sound of a door being opened a short way down the hall. No one made a sound as they waited. Yelena felt acid rise in her chest as her breathing quickened.

They could hear the faint sounds of movement coming down the hallway from the room. Then silence. She needed to pee and her bladder burned.

Yelena jumped as she heard the first scream, screwing up her eyes and straining against her restraints. It was a hideous, strangulated cry which echoed through the walls. Then, more faint but still recognisable, Natasha’s distorted voice begging, pleading. A pause. Then a torrent of cries, howls, peals of anguish, contorted, guttural, obscene. On and on. Some of the men started to cry out, screaming to block the noise from their ears. Yelena, desperate to escape, shook wildly in her restraints, digging her teeth into the bit. On and on.

After what seemed like hours, Yelena and the others became aware that the sounds from the other room had ceased. Although they feared what the silence might mean for Natasha, they all felt relief that their own torture had ended for now.

Footsteps could be heard as someone entered the chamber. He strode around and then settled in front of Yelena.

“Well, you’re a pretty thing, aren’t you?” he snarled. She sensed him come closer, invading her space. “Let’s see what jewels you’re hiding.” As he spoke, he began to lift her vest. Yelena tried to protest, tried in vain to free her arms to protect herself, but she was unable to prevent him from rolling up the fabric to reveal her bare breasts.

“Ah yes,” he murmured, taking them in his coarse hands, kneading them, exploring their shape and size. Yelena moaned. She was acutely embarrassed, knowing that her male comrades were witnessing this, and felt her face flush and heat fill the hood. Her cheeks were wet with perspiration.

“Sweet,” he commented, rolling her thick nipples between thumb and forefinger. Yelena squirmed, trying to twist her body, ineffectively against the strict restraints. She felt his breath on her left breast and then the abrasion of his stubbly chin as he took her nipple in his mouth, biting it. She let out a cry at the sharp pain. One of the other prisoners tried to call out: “Leave her alone!” --barely understandable.

The guard abruptly withdrew from Yelena and strode over to the man who had tried to intervene.

“What the…? Aha, what’s this…you’re fucking hard!” he exclaimed, fumbling with him. “What kind of pervert are you? Getting turned on while I mess with your girlfriend. You make me sick. How about I cut this off?” At this, Yelena heard him punch the man hard, five or six times, winding him. Please don’t let that be Sasha, she thought. He was a little soft on her.

Suddenly, the man was in front of her again.

“Prat,” he said, casually. “Now, where were we? You’ve got good tits, I’ll give you that. You a blonde by any chance? Not allowed to take off that hood. Let’s take a look down below.” Yelena stiffened as she felt his thumbs tucking into her panties, gasping as he slipped them down to her knees.

“Oh. Shame,” he concluded. “Nice twat though.”

Yelena gritted her teeth against the metal bit as she felt her pubic hair tugged between his stubby fingers. “No!” she cried as his finger probed between her legs. He began, roughly, to masturbate her.

It was at this moment that a woman’s screams began again to echo down the hallway. They had started with Natasha again. God help us, she prayed as she bucked her hips, trying to escape his disgusting manipulations.

“Hear that?” he hissed. “That’ll be you, soon. Makes my flesh creep, frankly. Ugly stuff.” Tears streamed down Yelena’s cheeks as he worked her, now with two fingers in her vagina, licking his lips.

“Tell you what. Gotta say: I fancy you. I’ll do you a deal. You be my private slut and I’ll spare you the worst of it. How about it? Can’t say I won’t pass you around but you’ll be mine for now. Long as you, you know, keep a smile on my face.”

Natasha was making increasingly disturbing noises now and Yelena’s mind raced with thoughts of what they could be doing to her. She was terrified, knowing that sooner or later she would be in that room, begging for mercy and receiving none. Could she prostitute herself to cheat it? She tried to focus as his fingers flexed within her body.

“Well, what’ll it be?” he demanded. Yelena grunted affirmatively. Please, take me out of this, don’t hurt me too much, she was trying to say.

Abruptly he stepped back, jerking his fingers out of her.”Slag!” he screamed, slapping her across the face.

“How about that, boys? This whore’ll trade her cunt for a way out. Leave you all to rot. Nice, huh?” He was pacing around the room, eliciting moans of protest from the men. “Don’t worry. She’ll be getting it like the rest of you. Then she’ll beg me to fuck her, if she can still work her jaw.” Natasha’s howls continued to reverberate around them.

Utterly shamed in front of her comrades, Yelena burst into tears, grinding her teeth against the metal, choking on her own saliva. Why…why was this happening to her? Her body shook with her sobs.

Natasha’s cries had ceased again and it had grown quiet. Unable to control herself any longer, she emptied her bladder down her legs and her urine splashed noisily onto the floor.

“Bitch has pissed herself!” exulted the guard, finding her new humiliation hilarious.

Yelena was still sobbing when they came for their next victim. She knew that it was her turn, even before they came over to retrieve her. She made no sound as they restored her clothing, brought her out and marched her from the chamber, her jaw clamped against the cold metal of the bit between her teeth.

***

Yelena stood, quaking, as the shackles were removed from her wrists. She was told to raise her arms and, as she did so, she felt her vest being lifted from her body and over her head. Again she felt heat in her cheeks at the exposure of her breasts and tried to cover herself with her freed hands. But her wrists were swiftly grabbed and pulled behind her back where they were again bound together with the metal restraints. She was aware of several men in the room with her.

Blinded by the hood, she held her position uncertainly before she was propelled forwards until her shins knocked up against a solid object.

“Get up on your knees,” ordered a voice behind her and for a moment she did not understand what she was supposed to do.

”Come on, bitch,” boomed the voice again and a hand grabbed her by the back of the strap around her neck and lifted her onto the object, clumsily, the surface hard and rough against her knees. Suddenly, her head was forced down and for a second she panicked as she felt herself falling forwards. She was stayed by the hand on the strap as another yanked her cuffed hands upwards behind her back, wrenching her arms painfully in their sockets until they were vertical. She grunted through the bit as the cuffs were fixed in place and her neck released. She heard movement behind her and hands on her flesh as her legs were parted and leather straps drawn tight around her ankles and knees. Her arms ached, a dull pain she could relieve only momentarily by lifting her chest until her stomach muscles weakened and she relaxed forwards again.

A growing sense of terror overcame Yelena as she knelt, bent over, hooded, gagged and trussed up on the bench. Though she had become accustomed to breathing within the hood, the recent stress and exertion had caused her to pant heavily and already she felt her face covered with sweat. By contrast, the rest of her body was ice cold, near-naked as she was. She knew that she was close to what she had been dreading for hours. About to go through what she had heard being done to Natasha, or worse. She tried to pray, mumbling Our Father into the bit, but was so terrified that she found she could not remember the words.

She heard slow footsteps as a man walked around her, surveying she suspected her pathetic and vulnerable state. He stopped in front of her and grabbed the hood at the top, yanking up her head.

“Now listen to me, corporal,” he began, slowly, chewing his words, making her feel afraid and ashamed. She flinched as a strong hand grabbed her left breast and squeezed it harshly.

“We are going to get to know each other, over time, intimately,” he continued, almost whispering next to her ear.

“Soon you are going to tell me all sorts of things. All about your friends and their plans. About how many of my people you’ve killed.” His voice hardened for a moment then eased again.

“And we’ll want to know about you too. Sexual details. About you and…” he paused and she felt him draw away for a moment. “And Colonel Pavlyn.” Yelena’s heart sank at this and she moaned.

“Yes, the other slut told us all about the two of you. Naughty girl, aren’t you? We look forward to you telling us about that. You know, positions, and so on.” Coughing, he cleared the mucus from his throat.

“But first I’m afraid there must be pain,” he continued, in the same calm monotone. Yelena tried to speak. “Oh, I’m afraid it’s quite necessary. Why, you are asking, when you’re ready to tell me everything? Well, frankly, the reason is: because we can.”

