Survivors - Jean Lorrah [3]
Although in her heart she knew it was hopeless, the girl used rage to keep fear at bay.
A foot was thrust into her path. She fell headlong, unable to catch herself. She turned her face sideways, but her cheek still impacted painfully with solid rock and she came to being partly carried, partly dragged up into the night air, chill against her skin. The man carrying her was swearing and sweating with the exertion, but it did nothing to warm her. Despite her best intentions, shock and fear took her. She shivered uncontrollably.
“Let’s rest here,” she heard the leader’s voice. “Damn-I’m still bleedin’!”
The girl was dumped to the ground, but did not see the kick coming and so could not avoid it. It caught her in the ribs. She cried out in pain, and felt her trembling increase.
“Wassamatter girl-you cold? Good! You made me suffer, you suffer. Shunta kicked ya-don’t want no marks t’spoil yer price. But no reason you should be comfortable.”
The girl felt the knife at her throat, but it didn’t cut her skin. Instead, the strings holding the top of her garment were severed, and it dropped off. Then the knife was at her waistband, slitting the rest of her clothes, peeling them off as if he were skinning her, while the other men murmured approvingly. The memory of former pain and humiliation refused to be denied. The girl lost contact with her anger and shivered more and more violently-
“What’s going on here? What do you men think you’re doing?” an authoritative voice rang out.
“Who’re you?” the rape gang leader responded. Even through her shock and despair the girl heard astonishment and a hint of fear in his voice.
“My God!” said another voice, this one female. “They’re raping her! Dare-stop them!”
“She’s mine!” exclaimed the gang leader. “You got yer own woman!”
“Let her go,” said the authoritative voice again. “She can tell us whether she’s yours or not.”
The strange voices were hard to understand; the girl had never heard anyone who spoke just like them before, even though they were speaking her language.
“Lookit!” said one of the gang members. “They got a purty woman, jewelry, an’ technic stuff! There’s only three of ‘em-“
“Shut up! You want druglords’ revenge?”
“Drop ‘em down the pits. No one’ll know. It’s only three, Hafe! Look, man, that’s gold they’re wearin’!”
With her head covered, the girl could not tell exactly what happened, but she could guess that greed overcame fear, and the gang rushed the newcomers, intending to rob and kill them.
Grasping the unexpected chance, she began worming away from the sounds of the fight.
She heard a strange, high-pitched whirring sound, like nothing she had ever heard before, and thuds of bodies dropping, followed by gasps of fear and footsteps running … away.
Hands touched her. She squirmed and kicked in terror.
“Hey-it’s all right!” said the female voice. “We’re not going to hurt you. You’re safe now.”
The hands were untying the hood, so the girl lay still, desperate to be free of it. “Oh, my God-it’s just a little girl!” said the woman. “Honey, you’re safe,” she repeated. “We won’t let them hurt you anymore.”
There was light, not torch beams but some strange bright electric light that brought tears to the girl’s eyes as she peered up at her new captors.
The woman was at her side, but the girl’s eyes traveled past without taking her in, looking up, up long black-clad legs, past some sort of yellow-green pattern on his chest to the face of her new possessor.
To the terrified girl, it seemed a cruel face, staring into hers with eyes as dark and cold as the winter sky. Then the full lips parted, and compassion she assumed was false warmed his features as he squatted down beside her. “Poor little thing! Margie, can’t you get her hands untied?”
“They’re not tied,” said the woman. “They’re hand-cuffed.”
“Can you talk?” the man asked. “Can you understand us?”
“I … understand,” the girl