The filthy infant lay screaming upon the moist floor of the forest as her mother, her cries almost as shrill as that of her child, stood several paces away, pinned against a tree by two uniformed, anonymous figures. The field marshal approached the child and gently prodded its clothing with the razor-sharp bayonet point attached to his AK-74 copycat model, specially made for him in the clandestine armaments factory operated directly by members of his unit. Whereas most who were fortunate enough to be equipped with firearms were relegated to utilizing older and carefully maintained weapons from existent stockpiles, certain elite ranking individuals such as himself were supplied with freshly minted firearms such as the one which he now held, for reasons of both practicality and prestige. Hot air infused with his ever-present rage blew from his nostrils, his eyes were wide-open and bloodshot and this along with a heavy black mustache arranged his face in a decidedly intimidating veneer. The cold blue point of the bayonet continued to toy with the flimsy garments of the squiggling child, slowly opening its shirt to reveal a pale white chest holding a fast-beating heart, sped up considerably due to duress, thumping heavily beneath its flesh.
Seeing this from her location several paces off the mother’s cries of distress began to reach horrific proportions. The field marshal raised his left hand in a brief gesture, to which the guards holding her responded by grabbing a handful of her honey-blonde hair and yanking her head downward as another attached a rubber ball-gag to her mouth, stifling her screams so that now only the sound of the infant’s cries permeated the wooded landscape. As if on cue, the field marshal suddenly arced his rifle behind his head and drove it down, skewering the child on the tip of the bayonet. The bayonet set deep into the innocent flesh, directly penetrating into the child’s heart, causing a stream of arterial flow to shoot several feet into the air. The field marshal raised the rifle back up into the air above his head, the bayonet bloody with the crimson flow from its most recent child sacrifice, a veritable moloch in the form of a machined rifle, the small child’s limbs convulsing in its death throes. Deftly and with much skill, as he had assuredly done this before, the field marshal held the rifle at an angle so that the blood flowed downward without soaking the preciously oiled metal of the main part of the gun. Smiling beneath his thick black mustache, the field marshal eyed the mother: his eyes filled with an insane mania, hers filled with a shock beyond all reason. The child’s cries were now silent and he placed his mouth in line of the blood flow allowing the rivulets of blood to fill his mouth, staining his face and mustache in hideous ornamentation.
After making his point known and as the blood began to cease its flow, the field marshal lowered the bayonet, still bearing the twitching infant on its point, and unceremoniously pushed the corpse off of the weapon’s deadly accoutrement with one heel of his combat boot. The child hit the ground with a dull thump, the last of its blood spreading around in a muddied pool upon the earth, its milky eyes frozen in the pangs of death. The field marshal looked at his guards, their faces revealing nothing but cold, cruel eyes behind the black balaclavas which were the hallmark of the internal security forces. The field marshal raised his left hand in a similar brief gesture as before. “Do as you want with the woman and with the remains of the child.” With that and a final sardonic smile, this time aimed at his men, he turned from the scene and marched several yards into the forest toward the small tent that functioned as his temporary headquarters for small unit operations in the area. Behind him, the guards paired off with the woman and the corpse of the child respectively, enjoying their peculiar tastes to the hilt.
Inside his tent, the field marshal sat down in a shadowed corner and took a cloth to clean the infant’s blood from his face. The child’s blood had encrusted in his mustache from his earlier imbibement and his attention to grooming in this respect was left half-undone intentionally, so that his men could visibly view the tell-tale signs of his cannabalistic orgy and so that he himself could enjoy the traces of the harsh iron scent of the child’s blood, reminding him of his undertakings, a notch in his myriad successes. Unlike the pathetic excuses for military formations before the nuclear wars had etched their memory of mass murder onto the fields of the earth, the military formations now wore their proclivity for bloodshed on their sleeve. That was as it should be, according to some at least. The field marshal turned to the black screen of his small portable laptop, a scaled-down version more similar to a stand-alone word processor than the more sophisticated equipment that generations before him were once used to and, lighting a cigar and letting the smoke billow around his face, he began to write the minutes of the last several days’ operations which were quickly drawing to a close. Soon he would be back at headquarters and then the real work would begin.