At this, he did something and she heard a loud crackling near her face. A faint smell of ozone reached her nostrils through the thick fabric of the hood.

Yelena was by now shaking uncontrollably, the bench and frame creaking as she tried to writhe within her restraints. Through the noise of blood pumping in her ears, she listened to the footsteps of the man as he walked around her: he was behind her now. She froze as a hand grabbed her panties and yanked them down over her buttocks, exposing her to all in the room.

Spivak found the mouth of her vagina easily with the tip of the baton. It was cold and hard against her tender flesh. Stop, she was begging him, but he ignored her and forced the thick metal shaft deep into her body. With one hand on her buttocks, he worked it in and out and, as Yelena felt her juices flow, she burst into tears, choking into the bit as she tried to control herself.

“She’s getting wetter than the other one,” somebody said, approvingly.

“Better fuck her up the arse or she’ll like it too much,” came a reply.

“Later boys, later,” said Spivak, pushing the baton as far as he could into her body, feeling her yield as he pressed the tip against her cervix. Several small grooves had been cut into the surface indicating the depth reached in earlier sessions. He noted that her cunt was small, all but one of the grooves remaining visible even as he stretched her forcefully. The action was painful for the girl, as evidenced by her cries of discomfort corrupted by the bit between her teeth.

Setting his jaw, he activated the switch on the baton and instantly his victim’s helpless body bucked violently as pain exploded between her legs. Blood rushed to his cock, stimulated by the familiar tug he felt as the girl’s vaginal muscles contracted tightly around the shaft, sucking it in. Her muscular back rippling, buttocks quivering, she struggled in vain to escape it, straining the wooden frame which creaked and cracked. His arousal was heightened by the horrible sounds coming through her hood: a low-pitched scream, distorted as she ground her teeth uncontrollably into the bit, which began full of agony but became increasingly mixed with terror and desperation.

Yelena passed abruptly between worlds as the current was turned on and off. While it was flowing into her, her consciousness was reduced to that of a tortured animal, disorientated, unable to think, existing purely as a grotesque toy screaming and squirming when supplied with electricity. During the intervals between, as she gasped for air and filled her eyes with tears, she registered the pain and the damage which at first felt physical but, as she would later discover, ran much deeper. With what little strength she could muster she tried to beg for it to stop, tried to control her screams, tried to form words despite the bit. She wanted to tell them that she would do anything, tell them anything but this was beyond her and she found her self repeating the same monosyllables over and over again.

After some time, the interrogator withdrew the baton from the girl, watching her fall limp as he did. Inspecting her genitals, he noted that her labia were raw and swollen. She was still conscious and panting heavily. Her pale breasts quivered, dripping. The floor between the two wooden planks placed apart, which formed the base of the bench, was heavily spotted with sweat. Picking up a rag he wiped her juices from the implement and turned to his small audience who remained silent and transfixed by the sight of his victim.

One, drool seeping from the corner of his mouth, left hand down his trousers, begged for permission to fuck her and Spivak could see that they were all ready.

“Patience!” he told them, as he walked over to a table, dipping his hand into a jar of grease and smearing it over the tip of the baton before returning. “Let’s loosen her up a little more shall we?”

Placing his left hand on the girl’s lower back to steady her, he worked the greased rod into her rectum, forcing out a grunt followed by further sobs. Despite her weakened state, the reflex of her anal muscles resisted briefly, but this was easily overcome. She began to cough and splutter as he introduced it more deeply. He held the baton in position for a minute or so before proceeding, allowing the feelings of violation and humiliation develop within her. She was moaning pathetically by the time he activated the device, cutting off her voice briefly as she lost control again.

The electrical current surged through Yelena’s naked, sweat-soaked body, driving spasms along her bowels from her anus to her throat, emanating waves of searing pain into her limbs. She was unable to scream to release the pain, even to breathe. Then the source vanished and she was back, gulping in air, recovering her senses but only briefly before she was made to dance again, and again.

Later, not wishing to break her completely, Spivak fought the compulsion to continue and released his thumb from the button, the baton jerking slightly as his victim’s muscles slackened. As he withdrew it, the girl soiled herself, which was common. The audience made their disgust known. Attached to a tap on the wall was a coiled hose, ready for this and other purposes. Turning on the cold water and parting her buttocks with his free hand, he sprayed her clean, pushing the nozzle a short way into her distended hole.

Yelena, unaware of this further humiliation, sensed vaguely the welcome coolness of the water against her raw and burning loins. In her stunned condition, she barely recognised the sound of the first of them as he loosened his belt and pulled down his zip. She had feared rape so much but now she accepted it and hung almost inert as one after another they used her cunt and arse. Occasionally the sharp stab of a deep thrust would break through her general agony and she would emit a brief scream but otherwise she simply sobbed softly during the assault. She passed out before the last had finished inside her.

***

Yelena awoke in terror. Panic overcame her and she began to scream between short gasps of breath. But in time she realised that she was alone, lying on the cold stone floor of a cell. She lay naked on her side, still hooded and gagged, with arms chained behind her back, knees bent. As she tried to stretch out and her feet hit the wall, she discovered that the cell was tiny.

The relief of finding herself alone was soon replaced by sinking nausea as she remembered the agony and humiliation she had suffered. At least the cold had numbed her body and the only real pain now was a burning in her rectum. But still she cried out, wailing. In desperation she called for her mother. For moment she imagined that she was back at home, years earlier, hoping that her Mama would soon come to comfort her. But as she listened to the faint screams coming from elsewhere in the building, she remembered that her only friends had been parted from her forever and the only human contact she could expect now would be through further torture and rape.

During the hours which followed, she wrestled with the awful thoughts swimming around her head. She ground her teeth against the bit as she endured the noises of the men as they were tortured in turn. And during the silences between, her heart would jump in anticipation that at any moment they would begin again. Every so often, she would hear footsteps and catch her breath as men passed her cell. Sometimes she would hear the sound of someone being dragged along the floor, followed by a metal door being opened and slammed shut somewhere further along.

Inevitably, there came a time when the footsteps paused outside her cell and she heard, with rising apprehension, a key being turned in the lock of the door. Strong hands grabbed her and pulled her to her feet. She found herself unable to support her weight and, as her legs buckled, she was lifted and dragged out. Her sore shoulders again strained as she was carried by her upper arms down the corridor into a room.

As she was put on her knees and felt her arms being pulled up and tied, and realised that she was being strapped into the same frame as before, utter panic overwhelmed her and she screamed and thrashed unthinkingly, not even noticing when she kicked a face as someone tried to bind her ankles. “No” was all she could manage, and she repeated hysterically this until it became a single long word.

Unexpectedly, she found the neck strap and then the hood being removed and was soon squinting in the bright light. The bit too was released and pulled out of her mouth. Saliva covered her chin. Gradually, she calmed.

Yelena was afraid to look around and so stared down at the floor between the wooden planks on which she was kneeling. She examined the black boot of a man standing very close to her. Abruptly, she was seized by the hair and her head yanked upwards. The man stooped down until his face was level with hers. Catching sight of his brutal eyes, she turned away but a sharp pull on her hair told her to meet his gaze. Looking at him, and recognising his contempt, she at once knew that he was the man that had tortured her.

His eyes darted down and she followed them reflexively. In his other hand he held a black shiny baton with metallic strips inlaid into the surface.

She looked up at him, pleading with him, breaking into waves of tears as she lost her composure again. He released her hair and as her head flopped down she closed her eyes. When she reopened them she saw that a piece of paper had been placed onto the bench below her: it showed a number of passport-sized photographs. She recognised some of the faces.

“OK,” sounded a voice from above her, “let’s begin by you telling me the names of all these people. Start at the top left and work your way across. Rank and name. Go.”

