The Gender Game (24 page)

I
woke
up to a splitting headache and a coppery taste in my mouth. Blood. My own blood. I was lying flat on my back, the floor hard and rough beneath me. And cold. Terribly cold. Prying my eyelids open, I sat upright. Metal clanked and I realized that my wrists and ankles were fastened with chains—chains that were fixed to the wall behind me, immovable, no matter how hard I strained against them. And my clothes were ripped, my hair a matted mess.

I sat in a small, windowless room, whose walls and floor were stone. The only light emanated from a dim gas lantern on the floor.

Where am I?

My heart pounding, I fixed my eyes on the opposite wall, where jagged words had been scrawled in red paint.

"WELCOME TO PORTEQUE."

I stopped breathing.

Attached to the wall, beneath the words were… photographs? I squinted in the gloom. Each depicted a woman, curled up in a fetal position on a floor that looked very much like the one I was currently sitting on. Behind, and looming over her was a man. His body was cut off at the waist, so all I could see were his legs and heavy boots. Just as every woman was different, so appeared to be every man; different leg heights and shoe sizes. Then, as my eyes fell to the lowest photograph on the wall… I recognized the clothes the girl was wearing.

That girl was me.

What is this?

Before I could consider yelling, I heard footsteps.

The heavy wooden door opened and in stepped a man whom I had seen before. He wore different clothes—unkempt, Porteque-style clothing—but I recognized that scratchy beard. It was the PFL attendant who had taken Viggo away and insisted that I stay behind in the changing room.

A second man entered behind him. He had a tattoo beneath his right eye. I recognized him too. He was the man who had seen me take down his friend in the road—the man who’d gotten away.

They moved toward me, their leering eyes raking me over.

Arriving in front of me, the tattooed man lowered and grabbed my throat. I attempted to fight him off, but there was only so much I could do while my hands and feet were bound. I’d never felt more vulnerable and powerless in my life.

He tilted my head upward and gestured to a shadowy corner in the room that I had not paid much attention to until now. Fixed to the wall was a camera, pointed directly at me. They had been watching me.

"What do you want?" I breathed. The men seemed to be deliberately keeping their backs to the camera.

"First," the tattooed man replied, his voice as scratchy as his companion's beard, "to teach you your place."

His right hand balled into a fist. Gripping my hair with his left hand, he dealt me a crushing blow in the gut. Once, twice, thrice. Winded, I coughed and spluttered, clutching at my sides. I collapsed as he kicked me in the kidney, curling myself up into as tight a ball as I could.

"Ada!" the second man shouted, his voice resounding in the chamber.

I dared glance up as more footsteps echoed.

A short woman entered the room; she was bone-thin, with lanky mousy-brown hair. I didn't think that she was any older than twenty-five, yet she had deep lines around her mouth and forehead. Beneath her right eye, she, too, sported a triangular tattoo.

The moment she laid her dark eyes on me, she lurched forward. Her fingers dug against my scalp and ripped at my hair, forcing me into an upright position.

She bent down to my level and spat in my face.

"You know that it was my husband you took down?" she hissed.

I tried to protect myself as she dealt me a stinging slap across the face. Her thinness was deceiving—she had muscles in those arms.

She struck me again and again, her bony fingers like whips against my skin. Then, reaching for a belt around her waist, she clasped at a handle and drew out a knife. Holding the back of my head, she pulled me closer to her.

"Stop," I wheezed.

She ran the tip of the blade against my upper cheek, beneath my right eye socket, in one sweeping crescent motion.

I cried out again, tears leaking from my eyes.

"Stop," I rasped. "Stop it!"

She came at me again with the knife, but before she could make a second contact with the blade, one of the men gripped her by the arm and snatched the weapon from her hand.

"Enough," he said gruffly. "We don't want her so cut up just yet."

Ada, eyes still glimmering with rage, grabbed my neck and forced my head downward, toward the feet of the tattooed man. She squashed my face against his boots, their grime soiling my skin.

"Know your place before a man!" she hissed.

She held me there for five seconds before releasing me and stepping backward.