Since the last time he had been at HQ the pressure of unfolding events had heightened considerably. The entire organization was undergoing a brutal increase in internal discipline, some referred to it as a purge, commiserate with its continued successes on the field. Usually in charge of a much larger force, the small unit action he had been undertaking during the last several weeks made up for what it lacked in manpower in the level of its sensitivity and the brutality and efficiency with which he had accomplished his orders thus far, assuring him of continued prestige and favor in the eyes of the commander. The commander was the ultimate authority and was the highest deity within the organization, although various death cults worshiping varied demonic entities and past martyred operatives flourished amongst the rank and file, which helped boost their morale in an otherwise hellish situation and also seemed to provide inspiration and increase operational acumen in the fulfillment of their equally hellish missions. As long as the commander remained at the helm as the unquestionable deity, a thousand flowers were allowed to bloom in relation to subversive cult factions. No great wonder, considering that most of them were manufactured directly by the intelligence sector itself and disseminated quietly, giving the impression that they were organic in manifestation.
The headquarters of the organization was housed in a giant and imposing stone structure, the nerve-center which was housed in what was a former high-security federal penitentiary in the old days and which now served as the fortress housing the commander and large numbers of shock troops and internal security forces. The organization had annexed the infrastructure of the surrounding small towns that had once survived economically via employment at the penitentiary, with the security level of the resident operatives living in the area increasing or decreasing according to their proximity to the main compound. In the administrative buildings behind the concertina wire, hundreds of faceless individuals worked in the offices and interrogation rooms of the internal security sector, of which the field marshal’s personal security force were members.
The commander stressed the importance of extremely harsh discipline within the organization, with an internal apparatus of repression to match his unmatched megalomania, rising paranoia and fanatic need for cultivating an atmosphere of absolute terror within and without. Punishment of the corporal nature from levels going from conservative to obscene was normative rather than being the exception to the rule. If terror reigned supreme within the organization itself, the commander reasoned, then those so exposed would be perfected as instruments to spread terror outside of territories currently acting as organizational strongholds. The administrative buildings housing the internal security personnel at HQ were split seventy-five twenty-five between offices (some inside former cells) responsible for amassing reports, organizing surveillance material, the drafting of indictments and enhancing internal disciplinary policy and the punitive units, which busied themselves exclusively with interrogation, torture and incarceration.
The former penitentiary had proved an ideal command center and residency for the organization thus far, being virtually impregnable by conventional means from the outside and equally hard to leave from the inside, as appropriate to its former use. On the exercise grounds where convicted murderers and rapists in the old society used to lift weights and walk the track to alleviate the paralysis of a forced sedentary existence in confinement, new murderers and rapists, this time cultivated by the state rather than confined by it, now used the same area as a military drill ground. Black uniformed shock troops, blood lust bred into their very flesh, could be seen training in rotation day and night on the drill grounds, making for a sublimely intimidating sight in the dead of the night as they trained under electric generator powered light, an anomalous sight in the new society where open flame was the standard. The sound of incessant marching, frequent firearms and explosives training, drill masters barking orders from high atop raised platforms overlooking the training areas, frequent alarm sirens piercing the night and the pressurized atmosphere of the prison buildings bathed under gigantic spotlights even in the dead of night were a testament and sign of the commander’s undisputed authority and the prowess of the organization which he had built up from nothing.
Once back at HQ the pace of work would take on an intensity that would make the small unit action he had seen here seem like a vacation in comparison. The field marshal relished the stresses of the battlefield and reveled in the gory brutality that was the hallmark of his campaign style yet, like some perverted sexual deviance that was both compelling and revolting simultaneously, nothing could match the stressors of life on the base. It was as if even the presence of the commander behind the walls of the concertina-wire laden fortress, physically unseen the majority of the time but apparent everywhere, was enough to push the entire facility to psychological boiling point at all times. Soon he would be back.