Throughout the hours that followed, Yelena needed no coercion to speak. She blurted out whatever she knew, praying that he would believe her. Always present was the fear that he might not and hurt her again. But, it seemed, she was convincing. As she spoke, she heard the clatter of a typewriter in the background.

“Good,” concluded the interrogator, eventually. The typing stopped. She heard the chair moving as the typist stood up and his footsteps as he approached. Then, his hands were on her buttocks and she stiffened and gasped as he eased into her. He was not rough and moved slowly, saving himself.

“Now let’s get personal, shall we?” continued the interrogator, standing close in front of her. “Let’s talk about your sexual experiences. Which hand do you masturbate with?”

God, thought Yelena as she was rocked back and forth and felt the penis swell inside her. She felt even more disgusted than before.

“Uh…my left,” she managed to reply.

“Describe how you do it,” he continued, and she could hear his arousal in his voice.

“I...I,” she stammered, finding speech difficult as the other continued to rape her. “I rub my…my clitoris.”

“Yes, of course you do. But how?” he asked, sarcastically.

”I make circles and…and sometimes I put my finger inside…in my vagina,” she answered feebly, confused and ashamed, letting her head drop.

When she was yanked by the hair, his erect penis was inches from her mouth. A powerful jerk between her legs forced a grunt from her parted lips and he thrust it to the back of her throat, choking her. He played coarsely with her dangling tits as he fucked her mouth, releasing her right breast to pull her head towards him, her throat spasming around his glans. Suddenly he withdrew and, her hair in one hand, his cock in the other, he ejaculated over her face with a loud sigh.

Semen still wet against her skin, the hood was passed over her and strapped in place. Released from the frame, and held by a firm grip on each arm, she was able to walk back clumsily to her cell, her head hanging in shame. A hand on her crown forced her down into the tiny cubicle, and the metal door was slammed shut and locked.

There she lay for many hours, bewildered and horrified. Mixed feelings of relief and guilt at having talked and avoided further torture confused her fragile mind. Memories of agony and humiliation stabbed at her, triggering spontaneous screams, the smell of semen filling her hood and the trickle of fluid between her legs providing a constant stimulus.

Later, these feelings were finally displaced by more primitive ones: thirst and hunger. Dangerously dehydrated, she lay still in a near faint. It was almost a relief when the cell door was opened again and she was dragged onto the floor outside. The man, whom she took to be a warder, pulled her up onto her knees and removed the hood.

”Thirsty?” he asked, leering at her. God he’s ugly, she thought.

“Please,” she replied, imploring him.

“Drink up then,” he said, unzipping himself and producing a semi-erect cock. Despite the unpleasantness, Yelena swallowed as much as she could while he pissed into her mouth. At least it’s sterile, she thought grimly as she gulped it down. She felt a little refreshed and strengthened.

“Time for another social call,” he said as he finished. Replacing the hood, he pulled her to her feet and led her away.

***

Her rising fears of the inevitable torture frame were allayed when the hood was removed again but were replaced by new concerns as she found herself in another room. It was small, with a dirty mattress laid down in the middle. Half a dozen men were present, all eyeing her with obvious intentions.

“Look at the filthy whore,” said one, young but confident. “Get down on your knees and get us hard”. He began to unbuckle his belt.

Yelena, feeling slightly better, felt a surge of defiance which surprised her. So, they had not broken her after all, she thought and stood motionless.

The young one looked at her in amazement, then at his comrades, who appeared equally perplexed.

“On your knees I said!” he shouted, storming over to her. Yelena flinched but remained standing.

She did not see his fist but suddenly felt a huge blow to the side of her face, throwing her head to one side and causing her legs to fail. She was held up by the man behind her, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of her upper arms. She could hear a loud ringing in her left ear and blood was dripping from her nose onto the floor.

“Come on, let’s teach this bitch to crawl,” came a harsh voice and she was dragged from the room, men all around her as she stumbled and tried to find her balance. A door nearby was flung open and she was thrown onto the floor of a dark room. She curled up on her side in a protective ball. Several men were in the room, moving around noisily.

Two bright white interrogation spot lamps were trained on her, causing her to squint against the harsh light. A loud scraping noise caused her to look up and she saw a man from the other room, unshaven and wearing a vest, arranging two stands with heavy bases and fixings halfway up their length. Another, in uniform, stood by the wall inspecting his fingernails. She was aware of the presence of others outside her field of view.

When the unshaven man was happy with the arrangement of the stands, he walked over to the girl and grabbed her left leg. He produced an iron shackle and clamped it around her ankle. She tried to kick him but he was far too strong, and before long had also shackled the other ankle.

He then dragged her across the floor and proceeded to fix her ankles to the stands which he adjusted so that, lying on her back with her arms underneath her bottom, her legs were bent at roughly right angles. Her feet were about shoulder-width apart and she was glad that they were not any wider –she felt exposed enough as it was.

It was quiet in the room and she could hear the breathing of the men. The officer took a cigarette from his pocket and lit it with a match. Yelena followed the glowing tip to his lips. The fear rising again, she began to look frantically around. What were they going to do to her?

The answer came soon enough. Looking between her legs, she saw that the unshaven man had produced a thick wooden cane. He stood in the darkness, inspecting her, and she was unable to tell if his bright eyes were looking over her face or between her legs. He tapped the cane firmly into his palm, testing it.

Yelena realised what he was about to do and, knowing that any protest or pleas would be useless, began hyperventilating, remembering that when she was near unconsciousness the pain was lessened. She continued to do so as she watched him take up position alongside her shackled feet.

Her breathing slowed sharply as she saw the man flex and move the cane back. Then there was the sound as it cut through the air and the dull thud as it struck hard against the soles of her feet. At this she screamed in agony and tasted blood as she bit into her lower lip. Her eyes were full of tears as she looked around desperately, her mouth twisted by the pain and trauma.

Then he began in earnest. Without pausing for more than a couple of seconds at a time, he beat her repeatedly, her body jerking with each stroke and contorting in all directions in a futile attempt to lessen the excruciating pain. The smoking man observed that she tended to lift her pelvis off the floor just after each stroke, as she tried to straighten her legs and move away from the blows, which allowed him a good view of her vulva. The room echoed with the woman’s pathetic, child-like howling punctuated only by a sharp sucking in of air with every impact.

Again and again the blows rained on her tender feet and she truly thought she might die from the pain until at last the man in the vest paused to catch his breath. She stopped screaming and began crying uncontrollably. Tears streamed down her cheeks which were covered with blood from her nose and with dirt from the floor, causing dark lines over her face.

The door to the room was opened. Thank God, she thought, it’s over. A figure entered the room closing the door behind him. From his shape she recognised the young man who had ordered the beating. He looked over the woman lying on the floor, naked, sobbing, shaking, face swollen and feet bruised and bloody chained to the posts. She was staring at him with an imploring look in her eyes. He was pleased.

“Continue,” he said, casually.

Yelena faded in and out of consciousness as the beating went on and on. Finally, it was over.

As two of the men started handling the stands, she thought at last that her torment was at and end. But instead of unshackling her ankles, they merely dragged the two stands further apart. Her legs were now splayed wide with her cunt on full view. Looking between her knees, she saw the young man rubbing his crotch vigorously.

Indeed the men were enjoying the view. The girl’s pale body was covered with sweat and dirt. She had contorted herself so much during the beating that, despite being chained on her back, her breasts were streaked with black. She was obviously broken mentally and did not even seem to care that she was exposed in such a crude way. Her feet were bleeding, and blood ran down her calves and was spotting on the floor.

Again, she realised that she was about to be raped. She had no energy to resist them, which would in any case have been pointless with her hands and legs chained, and tried to stay calm. Even so, her breathing quickened and her chest started shaking as the first of them approached her unzipping his trousers. Almost immediately he was on top and inside her, thrusting brutally as he grabbed her hair and pulled her head towards him.

