Capital City Chronicles: The Island (8 page)

“You sir!,” he pointed at the man entering behind me, “I have wonderful young ladies and lads to fetch your drinks! Rent as many as you like!”

The auctioneer immediately forgot about the man when a lavish old woman in a flowing mink cape approached the stage and waved a voucher. She already had two children, dressed in period frocks, holding the ends of the cape off the floor. The auctioneer grabbed a blonde boy from the line and brought him over to the edge of the stage for her. Still holding the voucher, she grabbed hold of the boy’s genitals and stretched them out above her face. Her other hand produced a small round magnifying glass. The boy stared straight ahead.

Past the stage were dozens of card tables, the dealers all adorned with beautifully ornate collars, each with double chains of diamonds attaching them to their tables. Surrounding the rows of tables were giant clusters of coin machines and spinning, flashing wheels of screens full of promises. To my right was a large caged off dirt floor, where two gladiators fought with short, blunt swords. Men in tuxedos circled the small arena and shouted and cried out and laughed, pumping fists full of crumpled cash into the air. Giant glass tubes filled with gilded, gaudily carved elevators rose at random spots throughout the room, shooting up through the ceiling and beyond. Stretching out over the floor were entire restaurants, each with their own bands, sitting atop massive marble pillars carved with ultra-detailed, pornographic scenes of decadence.

I made my way through the noise, feeling the eyes of men crawl over me. The collar felt heavy against my neck. I held the clutch tight against my ribs as I pushed my way through the crowds, many of them pausing their conversations and games to take stock of the goods. I kept my eyes down. Any one of them had the right to stop me, question me, make demands. Where is your Master? Where are you headed? Let me see your hands…

I hurried to the closest elevator, trying to appear as if I were under strict direction. Most seemed to assume that was the case. Men would glance at me, look at my collar, linger for a moment on my legs, or my breasts or my ass. Then they would become distracted by something else and move along.

After an eternity of being on display, I reached the first elevator. Just as the glass front began to slide shut, I heard a voice from among the chaos,

“Wait,” a young female voice, “Please hold the door!”

Instinctively I put my hand out to stop the door, and out of the crowd came a beautiful girl of about 16. She wore a red, velvet lined collar with small gold chains that hung in short loops along the front. Her hair was cropped short, like mine, but was a fiery red. Her face and chest were covered with freckles. She looked nothing like her, and wasn’t a thralldoll, but I thought of the girl in the video.

“Oh thanks!,” like everyone else, she seemed to be in a lively mood. “18 please.”

I reached out and pressed the button.

“Wow, you’re going to the 40th floor?” she asked in an excited, almost envious voice, “Did you get bought by a senator? That’s who’s up there ya know…”

She wore a genuine smile, her green eyes large with wonder. I tried to smile, and nodded. She shrugged,

“Well you should be stoked. It’s not very often a thrall gets bought by a senator,” a thought occurred to her and she became excited again, “Hey, you never know! If you’re really good, he may cut it off and give you a name and a real collar! They can do that you know. Senators I mean. They can do that.”

She looked up me. Studying my face with big, innocent green eyes. I tried to seem natural, tried to look like I’d done this before. She caught on.

“You’re knew at this, huh?” She said.

I nodded.

“What did you do, fight back or something? Call your Master a name?”

I was at a loss. I opened my mouth to speak, before I had even come up with a believable story. She saved me from it by interrupting,

“Hey, it’s no biggie,” she touched my arm, a comforting caress, and in that moment I loved her.

“All you have to do is be good, and do what he says,” she tried to reassure me, lightly rubbing my arm.

“And try to do it really good. You must be good to be given to a senator. Maybe you’ll get your name back,” she added.

The elevator slowed and dinged at her floor. Just before the door closed, she turned to me,

“If he lets you wander tonight, I’ll be at the Fountain Spell diner on the third floor if you wanna hang out! Good luck!” She waved as the elevator closed and lifted away.

I let out a shaking, halting breath and leaned against the railing on the back wall.

I leaned my head back and closed my eyes, the reality of what I was doing washing over me. My scalp grew hot and the feeling sank down my body. I had come this far; I was committed. Opening my eyes and looking forward again, I saw the long hallway of the 40th floor. I hadn’t noticed the elevator stop, or the doors open.

Here I was.

I reminded myself not to think, just move.

I stepped onto the gaudy carpet of the hall. There were only a dozen rooms, each with severe looking men with nondescript suits and submachine guns flanking the door. They all turned their heads to watch me as I traveled the length of the hall. I rehearsed my story over and over in my mind as I watched the brass numbers of each room. Finally, almost at the end of the hall, I saw the room number I had uncovered from the hotel’s ledgers:

408

Approaching the door, the heavy, overstuffed clutch tucked under my arm, my heart raced as I tried desperately to remember my first line. The Secret Service agents stood bored, their hands hanging over the tops of their guns.

The agent to my right rolled his eyes,

“How many of these is he going to go through tonight?” he sighed. His partner shrugged, never taking his indifferent eyes off me.

“Well,” he said, reaching out and grabbing the neckline of my dress, pulling it forward. The tiny popping from several stitches breaking open at the back of Pan’s dress was the loudest noise in the hall. It was an effort not to slap his hand away, more for possibly ruining Pan’s dress than for the assault. I stood still and endured it.

“Quite a bit older than he usually goes for, but the tits are small enough,” he laughed, “if he doesn’t like it, maybe he’ll throw us the scraps, eh?”

The other one still hadn’t looked away from my face, even when my breasts were available. Finally, he spoke, a rumbling, disinterested mumble,

“Yeah, maybe.”