Instead of being on the drill grounds with the rest of his tactical shock unit at 2:00 A.M. as scheduled, Private Bonn was facing another kind of ordeal altogether. Ten minutes before he should have been marching down the dimly-lit corridors toward the drill grounds with the other men from his barracks a call came over the intercom system. A blistering crackle of distortion erupted from the decrepit wall-mounted speakers followed by an anonymous voice, the standardized organizationally-induced attitude of indiscriminate hatred being the only inflection: “Private Bonn, report to inquiry center immediately, Private Bonn to inquiry center.”
The fact that this had been broadcast over the intercom system at all, sounded aloud in every last corner of the former penitentiary, was injurious enough in itself. Usually any suspected disciplinary infraction of a degree warranting investigation at the inquiry center would be relayed privately via use of a personal courier acting on behalf of their superiors’ orders in internal security. Those who were proven guilty beforehand did not receive a notice, they were simply extracted from their sleeping quarters in the dead of night and never seen again. With the announcement going over the P.A. at an equally nocturnal juncture, it was obvious that psychological warfare was at play, as even a seemingly simple order to report would mark him with high suspicion amongst all of his peers, a gauntlet which had now been thrown down with no mistaking. With the hard eyes of the other shock troops avoiding his glance as they vacated the barracks for drill, it was glaringly obviously to Bonn that the intercom message itself was already tantamount to an indictment in effect. In an anonymous police state within a police state, as the HQ most certainly was, having his own name publicly associated with the inquiry center in anyway whatsoever was much worse than anything that he could have faced at the hands of his unit superiors.
Now Bonn stood alone beneath a vast concrete archway, waiting for the remotely-controlled steel door to the outer portion of the former inmate hospital to open. The entire former hospital building was huge, consisting of three gigantic wings outlayed in steel, concrete and brick and even more secure than the other parts of the high-security installation. Within the former government that held power over the building, one of the stratagems employed for confining those deemed criminally insane was to foster a system of incarceration within incarceration, which meant that not only were such individuals incarcerated but they were also independently committed and confined to certain sections of the institution with it’s own rules and administration. The organization continued this thread within the arts of penology, but employed it in more diverse fashions than the former administrators of the penitentiary would have ever dreamed. The first wing consisted of administrative offices, main ward and medical operations, the second had been used for the terminally ill and doubled as a medicinal storage repository and the third wing had housed the psychiatric facility. Other than a routine interview held in an adjutant building at the beginning of his enlistment, Bonn had never stepped foot in or near the inquiry center in several years, nor as a sane person did he have any desire to do so.
High above on either side of him and to the right, huge-bodied internal security guards stared down at him from their watchtowers, their faces completely black in balaclavas and tinted goggles, silenced MP5 submachine guns clutched threateningly in their black-gloved hands. A low buzzing sound started as the steel door to the inquiry center’s lobby began to slowly open, revealing a brightly-lit foyer, surprisingly antiseptic in feel, with concrete block walls painted cheap white, sparsely decorated with various unit crests from the internal security forces. Bonn entered and was met with surprise when he felt a light tap on his shoulder.
The voice emanated from a female officer, nearly his own height, dressed in the same black uniform as himself, the only distinguishing feature being the presence of a polished Sam Brown belt and a small inexpensively-minted chrome-colored badge which marked her as part of the building’s security detail.
The officer nodded at his confirmation and pointed to the far end of the foyer leading towards a heavy metal door with a small wire-mesh window inlaid three fourths of the way up.
They proceeded to the other door and then on through to a long corridor, the officer removing a large set of keys and opening then locking the entrance behind them. The keys were facets of the original infrastructure of the prison, which came ready made for the commander’s purposes. Nearby military installations had been looted of their hardware and then abandoned, manned by heavily armed squadrons of security troops who guarded some of the decaying military hardware still stored there. While built for launching offensive measures in the past, most military installations had focused on waging war abroad, not domestically, whereas the penitentiary served a very local purpose which made it more secure than the former bases.