The young man watched impassively as the prisoner was used by his comrades. When they had finished, he went over and unchained her feet from the posts, letting them drop to the floor.

“On your knees,” he repeated to the shattered girl. Without any defiance now she tried to comply. Someone helped her up and steadied her. She drifted out of consciousness and was brought back with a slap to each cheek. When he put his penis into her mouth she was unable to suck him, despite encouragement, so he fucked her throat as hard as he could, coming quickly and choking her with his ejaculate. Finishing, he tossed her aside onto the floor where she fell and lay, motionless.

***

During the weeks that followed, Yelena was subjected to relentless abuse and later she would remember only fragments of this time. Long periods of isolation and deprivation lying chained and naked on the floor of her tiny cell were punctuated by bursts of agony and humiliation as she was periodically pulled out to be gang-raped, beaten or tortured. Unable to walk, she would be dragged to familiar rooms and returned later on a crude stretcher to be sealed up again in the darkness where she slept, fitfully, semen oozing from her body. Sometimes she would be forced to endure the noises made by her companions as they were worked on, knowing that she would be making the same hideous sounds again before long. She would remember too the occasional relief: drinking urine or even, sometimes, water from a bucket maintained by the guards; gulping down cold slop as her head was held in the feeding trough; being hosed down with icy water when they decided she smelled rough; flinching at the sting of the antiseptic applied by the doctor to her wounds to prevent infection.

But generally it was the abuse that she would remember most. To the daily rapes, whether on the dirty mattress, on her knees, or over a table, she became accustomed and inured. But the effect of the torture never diminished. And the sessions went on and on long after she had screamed herself hoarse. Strapped kneeling to the frame, an electric baton in her anus or vagina, a damp rag stuffed in her mouth to stop her biting her tongue. Current surging through her weak, white body. Sexual confessions to keep them amused and delay the next press of the button. Head held down in a bucket of water as she was shocked or fucked from behind. Hung by her wrists from the ceiling, toes just touching the floor, flogged across her breasts or back until she passed out to the repetitive crack of the heavy strap as it bit into her flesh.

There came a time when Yelena heard a commotion outside her cell. Numerous voices and footsteps could be heard outside, and the doors to several cells were being opened. Soon she heard the key turn in hers. As she was pulled to her feet she was aware of people all around her, orders being barked which, in her dazed state, she could not follow. Her injured feet had recovered somewhat and, though each step caused shooting pains in her legs, she was able to hobble, propelled along by the guards at her sides. She was being taken in a new direction. Suddenly, the sensation of the cold, damp air on her skin and the change in the quality of sound of the footsteps told her she was outside. A few more steps and the hard concrete under her feet was replaced by soft ground.

As she was being forced down onto her knees, she realised that there were others around her: other bodies, stumbling, chains clattering. She heard a man coughing, a nasty, asthmatic wheeze. None tried to speak. From the sound of their breathing, however, she became aware of at least one person on either side, and others in front of her, further away. Men walked around them, their heavy boots sinking into the earth. The damp air muffled the sounds, making them seem detached, insubstantial.

It had begun to rain, and soft droplets soon covered her shoulders, turning into little rivulets which ran down her spine and between her breasts. Someone nearby began to sob, a male voice perhaps she thought. The soft ground felt good under her knees and the rain, cloaking her, covering her skin, felt good too, somehow comforting. She was connected again to the world, gently, softly. It was a sensation she had almost forgotten.

The peace was broken by a click, faint but audible and unmistakeable. Yelena jerked upright as the sound of the first shot cracked through the air. A hand on her shoulder stayed her and her heart began pounding in her chest. There was a thud as a body fell. No one spoke. Two more shots rang out, each accompanied its inevitable, consequential, dull echo. Yelena was shaking, less from fear than pure adrenaline. Then another shot, close to her head, deafening her left ear, and then a crumpling, forward, down.

Yelena felt the hard tip of a gun barrel against the back of her head. She thought she would have been ready for this. Quick release at last. But she was not ready to die, and she fought against the hand holding her down as panic overcame her and her terror became so great that she heard it, like a tornado tearing through her brain.

She heard the click of the hammer and waited for the bullet to end her, thinking for a moment that time had slowed for her in this state. But the bullet never came. The first impact she felt was that of a boot between her shoulder blades. As she pitched forward, her hood came off, presumably held by someone. Falling forward, she saw hooded naked bodies. Then she was among the corpses. Her head lay against one, a man. Had it not been for the warmth, she would have supposed it long dead. For the skin, crisscrossed with deep black scars, was strangely coloured, with patches of black and green and purple. She realised that these were bruises, and was shocked as she looked down at her own body in the daylight and saw her appearance.

She looked up, towards the top of the shallow grave and saw the men standing, laughing at her. One was leaning on a spade. She began to scream. Even after they pulled her up, her hysterics continued and they had to knock her out to silence her.

***

After the executions, Yelena’s sessions became less and less frequent. Sometimes she was left for days in the cell before being pulled out, near dead with thirst and hunger. When she was raped, it was increasingly perfunctory. The assaults were as much a part of her life, and as irregular, as her bowel movements. Bent passively over a table, a few quick, hard thrusts into whichever hole appealed, and then up on her feet again. Even the torture seemed to bore them, Yelena by now so weak that would pass out too easily.

It was during this period that she was brought to the office of one of the senior officers. Collapsing onto a wooden chair, the hood removed from her head, she found herself in a room the likes of which she had not seen for months. Bright sunlight shone through a set of blinds, illuminating every corner. A pleasant smell of tobacco filled her nostrils. Instead of the familiar bare walls, harsh lighting and torture equipment, she looked around to see a cluttered administration environment, combined, it seemed, with living quarters: papers piled on filing cabinets, a telephone and fax machine, a kettle and Primus stove near the window, an open door revealing the foot of a small bed. Eventually her eyes settled on the middle-aged man standing behind a large desk, partially obscured by a cloud of cigarette smoke. He was watching her, eyeing her intently, but for some reason she did not feel afraid of him.

Yelena was unaccustomed to being seated. The sharp pains in her bottom caused her to shift from buttock to buttock, finally finding some relief by sitting forwards, pushing down on the chair with her hands which were, as usual, chained behind her back. Looking between her legs, she saw that a pool of liquid had formed. She had been incontinent for some time. Afraid that he might be angry with her, she looked up hesitantly. But he appeared not to notice.

Without speaking, he turned away and picked up a tin from a high shelf. Placing it on the desk, and using a small metal gadget, he proceeded to cut around the rim. As he pulled back the lid, Yelena caught another fine smell: baked beans. Turning away, he lit the stove. Pouring the contents of the tin into a small battered saucepan, he began cooking, now and then testing the beans with his finger. The telephone on the desk started ringing but he ignored it. After a while it stopped. He did not look back at her. The smell of warm beans filled the room.

Satisfied that the temperature of the beans was just right, he removed the pan from the stove and brought it over, placing it on the desk a short distance from her. She noticed a name card: a simple piece of paper folded down the middle and propped up on the desk. The name read: Lt I. Ivashko.

Ivashko perched on the side of the desk next to Yelena.

“Would you like some?” he asked, unthreateningly. But she was afraid and hung her head, shaking it slightly.

“Go on, it’s good. I’d like to share it with you.”

His voice was reassuring and the gurgling in her stomach reminded Yelena how malnourished she was. She looked up at him. “Please,” she asked.

He had a small metal spoon in his hand, which he wiped a couple of times on his trouser leg. Dipping it in the pan, he lifted it to her mouth. She watched it rise. There were five beans on the spoon, and they were steaming. She opened her lips and he placed them in her mouth. She swallowed, and the shock of hot food for the first time in so long almost caused her to spit them up again. But she held them, and almost at once they were in her stomach, producing a lovely warm sensation in her chest.