I pressed my back against the wall in a feeble attempt to distance myself from the men I was left with.

"The second reason you are here," the tattooed man went on, as if there had been no interruption, "is to assist us in sending a message to any other bitches like you who have managed to leech their way into Patrus."

He moved to me and, holding my hair, panned my head to the camera again. "Say hello," he whispered, his mouth inches from my ear. He snickered, reaching into his pocket and drawing out a strip of brown fabric with two holes gouged into it. His male companion produced the same and so did Ada. They tied them around their heads so that the upper halves of their faces were obscured but for their eyes.

Another man entered the room, both of them sporting similar masks… and one of them carrying a hot iron bar.

The man carrying the bar handed it to Ada. She waved it around before my face, taunting me with it, bringing it closer until its heat caused my skin to break out in a heavy sweat.

She gathered a strand of my hair and trailed it over the hot iron, singeing it and producing a sickening burning smell. She waved the frayed ends of my hair before my face, pressing them to my nostrils.

"Imagine what your skin will smell like."

She grabbed my arm and extended it before glancing at the camera. An oily smile glided across her face as she addressed the lens. "This is for every woman out there who thinks it's okay to shout back at her man."

She lowered the iron bar against my sensitive inner wrist.

My skin exploded in agony. A screech erupted from my throat. I was sure that I would pass out.

Still eyeing the camera, the woman went on, "For every woman who thinks she can cheat, or talk behind his back."

Another strike of the iron bar, a few inches further up my arm. Somehow, it was even worse this time, knowing what was coming. Tears spilled from my eyes as I struggled to break away from her grasp.

Still, she went on addressing the camera, "For every woman who thinks she knows better."

Another burn, climbing up my shoulder. My entire body, drenched in sweat, had begun to shake uncontrollably.

"And this," she said, in a lower voice, a terrifying sense of finality to her tone, "is for every bitch who thinks she's equal."

I was sure that the madwoman was going to strike me in the chest, maybe even drive the sharp end of the rod through my heart… So it came as a surprise when she stalled, and instead placed the rod down on the floor.

The runaway criminal standing behind Ada gave me a knowing smile, relishing my fear.

Bastard. I saw your cowardly ass run away from me back on that street.

He bent down to my level and I flinched as his hand gripped the side of my face, his calloused thumb touching my cheek.

"It's a shame," he said. "Look at you—young, blessed with good looks, a nice body… We don't treat all female visitors to Porteque like this, you know. Some of them we even make wives out of, like Ada. We found her at sixteen."

"Why are you telling me this?" I croaked.

He sighed. "I'm not telling you as much as I'm telling the women who will watch this."

He let go of my face and rose to his feet. He addressed his companions surrounding us. "Bring in the table."

One of the men exited and returned a few seconds later, pushing along a rickety steel table on wheels. It had wrist and ankle holds attached to either end of it. Ada manifested a key and freed me from my current chains one at a time. I immediately leapt for the door, but it was a hopeless endeavor. My captors crowded around me, wrestling me into submission. They dragged me to the table where they strapped me down. These restraints were tighter and it felt like they stopped the blood flowing to my feet and hands. Maybe that was the idea.

As they gathered around me, the runaway man spoke:

"Cut her."

I writhed as they reached into their belts and withdrew knives. They used the steel edges of the table to sharpen the blades, Ada on my right even gouging me in the thigh as she did so, deliberately careless.

These people are insane.

"Stop!" I begged. "Please, I'll do anything! Just stop!"

That I had resorted to begging these animals cut me to the core, deeper than any knife could. It felt like renouncing any semblance of dignity I had left.

These people needed to be lined up and shot. If only I had a gun. Ms. Dale's last-minute training would've actually been useful.

"How do you want to do this?" Ada asked the runaway. They appeared to have finished sharpening their knives.

The runaway, standing closest to my head, replied, "Same as the last."

His answer brought a dozen nightmarish visions to my mind. As their knives descended on me, all I could do was close my eyes and pray. I thought of Viggo, about the chance I’d never have to see him again, and about the mission and my lost opportunity to reunite with Tim.