At the abandoned bases most of the various large land vehicles and aircraft simply sat, pilfered for random parts and materials as needed. The large amounts of refined fuels necessary to run such mechanized behemoths were long gone and the human personnel knowledgeable on how to operate them were generations dead. Easily maintained vehicles that could continue to function well on old, dirty, mixed and experimental fuel, like combat jeeps and certain of the smaller armored trucks represented the extent of the organization’s motorization. Use of fuel-driven vehicles amongst the non-military populace in areas run by the organization did not exist and even amongst the organization itself their use was becoming less and less frequent as time went on. Whereas elsewhere in the world there were some backwards-thinking dreamers who sought to squeeze the last drop of hope from remnants of the old civilization, the organization was coldly pragmatic in pursuing new ways of doing things. What the organization lacked in ability to harness still existent technologies of the former era was made up for in their ability to inspire - and inflict - heavily ideologically-based terror. The gadgetry of the decadent consumerist society of the past was now mostly useless, but accounts of former dictatorships and the doctrines and methodologies used to hold them together had a more eternal quality, qualities that had been adeptly mined by the commander in his obsessive rise to power.
Private Bonn and his escort stopped at a closed door to the left, halfway down the corridor, further on which led to a large secure area in which was located the former operating theater. By this point Bonn was sheathed in a cold sweat of mounting paranoia, exacerbated by the presence of his escort, who came across as utterly cold and devoid of any conscience whatsoever. The latter attribute no doubt facilitated her being part of the internal security force, who pleasured like nothing else in feeding on their own. In the shock troop units and squads there was still the necessity of maintaining some sort of mutual consideration in order to be functional on large-scale combat missions, however twinged with sadism that mutual consideration might be. Internal security were under no such restraints and represented a different animal altogether.
In the organization it was an unstated rule that seniority was decided by how cruel and insane one had proven themselves to be, both in nature and application. Considering that, the commander was the supreme in cruelty, supreme in the pathology of applied human control mechanisms, and the internal security units functioned as the direct manifestation of that hideous will.
Bonn’s escort rapped on the door twice in rapid succession at which point a buzzer sounded and the door clicked open with a jolt. The uniformed female gestured that Bonn should enter on his own by pushing the door slightly ajar, allowing him to hold it open before turning and marching off back in the direction from which she had come. Not knowing whether he was about to enter an interrogation room or something potentially worse, Bonn entered and the heavy door closed behind him, locking automatically. The room in which he now found himself was several degrees colder than it had been in the corridor. A black internal security unit banner bearing initials and a unit crest involving crossed rifles and a symbol that Bonn did not readily recognize hung behind a large wood frame desk at which sat a severe figure who, like all other personnel on base, was garbed in a black tactical combat uniform. Unlike the uniformed officer who escorted him in the corridor however, this man’s uniform was unique in that it bore no distinguishing sign of rank whatsoever: no unit crest, badge or flourish designating status, nothing at all that would betray what section of the organization to which he was attached.
The coldness of the room was offset by the acrid stench of stale cigarettes. Most people smoked the hand-rolled deal these days, which came in do-it-yourself packets produced within the organization for those who choose to so imbibe, however a few of the uppers had access to the old factory-made filtered kind which had been painstakingly preserved through a variety of humidification processes down through the intervening years. Glancing at the brown glass ashtray sitting on the man’s desk, the private could see that he had been smoking some of the filtered variety, which marked him as higher on the pecking order than anyone he had ever met with one-on-one in his career thus far. Beside the ashtray sat a large bottle of liquor marked with a factory label. In most cases whatever might be in the bottle would assuredly not be what was on the label due to the growing scarcity of anything before the “late unpleasantness” (an understatement if there ever was one) however, considering the existent anomalies that he had observed in this man’s office thus far, Bonn halfway thought the label and the liquor might match in this particular instance. Directly in front of the man sat a thin black binder.
“Private Bonn, please have a seat.”
The man’s voice was rough, perhaps a testament to his obviously high-end tobacco habit, and carried no discernible accent that Bonn could trace. Bonn saluted before taking a seat on the plain metal folding chair at the place it had been positioned, which sat him facing the internal security personnel square on across the desk. The man was completely bald, whether naturally or from shaving could be not ascertained, more than likely he was in his forties and with a face heavily lined from stress. His left hand grasped a pen which he tapped against the desk in rapid staccato fashion, as if gathering his thoughts.