He continued to feed her until all the beans had been eaten. Even so, she continued to fix her eyes on the remains of the sauce coating the empty pan. He stood up and took it away, then returned with a piece of toilet paper and wiped the sticky orange deposit from her chin and dabbed her breast where it had dripped down. Noticing the heavy bruising, he was particularly careful and she did not feel any discomfort. Yelena sat back, satisfied, sleepy. Ivashkoseated himself in the office chair on the far side of the desk.

“What’s your name, dear,” he asked. “Your Christian name?”

“Yelena,” she replied. He stopped to think for a moment.

“Yelena,” he said, “I saw you out there. From my window. When my men shot your comrades.” The words triggered pain and her eyes became moist at the awful memory.

“I saw you and then, later, I asked for you to be brought here. Do you know why?” he continued, his face opening up to her.

She knew the obvious answer. “To…to have sex with me,” she answered, cautiously.

“That’s what I told them,” he corrected her, “but I’m not going to do that you.” Ivashko sat back in his chair and picked up a dead cigarette from the ashtray, relighting it and drawing hard on the limp tube.

“I have a daughter about your age. How old are you, by the way?” he added as an afterthought.

“Twenty four,” she replied.

“Oh. She’s a little older than you I guess. Had her quite young. Anyway, she…Well, she’s a beautiful woman. And thank God she knows nothing of this world, the one we two have to endure. Sent her away, before the war. She’s in IT. Good salary.” As he spoke, a broad smile spread over his wistful face. Yelena did not reflect his smile.

“You’re someone’s daughter too. I look at you and think, God, what if you were mine? What if my daughter ended up like you? It’s just too awful to think about.” She thought for a moment he was trying to upset her but he seemed strangely genuine.

“Girls like you shouldn’t be mixed up in this. Look at you, at what they’ve done! They’ve taken everything, haven’t they? And, you know, it’s going to get worse for you. They’ll get tired of everyday cruelty and then they’re going to amuse themselves by tearing you to pieces in worse ways than you or I can imagine. Yes, that is what they are going to do. And why?” he paused in his lecture, rhetorically.

“Why not? That’s how men think when there are no rules. They enjoy it. It satisfies them to see women suffer. They think women like you deserve to be abused and destroyed. They’re kids and they’ve got you to pick on.” He paused again, waiting for her reaction. Yelena was absorbing his words.

“Why…why can’t you…tell them not to?” she asked, hopefully.

“They don’t answer to me! I’ve just…I’ve taken an interest in you. The commander here –he despises you people, with good reason. Wouldn’t even stoop to rape you. He gets off just knowing you’re here, still alive, suffering.”

At this, he rose from his chair and began to walk around the room. Yelena, whose spirits had been buoyed by the good food and kind treatment, began to feel despondent again. She had no doubt that what he said was true: she had learned enough about men’s real nature during the previous weeks.

“I can help you,” he said, abruptly, surprising her. “I can get you out of here.”

Yelena could barely believe what was happening. She had lost hope and now, perhaps, there was some chance. Some possibility of ending this nightmare. She was cautious, because if she were given a gift like this there must be some great cost. And perhaps that would prove too much. But, for the first time since she had entered this place, she began to hope.

Ivashko put his right hand behind his back to retrieve something tucked into his belt, and placed it on the table before Yelena. It was a revolver.

Yelena stared at the weapon for some time, then looked up at him, full of fear and uncertainty.

“I can end it for you now,” he said, compassionately. “It will be quick and it won’t hurt, I promise.”

Recovering from her shock at his proposal, Yelena became calm and still. The warmth of the beans was still glowing in her stomach. The bright sunlight streamed in through the window blinds, forming a vivid pattern of light and shade across the room. The smell of good tobacco filled her nostrils. She was reminded of the smoky smell of her father as he sat with her, helping with her schoolwork, long ago, long before he was killed.

The gun was black, heavy and solid. Yes, it would easily dispatch her in an instant. Crush her into nothing. Release her from her ruined body. It was a comforting thought.

But something inside her fought it. Some irrational programming told her that it was simply unacceptable, spiritually, biologically, whatever. That she should rail against this cowardly option. She was a fighter after all. For a moment she felt the surge of defiance that had possessed her just before her first beating.

“I can’t,” she replied, eventually. “Please. Don’t kill me. I…I’m not ready.”

Ivashko cast his eyes down momentarily with a sigh. Then he returned to his chair, sitting down heavily.

“It’s OK,” he said, reassuring her. “You’re a tough one. Not always good to be tough.” He was silent for a long while.

“Anyway,“ he continued at last, raising his voice, “we won’t meet again. I…” his voice trailed away. Then he picked up the phone, and reported that he had finished with her. Soon the door opened and the hood was being pulled over her head, shutting out the sunlight. Then she was on her feet being marched away, back to the cells.

Before she was locked away, the guard commanded her to stand while he unchained her wrists. Then, instructing her to turn around, he cuffed them together again at her front. A metal door was opened and she was pushed inside, still standing. To her surprise, she felt the hood being removed before she was pushed forward and the door slammed behind her. Despite the total darkness of the cell, the relief at the removal of the hood made her almost euphoric and, as she moved tentatively around, she discovered that the new cell was somewhat larger than the old: enough headroom to stand, and around four square metres in area. She remained standing, enjoying the opportunity to flex her legs, rolling her shoulders to relieve the stiffness in her joints. Ivashko must have arranged this, she thought. She was grateful for this extraordinary kindness.

Over the following days, she had much time for contemplation. The other cells seemed unoccupied and sounds from the rest of the building rarely penetrated the thick steel door. Cold food and water was brought now and then and she was able to feed in her cell. She was even given a bucket in which to defecate and had long grown accustomed to the smell of her urine which seeped slowly into the concrete floor. She was not tortured at all during this period, and raped infrequently. Either they had grown bored with her or had found some new activity to occupy their time.

The experience with the Lieutenant, unprecedented and unexpected, haunted her as she lay in the darkness. She dwelt on her decision. It was the occasion when she had begun to examine her mortality. Even while enduring the worst of the tortures or when awaiting her execution, she had been so traumatized that she had been unable to think cogently. Now she had the time to prepare for the inevitable, for death. She recalled what she could of the Bible, heard Sister Julia’s lessons again in her mind. She thought about God’s love for her, the special place she had in his heart. About the new life which awaited her, full of light and warmth and without hunger or pain. She was, she believed, a good person. She had killed men and women, in war. Children too, it was true, not personally, she hoped, but she had been part of it. Surely, though, it was right. The war was just. Knowing now, as she did, about the savagery, the inhumanity of the enemy.

With a start, it struck her that this might be her Purgatory, the place she was forced to face her guilt, to come to terms with it. She had felt it, every time she had killed. God, perhaps this was all to teach her that she should have none. That they all deserved to be exterminated. Perhaps.

But the more she wrestled with her religion, the more confused she became and the less comfort it brought her. In the end, the only part of her teaching that made sense was the story of Job. That, she understood now. Awesome, angry, male God. Making his victim suffer like a wasp on a skewer. Why? Because I can, he had said. Well, fuck you, she thought and it came out, aloud. Later, she would be wracked by sobs of loneliness.

Footsteps could be heard approaching down the hallway. They were somewhat unusual, the pattern more complicated, erratic, than the regular steady pace of the guard. When the door was flung open, she caught sight momentarily of two silhouettes. The second was unmistakably female, the curves of her hips and breasts outlined against the bright light as she was pushed towards her. The figure lost her footing and fell forward onto Yelena. Then the cell door was slammed shut and a key turned in the lock. Both women sprang apart and pressed themselves into opposite corners of the dark chamber, touching feet briefly before separating completely. Both sat listening to the combined sounds of their breathing, which gradually slowed and softened.

