It was cold; the wind whistled through the gaps in the planks of the hut that they’d
made her prison, biting into her like the cuts of a thousand small knives. She huddled
deeper into the foul-smelling straw and tried to keep her mind off images that kept
recurring no matter how hard she tried to dispel them. The farm still smouldering, the man
nailed to a post with barbed wire wrapped tight round his body. In front of him, a few
yards away, the woman – his wife? - Young, perhaps once pretty, the shreds of clothing
still hanging where they’d been ripped off. Her breasts were bruised black, and there was
a large dried patch of blood between her spread thighs, which were scratched and covered
in dry blood. Had they made him watch while it went on? And had she seen them cut off his
balls before they slit her stomach and left them to bleed to death?
      Horror and terror spasmed through her; was it the same group who captured her? It
had to be, because there would one be one such bunch of thugs in an area at any time.
Militia, they called themselves, but they spent as much time terrorising and murdering
their own civilians as they guarded against saboteurs and invaders, and it was tolerated
because it kept difficult areas quiet. How many were they? Fifteen, twenty? What would it
feel…? Stop it! Don’t! Oh, God, let it be quick, please! But it wouldn’t be, she knew: she
was young, pretty and they knew because they’d talked while they were bringing her here.
      “This one’s a real find, isn’t she?” from the younger one. “I could fuck her for a
week!”
      “You’ll fuck her if you’re allowed to fuck her, you young bastard. Me, I’d like her
mouth on my cock.” She felt rough hands on her breasts, squeezing. “Yeah, I reckon we
could make her last a week, but if they let you it won’t be just you dipping your prick
into her, sonny; that’s for sure.”
      Oh, God! How could it have gone so wrong? ‘A quick in-and-out job,’ they’d said,
‘no problem at all. You know the country, you were brought up in the capital and you know
important people. Just get the message, commit it to memory and head for the Embassy.
Piece of cake!’
      Bastards! They must have known! She’d got there all right, but when it came to
making the contacts there was no one to contact: every house was empty and abandoned with
no trace of a living soul and the neighbours scared out of their wits, slamming their
doors in her face when she tried to ask questions. All of them gone as if they’d never
been and there could be only one reason for that: the Black Butterflies, as the security
police were known with grim humour, because they were no joke at all. Black uniforms like
the SS and Gestapo they were modelled on, with bright silver lace filigree work at the
shoulders to earn them their nick-name.
      One last try at one last house and a sound from the cellar, heard only because of
the otherwise deathly silence. Behind the door an old friend from schooldays, his face
barely remembered and now relaxed in near-death, a bullet in his stomach and a
blood-stained envelope in his hand. She didn’t want to take it, hadn’t wanted to touch
him, wanted to run and run. But she’d taken it and read it while he died, groaning, the
tears trickling down her face as she read and re-read, committing it to memory before she
burned it and crumpled the ashes beside the body.
      ‘Head for the Embassy’! And how do you get past four lines of the black and silver
bastards standing shoulder to shoulder, surrounding the place? And even if you could, what
would be the point when there was smoke coming from the windows as a carefully-organised
‘spontaneous mob’ ransacked the place? You don’t: you stand there with your knees gone to
jelly and ice in your stomach and your throat clogged with panic and that was before you
saw the posters with your picture on them and the words: ‘Enemy of the State.’ That was
when you really knew fear.
      Or you thought you did, but that fear was nothing to the gut-wrenching terror she
felt now. Her stomach rebelled, she retched, but she’d thrown up several times so there
was nothing to void. The stink was with her to remind her. Oh, God! If only…
      If only she’d chosen another truck… her panic-stricken flight had become a slow
shuffle, her coat pulled up round her throat and a hurriedly-purchased shawl over her head
when she realised that someone running or even hurrying was a dead give-away. So she’d
acted the old woman until she’d got to one of the markets that had sprung up since things
started getting really bad. This one, she knew, served as the barter centre for the area
out to the west and that was the direction of her last remaining hope: the clandestine
pick-up point where they said they had an emergency homing-cum-emergency rescue beacon.