“Let us cut straight to the chase Private Bonn. You can address me simply as officer, is that sufficient? Right. Take a look at this photograph.”
The officer opened up the black binder, which contained a notepad, several folders and a side pocket containing an envelope and an embossed business card, with no name but bearing the same standard as featured on the crest displayed behind his desk which, in its bizarre and disturbing design, seemed to exude the measure of death in every shape, form and fashion imaginable. The officer removed the business card with one swift motion and replaced it facing face downward, having taken notice of his subordinate’s interest. Bonn was impressed, the officer was edging him on, proffering information then concealing it. This was the hallmark of the diplomacy of espionage.
Bonn looked down as the officer placed the envelope in front of him.
Bonn complied and duly opened the envelope as instructed. Several black and white photographic prints, glossy and thus obviously coming from an organizational surveillance unit operation, featured a youngish girl with black pigtails bearing a penetrating stare and livid countenance. The first photograph showed her sitting on a bench somewhere on the compound, dressed smartly in a tailored black uniform, which intimated implicitly her importance to the chain of command, as such perks as tailored clothing were not often given out and certainly not at random. Most organizational uniforms were of roughly a one-size fits-all variety and it was up to the individual organizational personnel to make any necessary adjustments on their own.
Taken at a distance, the image on the photograph was immediately recognized as one having been taken surreptitiously due to the angle from which the picture was taken, which would have not been ideal had the image been taken in an openly stated and official capacity. She sat cross-legged on the bench, casual in posture, the contours of her black uniform pants revealing a very thin, starved figure. Bonn scrutinized the area in which the photograph was taken, noting some small trees in the background and a building that looked both easily recognizable as being part of the commander’s vast compound yet also unrecognizable in terms of it’s exact location.
“Have you been having sexual intercourse with this individual Private Bonn?”
Bonn looked at the officer incredulously, his attention snapping from his analysis of the picture to the unnamed officer before him. He had never seen the girl before in his life and was needless to say not at all pleased with the way that the surprise interview at the inquiry center was going thus far, as he now understood that he was inhabiting a dangerous precipice from which it would be very easy to fall very far into hell.
“I have never seen this girl before in my life officer.”
“I think you’ve been fucking her.”
Bonn’s face began to redden, as the officer’s mood began to move into that of a hostile interrogation.
“Admit that you’ve been fucking her!”
The officer burst out of his seat, walking around his desk and bending slightly down, putting his face less than two inches from Bonn’s ear. His left hand snaked around the back of the folding chair, his palm situated on the private’s left arm, thus able to immobilize it immediately should Bonn make the slightest move. Meanwhile, the officer’s right hand had raised as to grab a hold of Bonn’s collar. The choking was not physically painful to the private, but the message in the forced discomfiture was, as it were, quite resoundingly clear.
“Do you need me to call some people in here to talk to you in a way that you can understand, private? Because you are obviously not understanding me, nor do I believe you are even trying to understand me, isn’t that right?”
Bonn could feel the moist breath of the officer on his ear and neck as the officer made his inquiry in an evenly stated tone, while gradually tightening his grip on Bonn’s jacket. Any moment the unbridled sadism would break loose, Private Bonn could feel it in his guts.
The officer released his grasp on Bonn and stepped back several paces.
“Put your face against the wall trooper…”
“I have never seen this…”
“PUT YOUR FACE AGAINST THE FUCKING WALL YOU SON OF A BITCH!!!”
Any move at resistance would only make things considerably worse, so Bonn walked briskly to the nearest wall and put his nose against it as commanded. Once obediently assuming this posture, the officer promptly walked up behind him without warning and slapped his opened palm against the back of the private’s head with all the force he could muster, making Bonn lurch forward and bust his nose with a resounding crack against the concrete black wall. Blood begin to pour from Bonn’s nostrils in torrents. Bonn grasped at his nose blindly in an attempt to stop the flow of blood before beginning to back away from the surface of the concrete wall.