“Yelena?” came a timid, nervous voice. She recognised it immediately. It was Natasha, who was, of course, dead.

“Yes,” she replied, noncommittally.

“It’s me. Natasha,” continued the voice with faint despair.

“I know,” Yelena responded. This bizarre development had upset her careful, solitary balance and she was uncertain, confused. She sat for a while, keeping her distance, waiting for something horrible to happen. But nothing did. All was still and the only sound was their breathing. Then, to her surprise, she broke down in floods of tears. Clumsily, the two women found each other and knelt embracing, shaking and weeping, in the midst of the darkness.

Later, Yelena sat against the wall, her arms around Natasha who lay curled up in her lap, weeping. Her thighs and belly were wet with Natasha’s tears. Slowly, Natasha raised her head, and little by little, moved up her body as if she hoped Yelena would not notice. Then Yelena felt her mouth on her right breast. She heard a murmur: “Mummy…” before her lips closed and Natasha began sucking on her nipple, which began to swell. Now she was sucking at it, hungrily, painfully and Yelena pushed her away a little. She slowed her pace but continued.

Yelena felt weird and embarrassed but, seeing Natasha’s distress, allowed her to persist, moving her to her left breast to ease the discomfort. As she sat there, images of babies came to her. Earlier, alone in her cell, she had often worried that she might be pregnant, a thought that filled her with disgust. She did not know if she was still having her period. Although she would sometimes see blood on her thighs during her sessions, she could not tell whether it was due to menstruation or to the abuse of her vagina. But she had reassured herself that, considering the stress and malnourishment she was suffering, it was most unlikely that she could conceive.

Now she thought instead, wistfully, of the children she would never have. Although she had not been broody, she had always imagined she would have two or three, in the future. No, that chance had gone forever, like the rest of her life. Tears filled her eyes.

Natasha had stopped suckling and had grown still.

“Why do you think they’ve put us here, together?” she asked, all of a sudden. Yelena had been wondering about this herself.

“Probably they think they can turn us into lesbians, so they can get off on watching us,” she replied. She felt Natasha nod. Yelena took the opportunity to strike up a conversation.

“You know, Natasha, I thought you were dead. I…I never heard you after, you know. What…where were you?” she asked, cautiously.

“I…I…they…” Natasha tried to respond. She was unable to say any more and began choking, then convulsing as if she was trying to vomit. She broke free from Yelena’s embrace and knelt shaking and retching, a few inches away. Yelena, distressed, moved over and held her gently during the long time it took for her to calm again.

In the blackness, they now lay as before. Natasha seemed to be in control of herself again. They spoke now and again, in low voices, as if afraid of being overheard.

Suddenly, people were outside the door. Then the door was opened and they were pulled apart, out into the hall.

****

The two girls stood motionless as their handcuffs were removed. They did as they were ordered, and stood, side-by-side, hands behind their heads and feet apart. When told to stick out their chests, they did so without hesitation. In the darkness behind the spot lights, the men scrutinised them, commenting crudely. The general view was that Natasha, on the left, had better tits. But that the other one could really take a beating, which was considered a strong plus. They were told to turn around, to bend over and part their buttocks, which they did, stoically. Grunts and cheers came from the audience. “Nasty!” came a voice as they examined the marks on their behinds. The final decision was that the one on the left was an eight and the one on the right a seven. “In good condition of course” was the qualification.

“Right girls,” they heard the organiser announce. “Let’s lez it up for the lads, shall we? Come on, you dykes know what to do. And it better be good. You better make us hard. Or you just ain’t gonna believe what we’ll do to you.” Someone blew a whistle.

For a moment the girls remained still, each trying to pretend that the other did not exist. Then they turned to look at themselves. Yelena took in the dark circles around Natasha’s eyes, the cuts and welts across her breasts, stomach and thighs, the bruises around her wrists, knees and ankles.

“It’s OK,” said Natasha, softly, and she moved towards Yelena, raising her hand with care. Yelena flinched a little, but allowed the hand to rest on the side of her head. Natasha came close.

“It’s OK. We’ll look after each other. Come,” she whispered, and Yelena felt her breath on her cheek. Then the other girl turned and took her head in both hands, pressing their breasts together. After the roughness of all the men, the sensation was soft and gentle, and Yelena felt her body tingle. Then Natasha’s lips were on hers and she found herself opening her mouth to her as she shut her eyes. Shouts of approval came from their observers. They remained standing for a while, running their hands over each other’s backs and buttocks and thighs, careful to respond when a painful spot was touched. Yelena, losing herself in the tenderness, began to bury her head in Natasha’s neck and hold her more tightly, until subtle pressure reminded her that they were here to display themselves.

Maintaining their embrace, they fell to their knees. Again, a firm hand on her right shoulder told Yelena to lie back onto the floor, which was hard but not uncomfortable, and she squinted against the bright spotlights. Natasha moved across her, shielding her from its intensity until she straddled her, breasts swaying close to her face.

“Yeah! Shake that arse for us, bitch. Stick it in the air!” came a call from the audience. Natasha ignored it and lowered her mouth to Yelena’s left breast. With a hint of defensiveness, Yelena put her hands around Natasha’s head. She felt her hot breath on the nipple and then it was in Natasha’s mouth, rolled and flicked lightly by her tongue. A hand was on her other breast, kneading it gently in sympathy. Yelena felt her nipples harden and heat wash over her face.

Natasha did not meet her eyes, but worked her way slowly down the girl’s prone body, circling her navel with wide arcs of her tongue. Then hands were on her knees, parting them and she felt cool breath amongst her pubic hair. She cried out a little as Natasha’s mouth closed on her vulva, which the men interpreted as their first real sign of sexual pleasure. In fact, it was painful for her, as Natasha at once realised, and began to kiss her gently, blowing cool air on her tender folds.

After a few more moments, Natasha rose and, turning round, positioned herself over her. Yelena looked up at the dark thatch overhead. Then the other girl was on top of her and Yelena squirmed at the intimate contact along the length of her body. It was claustrophobic and she felt trapped, almost fighting to get up. But she relaxed and, as Natasha closed her thighs around her, became enveloped in her soft, curvaceous body.

Because Natasha knew that the men could not see what she was doing, and not wishing to cause her pain, she mimed the action of her tongue against Yelena’s clitoris, moving her head in wide, exaggerated circles. At the same time she ground her vulva against Yelena’s mouth and felt her respond, pulling her in with her hands on her buttocks. It felt good as Yelena’s tongue probed into her vagina and she began to grow wet. Unconsciously, both girls were bucking their hips in a slow rhythm. She chanced to lick Yelena’s dry labia and did not feel her flinch. So she continued, splaying them with her hand, working deeper with her tongue. Yelena had begun to circle her clitoris with her tongue and Natasha emulated this, trying to keep time with the slow, swirling motions. After a while she sensed that Yelena was losing pace and found her mouth was full of liquid. Against her breasts, Yelena’s stomach was hard, straining, and her legs were trembling. Suddenly, she came, crushing her with her thighs, muffling her cries against Natasha’s loins.

“Yes!” exclaimed a voice, and then some cheers. Yelena continued to quiver under her and, as Natasha lifted her body, she turned to her side and curled up, sobbing.

Before Natasha was fully upright, hands grabbed her and forced her again to the floor. Yelena too found herself surrounded and was flipped onto her stomach. Spreadeagled, pinned down by hands at her arms and ankles, Natasha gritted her teeth as she was raped. Gritting them against the wails and the screams coming from the floor nearby.

***

In the cell, Natasha held Yelena in silence. The latter had not spoken for many hours, despite Natasha’s soft words as she tried to console her. She seemed ashamed and curled away whenever Natasha tried to stroke her hair. Natasha, feeling fluid dripping down between her legs, was thinking that she could make it through this, somehow. It troubled her that she could now deal with rape so casually. But it really did not affect her much anymore. Eventually Yelena spoke.