They said they’d get a plane there; they’d promised. All she had to do was get there.
       There was a battered old truck – there hadn’t been any new ones for years -
standing there, its engine belching fumes almost as smelly as the animals that it had
brought from the country and now it was returning with a part-load of cigarettes, booze
and pirated videos. Not enough to fill it because you can trade only so much consumer
goods for a load of scrawny sheep or cows, but enough to hide behind. It was rough and
uncomfortable, especially since the once-proud motorway had crumbled into a cart-track,
but at least she was going in the right direction.
      If only the driver hadn’t stopped for a piss and to climb into the back to gloat
over the pictures on the covers of some of those videos that she couldn’t help noticing
were pornographic. The look on his face might have been comical if lust hadn’t replaced
the surprise and suspicion as fast as it did. She’d taken off the shawl and had been
half-asleep, so he’d got a good look at her before she realised he was there. Even so, she
was desperate enough to have given him the blow-job and fuck he wanted if she hadn’t
noticed that he was wearing army trousers and boots: he was probably trading stolen
animals and was taking his booty back to his camp. Booty that would include her if she
didn’t get away.
      He hadn’t expected the knee in the balls; he was still screaming as she ran into
the trees, but she’d had to abandon her coat and shawl, leaving her just the dress, which
wasn’t enough in that country and at that late time of the year. She took a bearing on the
sun as it sank and scratched a line in the earth pointing in that direction: she was in
wooded country and had run a good mile from the road, which was now out of sight and so
little used these days that she couldn’t rely on hearing traffic. Her plan was to rest for
the night and then work back to the road, staying in cover, so that she could try to find
a sign to establish her position. 
      She’d wanted to carry on, to put more distance between her and any pursuit, unsure
about whether the driver would report her. But the she reasoned that he probably wouldn’t,
given that he’d have to admit that she’d got away from him. No, he’d probably nurse his
grievance until he came across the next defenceless woman… and God help her. It had been
cold, she remembered, her first night in the open in the country where every sound was
unfamiliar; she’d been scared, but not nearly as gut-wrenchingly terrified as she was
huddled in the straw in that hut.
      The next day she’d headed back to the road, tired and hungry. When she found it,
she followed it, staying in the cover of the trees. That’s when she came across the farm
and forced herself to stay with that scene of horror long enough to find some root
vegetables and a bottle that she was going to fill at the well until she found that they’d
thrown the animals down there. Water had to wait until the next stream; where she crouched
like a hunted savage, gnawing at a turnip and sipping from the bottle. ‘Enemy of the
State?’ How had they known? Would they be looking for her? She was sure they would; if
they’d gone to the trouble of printing that notice, then they’d be looking. 
      She’d heard helicopters during the day, the frequency increasing as time passed.
They were even more numerous the following day, but she felt safe in the trees. There was
no doubt, though, that it was she they were looking for. Eventually she’d found that blue
and white sign hanging drunkenly at the side of the road; it had once spanned it, but it
had collapsed and had been shoved aside. She’d had to risk breaking cover, but it had
seemed worth it: she was only thirty miles from the town they’d named, which meant that
she should be able to find the rendezvous within two or three days. With new hope
blooming, she set out.
      Two days later and she was exhausted, achingly hungry and freezing; she wasn’t sure
how far she’d managed to travel, but she was sure that it was nothing like thirty miles.
Then she’d seen the potato clamp at the side of a field and the thought of even raw potato
was just too good to resist, so she’d chanced it, walking straight into the arms of the
two militia-men on patrol; they were only slightly less surprised than she was, but
reacted a lot faster.
      And now, to add to all the ills that beset her she had to add that mind-numbing
terror while they went to report. And there was nothing she could do about it; she’d
searched the place for rope, glass or anything sharp and there was nothing. If only she’d
kept that lighter, the gift from… from – what was his name? – then she could had set fire
to the straw and die that way; but that was long ago and long gone and besides, they’d
searched her, taking every opportunity to fumble at breast and groin. Oh, God, let me
die!