“DID I TELL YOU TO BACK AWAY FROM THE FUCKING WALL YOU GODDAMN ASSHOLE??? DID I FUCKING TELL YOU TO DO THAT???”
As the screamed admonishment fills the room the officer shot his arm out, grabbing a small fistful of Bonn’s hair before driving his face back into the wall, causing Bonn to scream in pain as blood began spurting anew and with great force out from between his fingers, which still held onto his face in a vain attempt to stop the arterial flow coming from his now twice-broken nose.
Whatever test the private was undergoing he now understood that he was losing and losing fast. His vision was blurry from squinting in pain and shock at the sudden brutal facial wound, his head having also absorbed a portion of the impact against the unyielding concrete wall of the small office within the inquiry center. Bonn began staggering backwards as he felt two other sets of hands, not the officers, grab him from either side and lead him toward the officer’s desk.
“Put that piece of shit over the table.”
The officer, now visibly more composed and somewhat recovered from his aggressive exertions, walked over to the table and removed the glass ashtray and the bottle of liquor with one hand and the leather folder and photographs with the other, placing them out of harm’s way on top of a nearby file cabinet, drab gray in color. Meanwhile, two internal security personnel who apparently had entered while Bonn was in no state for observation, faces completely obscured in black masks and tinted goggles, dragged Bonn over to the desk. Still bleeding heavily, Bonn found himself being bent over the table, his belt being unfastened and his trousers and undergarments being pulled around his ankles.
The officer paused and removed one of the pictures from atop the file cabinet, sliding it into a clear plastic sleeve which he removed from the binder. This he proceeded to slide onto the table directly at eye level with the unfortunate private, now held firmly down on either side by the black-masked and black-attired security guards.
“Dear private, I want you to once again ask you to take a very close look at the picture in front of you. Pay very, very close attention to this face. I am going to ask you several more times if need be, but not for long, certainly not indefinitely, as we are all busy about the organization’s work, isn’t that right? Well, should I say that is we should be, we should be. Have you seen this individual private? We know you have. I know you have personally! Have you had sexual intercourse with this individual perhaps, perhaps even engaged in mutual insubordination against the rule of the internal state together, acting in tandem, acting against the wishes of the commander himself even by proxy? Just let us know private, let us know and you had best let us know right fucking now!” The officer emphasized the last three words by thumping his fist against the table, causing the picture of the girl to fibrillate from the resultant vibrations.
Bonn suddenly felt a cold chill move over him as he recognized the sensation of a gloved finger, greased with some unknown lubricant, being slowly and persistently inserted into his rectum. Bonn stared into the picture, studying the minute counters of the thin-faced girl as the security guard drove his finger deeper into the private’s entrails, the gloved knuckles of his other fingers grinding against the exposed flesh of the private’s naked backside. The violated walls of his anus, stretched out of capacity with no notice from the cold leather-encased finger, caused indescribably painful protests in his internal nerve-endings. Blood flow from the busted nose had now stopped and the existent blood began congealing nastily, clogging his nostrils and causing the private to breath belabored through his mouth, accenting the mood of the molestation now taking place. Bonn’s mind began to race. What was he supposed to do?
“Sir I have never seen this girl in my life…”
Bonn’s voice now sounded like he had been the victim of a three week long cold, as all normal breathing had ceased from his blood-clogged nostrils, causing his mouth to gape open in an attempt to increase oxygen flow into his lungs. The pathetic delivery of his riposte to the officer’s accusations was multiplied by the discomforting and revealing position he was now in, bent over the table like some unfortunate wife preparing for the wild thrustings of a drunken husband.
“…but if you want me to say that I have seen her, then I have seen her.”
“DON’T FUCKING PATRONIZE ME YOU PIECE OF FILTH, YOU FUCKING SHIT!!!”