He then leaned over, dropped a card into the lock and swung the door open.

As I entered, I ignored the rough hand that grabbed and squeezed at my ass.

The door swung closed behind me.

The penthouse was dark, lit only by the track lighting along the kitchen bar, and the spectacular downtown view from the windows and glass balcony doors. The still silence of the place filled my ears like water, and I entered the living room, watching for any signs of life. It was clear the room was occupied; on the end table next to the easychair was a half empty glass of whiskey. A large cigar still burned in an ashtray, the thick lace of smoke pulled to the ceiling, where it pooled and crawled outward.

A toilet flushed behind me.

I turned to the washroom.

The door opened, and Whitten walked out, wrapped in a bathrobe. Much older than I’d ever seen him, his face was deeply lined around the eyes and his shoulders curved under some invisible weight. He spared me only a glance as he approached. I waited for him to speak, to give some command. He simply walked past me and fell into the easychair, the strand of cigar smoke recoiling and spiraling away from him. Leaning on one elbow he squeezed the bridge of his nose and shook his head.

At last he looked up at me.

“It’s almost 4 a.m.,” he sighed, “They finally send me a thrall and you’re like what? 25? 30?”

I didn’t answer, just stared.

He shrugged, “Whatever, it doesn’t matter. I’ll probably have more use for you in the morning,” he snatched up the glass of whiskey. Tipping it up, he gulped the last of it.

He held it out to me, “Go top this off.”

I walked over to him, took the glass from his hand. Just as I began to turn away, he latched onto my wrist and pulled. I turned back to face him again. Staring up into my face, he leaned forward and squinted. For a long moment, we stayed frozen like that, the glass in my hand, Whitten leaning forward and studying me. Finally, he let go and slowly sank back into the chair. I walked to the kitchen bar.

“Scotch,” he said.

The bar faced where he sat. I watched him watch me, framed by the bottles on the shelf, and the hanging glasses a few feet above. I was lit by the soft glow of the light that fell through the dozens of wine glasses, he by the shifting, colored lights of Capital City.

“I’ve seen you before,” he said.

I shrugged, but my stomach lurched. I had feared that someone would recognize me, having seen me in photos and footage of Pandora Demour, either tagging along in the background, or hanging demurely from her arm. I looked at him from the bar. He shrugged and laid his head back, turning away to watch the city beyond the windows. My heart rate began to even out, and I took the scotch from the shelf. Glancing up at him, I set the clutch on the bar, hidden behind the short shelf of bottles.

My hands shook as I opened it, and pulled the gun.

I had forgotten that I had set the silencer along the top, and it rolled out, past my hand and toward the edge of the bar.

There was no hope of catching it.

Just before it reached the edge, it hit the glass, causing a soft
tink
to echo through the kitchen.

“I didn’t say ice,” he said, not moving.

I watched him as I slid the silencer across the bar toward the gun.

Once it touched the barrel, I used my palm to roll it, screwing it onto the first couple of threads. Then I pulled it off the bar and held it underneath while I screwed it the rest of the way on. I had just finished when Whitten spoke again,

“If you don’t know how to read, it’s the one with the big heart and the crown,” he said.

He still looked out the window.

I stuffed the now silenced pistol under my left arm, and spun the lid off the scotch. I tipped the bottle, getting as much of the golden liquid on the bar and the floor as inside the glass.

Picking up the glass, I took a futile breath to calm myself. He sat waiting, a second or two from looking back at me, wondering what was taking so long.

I had to move. I told myself to move, and before I was even conscious of obeying, I was rounding the bar and moving slowly toward him.

Whitten still hadn’t looked away from the window, lost in whatever dark place his thoughts carried him to.

I was half way across the massive room before I noticed the scotch dripping off my hand. I was shaking it right out of the glass.

             
Breath
, I mouthed the word to myself. The simple act of walking and remembering to breath had become almost impossible. The million outcomes of my arrival to the chair were overwhelming. Would he see the gun before the glass? Would he cry out? Lunge at me?

              I was about to find out.

A few more feet and he still hadn’t looked away from the window.

Standing over him, I handed down the glass.

He leaned forward, reached and grabbed it.

Reaching across my chest, I grabbed the handle of the pistol.

Whitten felt the wet glass, scrunched up his forehead and looked up at me.

I tried to keep the gun from trembling.

With both hands, just as Pan had showed me, I held the barrel in front of his face.

He leaned back and set his drink aside.

“Well now,” he didn’t seem a fraction as afraid as I was, “What’s this then? You come here to shoot me, girl?” He flashed that same movie star grin.

My finger slipped over the trigger.

“You’re not a pro, that’s for sure,” he motioned with his head toward the end of the jerking, trembling silencer.

“So how about you at least tell me what this is,” he soothed.

I stared down at him. This monster, this inhuman thing, and I still hadn’t pulled the trigger. Even after everything I’d seen tonight, was I still not a killer? If I let him talk, let him try to charm me, maybe he would push me to it. I knew I shouldn’t speak, shouldn’t allow him to buy any more time, but my own disgust, my own fear and my own desperate need to stall spoke for me,

“Undesirable,” I whispered.

An awareness, a recognition, crept over his face and he leaned forward slightly.

He smiled.

“You’re that dyke they hired to grab my flashdrive,” he wagged a finger at me, “Pandora Demour’s little girlfriend.”

I felt my lips begin to twitch.

My arms felt weak and the muscles of my thighs began to spasm.

“Listen,” he said, his hand forming a loose fist, the perfectly manicured thumb pointing outward along the tops of his folded fingers. He looked as if he were already giving his speech.