Page 43 of Gamma

There’s a bucket on the floor near the door, wads of cash piled within; I see what this is. The men here can’t do what they want to the merchandise, so Spaulding provides one in this room, and they can rape her at will, as long as they pay.

My pistol jerks in my hands, once. It’s deafening in this small space, making my ears ring. Red paints the wall in a Rorschach pattern.

He slides to the floor, revealing a diminutive young girl, eighteen or nineteen. She had blond hair once, but it’s matted, filthy, bloody. Her face is bruised, swollen.

It’s clear she’s been raped beyond counting.

Her blue eyes are dead, flat. They find mine. “Töte mich. Bitte. Bitte!” She suddenly gains unexpected strength, yanking forward against the chains, straining for me; she strains against her chains with such ferocity her wrists bleed. “Ershieß mich! Ershieß Mich, Bitte. Bitte. Jetzt! Bitte ershieß mich.”A sob, wretched, pitiful. “Bitte…bitte.”

I know what she’s saying.

I can’t do it.

I can kill the bad guys. I can’t shoot her. I can’t. I know it would be the kindest mercy for her, after what I dare not even imagine she’s gone through.

I see the key for her chains on a ledge nearby, and I use it, one-handed, to unlock her wrist. The moment I have her second hand free, she attacks me, snatching my gun from my hand before I can react.

The bang takes me by surprise. There was no hesitation in her. She turned it to her temple the moment she had it in her hand.

She topples forward into my arms, wet warmth coating my arms. I lay her on the ground, retrieve my pistol from her hands. Back away on my backside, two bodies in front of me, blood everywhere.

I don’t have anything left to vomit, or I would. It’s a reaction of disgust at myself rather than nausea due to the blood.

Work to my feet. The pistol in my hand is slippery with gore, and I toss it on the ground near the bodies. The dead guard has one, a similar model but newer—a quick check confirms the magazines I have for the pistols will work for both. I like the comfort of knowing I have a backup.

“Madha yahduth?” A voice, scuffle and thunk of boots on stone.

I shove the gun in my waistband with the other, barrel tops pressed together, handles facing away. It’s horribly uncomfortable and stretches my waistband until it hurts, and the blocky metal weapons dig into my skin. No matter—no time to care.

I’d tossed the knife on the ground in the doorway when I decided to make the shot—I pick it up and edge to the wall beside the door. Heart palpitations, palms shaking, breath coming in shivering gasps.

“Yakub?Madha yahduth?”

A sandal in the doorway; the barrel of a rifle.

Shit.

I wait, and he takes a step in. Doesn’t see me beside him, somehow. He’s fixated on the mess before him, his slain comrade, the dead girl. The blood everywhere.

I dart sideways behind him, grab a handful of his hair in one hand and yank his head backward, hard—before he has a chance to shout, I drag the blade across his throat.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

This time, instead of merely seeping down his front, blood sprays everywhere.

I cry out in horrified disgust—I thought the blood spraying everywhere was a movie thing. Guess not. The way I had his head tilted back put pressure on it, maybe? I don’t know. I’m disgusted with myself. I hate this. I want it to be over.

But I have to find Apollo.

I shove the dying man forward into the room and shut the door, bolt it.

Three people with a knife.

I don’t know who I am, anymore. What kind of person am I that I can do this? That I can keep doing this? What kind of monster lives inside me?

Fuck.

I force my feet into motion, back to the cellblock where I assume Apollo and Yelena are being held, dry heaving on the way. I can only spit bile, and hope I find water at some point to rinse out my mouth.