The officer’s mood had now returned to fully hostile in tone and in an ever-increasing degree than before. Bonn attempted to gather himself to provide some split second reasoning that might assist him in the situation. All the while he continued to stare involuntarily into the black and white photograph of the unknown individual placed before him, the edges of which were now splattered with his own blood. Bonn took note of the plastic casing and could feel the turn of the screws within his own mind, the officer was obviously quite thorough and had more than likely gone through this routine before. At this point, Bonn’s mental sanity began to crack around the edges. In a brief moment of stress-induced hallucination, he could almost believe that the figure in the picture was smiling slightly at his plight. Bringing himself back into the present, he garnered his remaining strength and shouted back at the officer the best he could in his uncomfortable position.
“WHAT DO YOU WANT ME TO SAY?”
He could hear low spoken orders exchanged between the officer and the guards and the finger which was jammed into his guts now became two fingers and moved in as deep as possible, while the other guard jammed a nightstick against the small of the private’s back, pinning him more securely to the officer’s desk and causing him to arch in a posture that was increasingly obscene, as no doubt was appropriate to the situation.
“Private Bonn, I am getting so sick and tired of this endless back and forth. You are now wasting valuable organizational time. You are wasting the shock troopers time, your comrades’ time soldier, as you should be on the drill grounds right now with the other men, this very second? Isn’t that right? This very fucking second?”
Bonn made a groan confirming his assent to the officer’s inquiry.
“But instead of being out on the drill grounds, under the gaze of the commander and you know he is watching at all times, instead of being out there training to be a killer, you are here in my office taking it up the ass like a little fucking slut, aren’t you, aren’t you, you piece of fucking shit!”
As accent to the officer’s lecture, the guard inserted a third finger into Bonn’s rectum and began thrusting back and forth, causing the private’s chin to smear the blood now profusely staining the officer’s table. Bonn could feel an uncomfortable rumbling deep within his intestines. Things were going very, very wrong.
“Don’t you want to go back to the drill grounds private?”
Bonn made a guttural sound that somehow managed to communicate his acquiescence to his interrogator.
“Good, now we are getting somewhere private, you have a goal in mind and goals are important in this life. We have established that you are wasting your unit’s time, however something that also bears airing in the open is that you are wasting my valuable time as well, by continuing to prolong this interrogation and yes, you can tell for yourself by this point that it is an interrogation. Self-criticism without self-rectification is nothing, private, nothing whatsoever!”
“When you waste my time and when you waste the time of internal security then you are directly offending the commander himself, the commander’s institution, the commander’s mission. You like fucking around with internal security or whomever and whoever, no respect for anyone, for any-fucking body?” The officer picked up a leather blackjack from atop one of the file cabinets and slammed it down on the desk less than an inch from Bonn’s face.
“So private, dear, dear private, if you want to continue to live at all - I repeat - IF YOU ARE NOT INTERESTED IN DYING THIS FUCKING SECOND - then you need simply confess and then we can debrief you, end of story. Do you understand? That is the path to your resolution - I am making it as clear as it possibly can be what your option is.”
The words came out strangely due to the stress of his nose injury, which was now certainly beyond all repair and the continued pressure of the gloved fingers probing him from behind.
“You confess? Speak up you piece of shit!”
“I CONFESS!!! I CONFESS!!! I CONFESS!!!”
Bonn felt the nightstick dig deeper into the small of his back.
The officer’s face, visible from the corner of his eye, had become a grimace of an even blacker rage which was fast rising to the surface.
“Private Bonn you do not even DESERVE TO LOOK AT THIS PICTURE!”
The officer snatched the photograph in the plastic casing off the table and out of Bonn’s line of vision, replacing it on top of the file cabinet with a resounding thump.
“You confess to seeing this girl? You confess to seeing this girl? Did you just tell me that you ‘confess’??? Well I say that you have NEVER seen this girl! In fact I am quite sure that you have never seen this girl in your entire miserable life. Are you trying to make me look like an idiot? Well, well now, I think you are the idiot. Soon enough you will be able to discover how much of a goddamned idiot you are for lying to me, lying to internal security, lying to the whole goddamned organization. May as well be lying to the commander himself right? I say again Private Bonn, and I emphasize this so that it will sink in with no chance of misinterpretation on your part, that based on your response you are a fucking LIAR and furthermore you are more than likely a goddamned TRAITOR AS WELL!”
