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Maybe he was one of those rare nice people. He’d tried to protect me from bleeding and bullying, now I might need to make sure that kindness of his didn’t get him hurt. The vulnerability he was showing made me want to help, even if I wasn’t sure how.
“You were one of his victims?” I asked as our watches buzzed.
Drake sighed and looked at his wrist. “What does yours say?”
With a sigh of my own, I checked. On the table is oil. It is heated to one-hundred-twenty degrees. Drizzle it across their bodies to induce first degree burns.
I lifted my eyes to Drake. “It says some fucked-up shit.”
“Yeah,” Drake said in resignation. “Mine too. Let’s get started.”
We walked over to the table that yesterday had only held the massive shears. Today there were two temperature-controlled hotplates with tea kettles on them. I lifted the lid to find thick yellowish oil percolating inside. Sam hadn’t lied. The temperature on the side read one-twenty. This wouldn’t be pleasant for the men.
As bad as it was, there was no sympathy from me. There was no way I could feel bad for the pieces of shit sitting there, tied to those chairs.
Grabbing one of the kettles, I walked over and stood above Branson. He looked so small. Helpless. It infuriated me that this worthless son of a bitch had ever filled me with so much terror and self-loathing. With a flick of my wrist, I tilted the kettle and dripped a thin line of oil across his thigh. Branson yelped and tried to twist away, but his legs were tied too securely.
“Jesus, that hurts. Stop, please,” he begged.
I gritted my teeth in rage. How many times had I howled for him to stop? I’d sobbed and cried while he’d shoved himself into me over and over again. Now he was begging me. He wanted my mercy. I dropped a thicker stream of oil across his chest, making sure some fell on the open wounds of his former nipples.
This time he shrieked.
I was caught in a strange no-man’s-land. My head told me what I was doing was wrong yet even if it was immoral and crazy, I also felt that same power I’d had the day before.
The other man screeched in pain. Looking over, I watched Drake doing the same thing to his captive that I was to mine. Drake and I shared something deep. We both had demons and now we had the opportunity to tame them. If we were being held here and forced to do this, we might as well enjoy it.
Our eyes met for an electric moment. Something passed between us, something heady, before I returned my attention to the excuse of a human being I was punishing. Without an ounce of remorse, I drizzled hot oil across his back, neck and arms before my device buzzed with a new message: Open the drawers. It’s time to take what these men love most. Punishment is the only way.
Drake was looking at his own wrist, then looked at me and shook his head. He looked tired as he walked to the table with me. We placed the tea kettles back on their warming plates and pulled open the drawer beneath. I wasn’t sure what I was looking at. I picked it up to get a better look. It was like a pair of weird pliers that had four pins that moved outward when the handle was squeezed. There were very small rubber bands in a pile beside it. I looked at Drake, hoping he’d be able to explain, but his brow was creased and a confused expression played across his face.
Instead of another message, Sam spoke to us. His voice boomed out into the room, surprising all four of us. The suffering men jumped, as did Drake and I.
“In the drawer, you will find a special tool, one that most have never seen. Unless, of course, they’ve spent time on a farm. This is a cattle emasculator. The men in this room require the most severe punishment. You will burn their genitals with the oil. After, you will use the tool to attach the bands to the base of their penis and testicles. The band will cut off all blood flow to the appendages. After several hours of intense and unending pain, the genitals will go numb before dying. The useless and shriveled remains will dry and fall off within a week to ten days. Please begin.”
There was a moment of horrified stillness in the room after Sam spoke. The first one to say anything was Branson.
“No. No. No. No. No.” He cried the word over and over, and he jerked and pulled at his restraints. The metal chair sat sturdily, not budging an inch. Blood oozed from his arms and legs where the zip ties had cut into the skin.
The scarred man started up next. He shook his head back and forth and sobbed. “Please, dear lord, someone save me.” He whimpered and sobbed while Branson’s screams continued.
Still the same word. Between the two of them, the noise turned into a din, obnoxious white noise assaulting my eardrums.
How many kids had screamed like that when these two raped them?
The screams drove any shred of remorse or pity from me. I turned toward Drake.
His face was set in stern lines as he nodded at me. He grabbed a tea kettle. “Come on. We’ll do yours first. This is how it works. The worse the task the bigger the reward, and the worse the punishment if you refuse.”
“Is it always like this?” I asked.
“Basically. Yeah.” He walked toward Branson
I only hesitated for a moment before going into action. I pulled a few of the tiny bands out of the drawer and followed Drake. My heart raced and my hands shook as I held the tool and my blood roared in my ears. There was no coming back from this. Once I took this step, I’d never be the same person.
Did I want to be the same person? Fuck, I didn’t know. The power I’d discovered yesterday wasn’t something I was prepared to never feel again.
Drake stood over a screaming Branson, holding the kettle ready. He locked eyes with me. “Ready?” he asked when Branson went silent long enough to take a breath.