      She screamed when the door crashed open, driven by a boot; she scrambled back into
a corner, away from the glare of the lamp that was held high behind the man who stood in
the doorway. A big man, jack-booted legs spread wide, hands on his hips, uniform jacket
unbuttoned over a sagging belly. Not big: huge, with a bushy beard and thick, wet lips
that gleamed in the light, giving him a demonic appearance.
      “Noooooooo!”
      “Ha! Denying me already, cunt? Want me to step aside and let this lot,” he hooked
his finger over his shoulder, “in at you? You think they’ll take no for an answer?” He
bellowed laughter, flecks of spittle arcing and glittering in the light. They were crowded
behind him, only their eyes visible, points of brightness against the darkness.
      “God, noooooo!”
      He moved, booted feet brushing aside straw and she could go no further back because
she was pressed hard against the rough wood, so hard that a nail had punctured her skin
un-noticed as she stared up, transfixed by the eyes that glared down, suddenly obscured by
the massive, grimy fist that came down and took her by the hair.
      Pain, screeching pain as he yanked her up, she screamed again, a thin, reedy sound
in her ears and a babble of laughter that she heard through the blood-rushing terror that
clapped and clattered against her mind. Pain that made her follow on her knees, scrabbling
to keep pace, her hands at his wrist as he dragged her to the door, the men parting to
allow him passage.
      Pain, comments:
      “Leave some for us!”
      “Give it to her up the arse!”
      “Whip the bitch! Make her bleed!”
      “Strip her! Let’s have a look!”
      Outside and it was raining, a cold drizzle that she barely noticed, but which
turned the ground to mud under her knees as she was dragged, still screaming, through it,
still scrabbling at the hand that was locked in her hair. Then there was a door, her knees
banging against the threshold as he pulled her through; the bang of it closing and then
yet more pain as she was hurled across a rough floor to tumble against a stone wall.
      Light, bright, blinding her as much as the tears that were in her eyes; tears of
pain and terror as she came to her knees, all too aware of the rents and tears in the
dress. She came to hands and knees, then to her knees alone as she blinked, brushing back
tangled hair to see him looking down at her.  He looked even bigger in the light, the
belly even more pronounced, stretching the khaki vest that he wore beneath his open tunic.
A wide leather belt circled his waist. Then she was looking up at his face, past the
parted wet lips framed in thick brown hair to fierce eyes under lowered brows, eyes that
were clouded with lust. But he was alone.
      “Pleeeeeeaase!” she whimpered.
      “You the bitch that all the fucking shouting’s about? Fucking radio’s been going
crazy. You her, eh?”
      She barely heard through her terror. “Please….”
      She saw his legs move and then he hit her with the back of his hand, the blow
landing on her cheek. She hurtled backwards, stunned, tasting blood in her mouth as her
head rang.
      “Answer me, you cunt!”
      The blow had unlocked her frozen brain. She collected sprawled limbs, vaguely aware
that she had given him a view of her panties; but that was the least of her worries. Back
to hands and knees, then to knees, one hand holding the dress closed because the top two
buttons had gone when she fell. Think!
      “I… please, I come from the… the village down the valley. I… I heard soldiers and
hid. Please, my children…”
      “Shut your fucking mouth! Liar!”
      “No! Please!”
      There was a pause during which she looked up again. He was smiling down at her; his
look sent a shaft of fear through her.
      “So,” he said, “you’re from the village, are you? Went looking for wood in your
Sunday best, did you?” He laughed. “All right, bitch, I’m the commander of the militia in
this area; that makes me the head man round here, doesn’t it? Now how does a simple
country girl like you show proper respect to a man as important as me, eh?”
      She knew the sort of things that went on in the country areas nowadays, or she’d
heard about them. Not that she needed to know any of that to realise what he meant.
      “Oh, I…”
      He took a step towards her. “Want to convince me that you’re not a liar, cunt?
Now’s your chance. Maybe the only one,” he added, inclining his head to the door in
unmistakable threat.