Bonn began to weep silently, adding the salt of his tears, moistening the still-wet blood stains on the desk.
“Clear him out, he doesn’t even deserve that much!”
Bonn felt the gloved fingers withdraw from his anus in one abrupt motion.
The nightstick withdrew from the small of his back and with a shove he felt himself being pushed off the table, slumping to the floor involuntarily.
The guards, faceless and terrifying, stood him up straight, ripping open his combat jacket and removing every other existent piece of clothing from his body within less than two minutes time. One of the guards removed a large knife from his utility belt and slit all the shoelaces from the private’s combat boots before pulling them off and throwing them to the side, thus removing them considerably faster than would have been possible in a more conventional manner.
“DS to control, DS to control, come in control.”
The officer now sat back behind his desk, speaking into a CB-type radio apparatus.
Electronic distortion poured through the attached speaker unit on the small piece of equipment and an anonymous voice spoke on the other end of the line.
“Get two more guards in here and bring some restraints, we are sending this one into R&D so be ready on your side within the next ten minutes for receipt.”
“Confirm on that DS, guards are on their way.”
Before the officer had even sat his microphone down, Bonn could hear the unmistakeable sound of combat boots running down the corridor, along with the metallic jangling of chains.
The door buzzed, opening the lock and two large guards burst in, dressed exactly like their counterparts. They came in shouting and in full raid posture, with firearms drawn, metal chains and leather restraints attached to clips on their belt.
“FACE DOWN ON THE GROUND!!! ON THE GROUND!!!”
The first set of guards who had now succeeded in stripping the private naked, Bonn now only wearing the blood stains on his ruined face, pushed Bonn down and spread him out flat onto the ground, face-down, as the other two guards moved in, holstering their weapons and attaching manacles to his ankles. Handcuffs followed, bringing his hands behind his back. Both sets of restraints were then attached to each other, rendering him hog-tied.
“Good-bye Private Bonn, this could have been considerably easier if you had simply played by the rules.”
Bonn felt himself being painfully gripped at each limb by the four guards and being lifted up from the ground. The coldness of the room was trebled in his state of forced nakedness.
The officer rose from his desk and walked in front of the guards. Bonn’s face stared downward toward the floor and then, as the officer moved closer, he saw the officer’s leather boots come into his view.
The officer grabbed Bonn by the hair, raising his head so that he could see his face despite his awkward position. Bonn’s eyes, clouded with tears and blood, saw through the painful haze the cruel face of the officer, an angry scowl on his face, sweat dripping from his forehead.
“Next time it won’t be so pleasant I can assure you that, hope that you remember that when you get to where they are taking you.”
The door buzzer sounded and the officer walked over, holding the door open for the four guards who proceeded to exit the office with their prisoner.
The guard holding onto the private’s left arm turned his masked face toward the officer.
“If you don’t mind, tell them down at control to send someone in here to clean up the mess, I like to keep a tidy desk.” The officer turned back, looking at the reddish stains pooled across the wooden surface of his desk with disapproval.
The officer retreated into his office, closing his door behind them and leaving the guards to do their duty.
At a breakneck march the guards proceeded down the corridor towards the secure area. A few administrative secretaries were loitering in the corridor outside of one of the investigative offices and cat-called as the guards passed with their bare-assed, hog-tied and weeping captive.
A brunette holding a clipboard turned toward the other secretary who had whistled and lowered her glasses, arching her eyebrows mischievously.
“That little piece of meat is going to be in for the time of his life sister!”
Both women began laughing. The laughing was not pleasant.
The guards, Bonn in tow, marched past the painted line on the ground designating the beginning of the special secure area leading toward the other wings of the internal security building and, proceeding down another corridor to the right, disappeared into the interior of the facility. - excerpted from IRON GATES, Tempel ov Blood 2010
Source: http://ppolaris.files.wordpress.com/2013/12/fenrir-issue1-124yf.pdf
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