“They’re going to kill us soon,” she said, blankly. Natasha did not respond.

When the guards came for them again, they expected to be called on for a repeat performance. But this was not to be the case. Side by side, they were frog-marched outside and across the compound over to a concrete structure which both recognised from their training. It was early morning, and a thin mist hung in the air. Both girls began to shiver.

Two men pushed past them, each carrying one of the heavy stands on which Yelena had been bound months earlier. They placed them down, exhaling with relief, on the gravel ground between two thick concrete partitions. Yelena was afraid and did not look at Natasha until she heard the sound of chains and turned aside to see them cuffing her wrists behind her back. She looked down at her own bound wrists, fear growing as the girls were separated.

Strong hands held her fast as Natasha was forced to the ground and her ankles shackled to the two stands. With a loud scraping noise, they were dragged apart, spreading her wide, obscenely. Yelena stared embarrassed at her exposed loins, aware now of how she herself had been displayed to her captors. She noticed that Natasha had raised her head and was watching her, the traces of panic showing in her eyes.

“Who’s got our little sex toy?” asked one of the men. “Come on, give it to me.”

Holding something, he made his way forward and stood between her legs, looking down at the girl, who began to shift and struggle against the immobile restraints, her gluteal muscles standing proud against the skin of her outstretched thighs.

Turning back to the rest of them, he showed off his toy. At the sight of it, Yelena cried out and fell back, swooning, held up by the solid man behind her. As the blackness faded from her eyes, she saw him pull out the pin. Then his back was to her and he was on his knees, forcing his hand between Natasha’s legs, punching into her repeatedly, hard. She began to shake wildly, rattling the stands, writhing to escape, screaming hysterically. Suddenly, the man rose and ran back over to them, panting.

They were all about ten yards from Natasha and they all counted the seconds. Natasha now was almost completely still, her thighs quivering barely controllably.

Yelena, in shock, was thrown forwards and stood between them. She heard laughter behind.

“That’s it, darling. Go and get it out. Careful now. You there, keep that cunt tight!” More coarse laughter. Her eyes stinging, she half-turned to them.

“For fuck’s sake,” she cried. It was all she could manage.

She approached Natasha tentatively. The girl was staring at her, eyes wild, crazy, desperate. She was begging for something. Yelena, speechless, was unable to offer any comfort as she knelt down between her legs. She wished that Natasha would stop shaking but was afraid to touch her.

She could see the shiny top of the hand grenade glinting in the light. It had been inserted so that the strike lever was held in place by Natasha’s vaginal wall. Thank God the spring wasn’t any stronger.

“Don’t move,” she said, as sternly and confidently as she could muster. Natasha continued to shake, but was clearly trying to cooperate.

Gingerly, she placed her thumb and forefinger on the gleaming tip, lifting her chained arms together. Spreading the girl’s labia delicately with her left hand, she dipped her fingers further. Natasha was a little wet, a protective response no doubt to the fisting she had just received.

Yelena held her breath as she worked her hand delicately into Natasha’s vagina, fighting her clenched muscles. At last, it closed around the grenade. OK, she thought, exhaling. Hard part over. Then she realised something, with rising apprehension. What if the grenade rotated as she extracted it, or the strike lever sprang open out of the girl’s vulva? She might just get away, but Natasha would be blown to pieces. There would be no way she could dig it out in time. Oh God, she muttered. She looked up at Natasha, whose head was back and was staring into space. She was whimpering and seemed to have lost her senses.

Feeling around the grenade, she manipulated her hand until her palm rested against the dangerous lever. She breathed again, three times, deeply. Then closed her fist tight against the metal and pulled sharply. Suddenly, she was looking down at it, her hand glistening with Natasha’s juices. She stood up, dumbly,

“Don’t move!” screamed an order, and she froze. “Turn round and I’ll shoot”.

Perhaps, she thought as she stood looking down at poor Natasha, who was now crying like a baby and appeared unaware of where she was, perhaps I can throw this back before the first shot hits. That would be worth it. Quick now, no thinking about it, just do it. For the both of us.

Without warning, Yelena jerked up her arms and released the grenade, ready for the gunfire. But again it did not come. She heard the grenade land with a crackle on the gravel behind. Peals of uproarious laughter rang out and she sank to her knees, spent. Her head span and she needed to throw up. Then she fainted.

***

Lying in the darkness, Yelena listened to Natasha’s hysterical wails which failed to diminish in intensity with time. She had tried to hold her as she heard Natasha scraping her nails against the rough wall but the girl had shaken so violently at her touch that she had withdrawn into the corner.

She still felt sick at the memory of the afternoon’s game. Both at the horror at what had taken place, and the now inescapable knowledge that what Ivashko had said was soon to come about. She knew that they were both near the end. To her surprise, she felt ready to die now. Listening to Natasha’s near-insane cries, she finally acknowledged that life held nothing for her. Let it come quick, she prayed, without confidence.

Footsteps could be heard again outside the cell door.

The girls again found themselves standing, hands behind their heads, displaying their bodies under harsh lights, in the same room where earlier they had made love in front of their captors. Dark shapes moved around them as the men settled down. But already Yelena could sense a different atmosphere to that of the previous, voyeuristic exhibition. Something in the men’s voices and movements, indistinct but sinister. Her chest was trembling slightly as she looked down between her breasts to her feet. She was afraid to look at Natasha.

“Well, bitches, we’ve been here before haven’t we?” began the self-appointed host in a menacing voice. Yelena swallowed.

“We want to see you whores get it on. We enjoyed that didn’t we lads?” he continued, to scattered murmurs of agreement.

“This time, we’re not here to see those tongues in those slippery cunts. No, we want to see fists and teeth. You’re going to show us your soldiering skills. A good, dirty fight.” The others applauded enthusiastically.

“Fight’s over when one of you stays down for ten. Understand? Winner…gets to suck me off first,” he announced, to general laughter.

“Loser gets to spend the rest of the day with me and my friend Herr Bosch.”

As he said this, he raised his hand and waved a large tool in the air. For a moment, the outline was hard to make out but when he squeezed the trigger the familiar whirring noise informed both girls that he was brandishing an electric drill. Natasha began to choke and was soon racked with a fit of coughs.

“Good…so you see there’s something worth fighting for. OK, cunts, five paces apart, face each other. Now!”

The girls let their arms fall and moved away, taking up their positions. Yelena looked over at Natasha, who looked ready to collapse. It would not be much of a fight. Natasha looked up at her, full of despair. “I can’t…” she whispered.

“Yes you can, girl” Yelena whispered back, cutting her off. “Come on, let’s make it look good and maybe it’ll be OK.”

“Begin!” boomed a loud voice, and someone blew the whistle.

Yelena strode over to Natasha and, taking her by the shoulders, shook her hard, then pushed her back. The girl stumbled to regain her footing.

“Get with it, bitches!” shouted the host. “Fight properly or you’ll both be getting it.”

Yelena slapped Natasha hard across the face. This seemed to rouse her and she lunged forward, pushing her away. Yelena made a fist, making sure Natasha saw it early, and darted her eyes at her opponent’s stomach, signalling. She saw the muscles tense before she drove the punch home. Natasha doubled over, but remained standing, catching her breath.

“Come on, kick her in the head!” shouted someone from the shadows. Yelena jumped at her, locking her arm around her neck, hand on her breast, twisting her.

“You’ve got to fight me,” she whispered before throwing her away from her body, elbowing her in the face accidentally as the other broke free.

Natasha screwed up her eyes and, growling between clenched teeth, ran at Yelena, tackling her to the floor. Falling down on top of her, she lashed out clumsily with her fists, punching Yelena hard in her breasts, causing her momentarily to see stars. To defend herself, she in turn brought up her knee sharply between Natasha’s legs, digging it into her soft flesh and knocking her aside.