As the blades began to press into me, piercing skin, a man yelled outside.

"EVACUATE!"

The door burst open and in stepped another man, face shining with sweat, eyes alight with alarm. "Wardens!" he panted.

The word sent relief rolling through my body.

"WHAT?" the runaway man yelled back. "Impossible! They can't have reached us so quickly!"

"They're here!" he insisted.

Ada and the men surrounding me swore. Shoving their knives back in their belts, they loosened me from the table before grabbing hold of me. The tallest man—the runaway—hauled me over his shoulder, dangling me upside down, while a second man grabbed my wrists and held them tightly together. That didn't stop me from thrashing my legs. As they carried me out of the dank room and up a flight of grimy stairs, the man holding my wrists connected his knee with my face, sending my head into another tailspin.

I could no longer keep track of where we were going or who was around me. All I knew was that their route was dark and bumpy, and then the air suddenly became a lot colder. A chill wind caused my skin to break out in goosebumps. We were outside.

I caught the glare of headlights to our right, and a loud roaring noise in the distance. Then came gunshots. We reached some kind of vehicle and I was shoved into a spacious trunk and locked inside.

I had no idea how much time had passed since I had been kidnapped. But the man had said that the wardens' arrival was quick. I had no idea how the "wardens" had managed to locate me so quickly, given that Porteque was supposed to be tucked away in the depths of the mountains—somewhere even Viggo seemed hesitant to enter.

I was rolled from side to side as the vehicle picked up speed, in spite of the hard bumps in whatever road—or track—we were following. I tried to grab hold of something to avoid more injury, but soon we were traveling so fast, the bumps so wild, it was impossible to avoid getting banged about.

What's going on?

Where are they taking me?

The ground tilted in a slope. I rolled to the other side of the trunk. My stomach dropped. We were going downhill. Fast.

The gunshots grew louder behind us.

The base of the vehicle vibrated, then we shuddered to a stop that sent the back of my head smashing against the trunk's side wall.

The truck bobbed as people climbed out, unloading it of weight, and then the trunk opened. Two hands shot inside and grabbed me, yanking me out, and my feet sank into shallow water. We were in the dip of a wooded area and, as I gazed around wildly, I noticed we were surrounded by a crowd of men—and one woman—and five trucks. I gazed up at the slope we had just descended. Its steepness made me feel nauseated. The gunshots echoing down came from somewhere near the top.

The man, whom I realized was the same coward who had run away, tugged on me, pulling me through the water as everyone else began to cross the stream.

I wouldn't let them drag me further.

The man must've thought that I was too weak to put up much of a fight now. My nose had started bleeding again, and my brain was clouded, but desperation had a way of making you find strength you thought you'd lost.

I dropped all of my weight downward, my backside hitting the rocky bed of the stream. My wrist slipped from the man's grasp and I lurched for his knees, toppling him backward into the water. As he landed, his right hand instantly moved to his knife. But I had already predicted that.

I slid the blade out of its sheath and without a second's hesitation slashed his throat in a fit of fury. His blood drenched my hands and arms and flowed around me as I fought to stand up… only to be instantly struck by a vicious blow to the back of my head. The jolt caused my grip around the knife to slacken and it flew from my hands as I tripped. The upper half of me fell on land, but my legs and feet still trailed in the water.

I cried out as a foot stamped down on my back. Then hands gripped my neck, fingers gouging into my throat. With whatever renewed energy I'd managed to summon rapidly ebbing away, I fumbled around on the ground, searching for a sharp rock. Discovering a stone that felt jagged enough to cut skin, I raised my arms and pressed down hard against the man's hands with one palm, while using the other hand to rip sharply with the pointed tip of the stone where I estimated his wrist was.

Wherever I'd managed to strike, it worked. His hold on me loosened enough for me to gasp for air. I twisted myself around, only to see my latest attacker joined by five other men. They weren't going to mess around this time. They knew it. I knew it. The deprivation of oxygen had made me too weak to stand up anymore. I couldn’t even attempt to continue defending myself.