Getting to her feet, panting heavily, she looked down at Natasha who was now on all fours. She kicked her in the ribs with her heel, not hard enough to break a bone but hopefully enough to satisfy their tormentors. Natasha rolled onto the floor.

”That’s not good enough,” came an almost sing-song voice. “Kick her in the cunt!”

Yelena looked down at Natasha. She was bleeding from her nose and tears were streaming from her eyes. Her pale, emaciated body showed the scars of months of physical abuse. It looked as if they had been even more brutal with her, perhaps because they found her more attractive. She held her hand between her legs, feebly trying to protect herself. Looking up at Yelena, she mouthed the words: “I can’t”.

Yelena stood, immobile. She could not bring herself to hurt her again. She heard the voices of the men, baying for blood. The sound of the drill, whirring, threatening. For a moment she had a vision of Natasha, strung up, inverted, like a slab of meat, her blood draining from a dozen holes, still conscious.

In that moment she made her decision. And in an instant she had Natasha by the hair, punching her hard in the face, letting her head fall, splattering blood over her, aiming, bringing her heel down with all her strength onto her throat once, twice, and again.

“No! No!” she heard a male voice cry out through the rush of blood in her ears and she continued until she was pulled off the lifeless girl and thrown aside.

“She’s dead,” exclaimed someone in stunned surprise. For the moment no one looked at Yelena as they crowded round the body. Then the first turned around, his eyes glowering down at her.

”Bitch killed her. Fuck. Well I’ll be fucked. Quite a firecracker, aren’t you, when you get going.” He gazed at her, slightly awestruck. Then he shook himself. Looking over his shoulder he called out.

“Hold her down for me. Careful now.”

Men were around her. Again she was forced onto her front, a man holding out her arms and others stretching her legs apart. A few moments passed while he loosened his clothing and then he was on her. She felt his thick cock as he fumbled between her buttocks. Then with a single hammer stroke it was in her rectum and he began to pump her hard, as roughly as he possibly could, tearing at her insides. She choked with each thrust but took it as she had learned to, screwing up her eyes. Opening them she looked to her side and saw the others playing with Natasha’s corpse. Three had lifted it up off the ground to waist height and another was fucking it. Then they dropped it to the floor with a thud and, laughing, another began to abuse it from behind. The men holding Yelena down abandoned her and crowded over the corpse.

Rage grew within her as she continued to be sodomised. Blood, everywhere she looked she saw blood, boiling, spurting, covering the walls. The same berserk force overtook her and she saw Natasha’s bloody face as she had brought down her foot. With a loud grunt, the man ejaculated into her bowels and immediately pulled out, tearing at her tissues with his swollen glans as he did. Yelena rose too, twisting, her elbow making contact with his nose which yielded with a squelch. He knelt upright in surprise, yelping, bringing his hands to his face. Yelena threw herself at him, knocking him back to the floor. Other hands were on her now, but she had his hair in hers. And before they could grab her other arm, she drove her thumb into his eye socket. A wild scream echoed around the room and as they pulled her off she saw that his eyeball was out, dangling on its stalk. The other was flicking about as he emptied his lungs. Blows came at her from all directions, pummelling her into a pulp. She was on the floor, trying to roll into a ball but someone had her legs and then a heavy boot struck her chest and again and then it was all over.

***

Yelena came round very slowly and several minutes passed between her first flicker of consciousness and the point at which she could begin to make out the blurred features of her surroundings. She was in a small whitewashed bare room, a cell, dimly illuminated by light from a small barred window high above her. Her back propped against the wall, feet out in front of her, she was unable to move her lower body more than a twitch. Breathing was difficult, a sharp pain stabbing her in the ribs with every inhalation. She looked down at herself and saw that her breasts were streaked with dried dark liquid. The floor around her was sticky and, with great effort, she raised her left hand a little to discover that she was lying in a pool of blood. For a long time she lay there in silence, taking short, shallow breaths, waiting to die.

Suddenly, all hell erupted. A bell sounded down the corridor, followed almost immediately by a near-deafening siren. She heard men running, shouting, barking urgent orders and receiving hasty acknowledgements. She heard vehicles and machinery outside, springing into life. Something, she thought wearily, is going on.

At some point, against all this background noise, she made out the unmistakable signature of a helicopter, multiple helicopters, near, overhead. Almost immediately, the first explosion shook the building. Then, a salvo of rockets, whooshing in all directions and detonating everywhere. Plaster, shaken from the ceiling, fell to the floor near her feet. She heard automatic gunfire, distant, chattering from side to side.

There was someone in the corridor outside. She heard a steel door being flung open some way along from her. Then almost at once, more automatic fire: a short burst, very near. More footsteps, hurried, then another door yanked open. Another burst. Then again. She heard the sliding of metal, and the key in the lock this time. Gunfire. Even closer now. The room next to hers. The metal sliding, then back again. No key turning. Then outside her door.

The metal plate set into the door slid back and she stared momentarily into another pair of eyes. Then they vanished and she heard the tinkle of keys, then one in the lock. She saw the bolt move. The door was kicked open and he stood there, the soldier, frightened expression on his face, looking at her, darting his eyes along the corridor, then looking back.

He aimed his AK at her and fired. There was an anticlimactic click. “Shit,” he said to the weapon. Fumbling, he ejected the spent clip and reached for another.

A loud explosion shook the building, causing him to stumble. Then, almost immediately, she felt the pressure wave on her face and then the flash of another detonation as the wall behind him shattered, sending pieces of masonry flying towards them. The soldier, still fiddling with his weapon, was picked up and cast towards her, looking up stupidly for a fraction of a second before he was on top of her, absorbing the force of dozens of pieces of rubble as they rained down upon them.

An acrid smell hung in the air and the room was full of dust. For a moment, the space around her was calm and still. The soldier twitched on top of her, groaning. He was crushing her, making it even harder to breathe.

“Get off me,” she choked. He heard her, tried moving his head to one side, but just continued to groan.

Yelena’s left hand retained some degree of function and, as the two of them lay in their ghoulish embrace, she explored with it. She found his hip and trouser leg. And the butt of his pistol. Awkwardly, painfully, she manipulated it out of its holster with her thumb and forefinger. After many minutes, during which the man continued his irritating groaning, she managed to get it out and drop it to the floor. Then the exertion and the pain overtook her and she faded out.

She came round some minutes later. Nothing appeared to have changed. After further efforts she had the gun in her hand, although she doubted she would be able to lift it. She felt for the safety, which was off.

While she was unable to raise it from the floor, she managed to get it upright, resting on the butt, angling the barrel sideways and upwards. As soon as she had it correct she squeezed the trigger. Satisfyingly, the gun recoiled in her hand and she heard a muffled crack as the bullet buried itself in the soldier’s side. “Uh…” was his only comment.

It took several more minutes for him to die, leaking over her, but at last he let out his final breath. Yelena smiled and, spent, closed her eyes and waited. Time passed.

***

She was awoken to the sound of footsteps in the room. Another soldier, heavily armed, was inspecting the devastation. From his uniform, she recognised him as one of her own. He was not damaged. She watched him as he peered down at them, no hint of a reaction on his set face. He looked aside, turning away from them. Then he shot a glance back and she saw realisation on his face. Suddenly, he came alive. Dropping his weapon, he fell on them, pulling the dead soldier from her. The relief as the weight was removed was immense and she let out a small sigh. She would like to have waved, but found she was completely unable to move.

He looked at her, his face betraying the awful sight she must be presenting. His mouth contorted itself but he could find no words for her.

Then he was in motion, shouting, running out of the room. “A survivor! We’ve got a survivor. Help! Medics!” His voice faded away.

Alone again in the empty room, Yelena mulled over his words. A survivor. Hah. Now that was an unexpected turn of events. She was a survivor, somehow. That was not going to be easy to get her head around.