The Murdered World 35

It had been easy for Christina to make her way out of the girls’ bunkroom. Emma had dozed off with her nightstand’s table lamp on, her long legs curled up underneath her as she read. Now she was awoken; jerked upright by a scream that sounded like an animal had just been led into a slaughterhouse.

At first she thought it must be a part of her fading dream. Anyone would have nightmares after a nuclear explosion. She tried to recall her place in the book so she could save it. Then she heard another squealing cry and she lost her place entirely.

It was real. She was awake and alert and thinking furiously.

There were only two other people in the bunker; Emma knew she wasn’t making that sound. So it had to be Frank or Christina. Could Christina want revenge for Frank? Maybe simply, as Frank had suggested, decided to make a preemptive strike to be sure they were safe from him?

Emma doubted it. Maybe she didn’t know Christina as well as she thought, maybe her sister was really a complete stranger to her—but if Christina wanted to take Frank out, she would come to Emma for help. It only made sense. Christina knew Emma would take her side and that she’d need all the help she could get against a hulking brute like that.

Which made it Christina that was screaming. And Frank doing to her something that was making her scream.

Emma looked around for a weapon. She settled on the table lamp. It was a high-tech, Sharper Image kind of deal. The base, a few inches in length, was attached to a cord that plugged into a USB slot. The next several inches was a tubular LED light. Like a really big glowstick.

Emma picked it up and slapped it against her other palm. It had some heft to it. If the glass broke, she could jab it into Frank’s flesh. He’d still probably kill her, but if he was hurting Christina, his attentions would turn to her soon enough anyway; even if he preferred Christina, it wasn’t like she was that much hotter than Emma.

And she could probably cut him up bad enough that, after he wrung both the sisters’ throats, he’d die of blood loss. One more corpse to bury in the crater of Miami.

Once, a thought like that would’ve given Emma pause. Now it made only too much sense to her. She unplugged the table lamp. It kept glowing from its battery. Emma wound the power cable around her off-hand and walked to the door. When she went down the corridor, she held the lamp out in front of her like she was brandishing a weapon at the darkness.

Unexpectedly, she felt a womanly bond with Christina. What Angel had tried to do to Emma was now what Frank was doing to her sister. Now that she was out in the hallway, the sound wasn’t muffled, but echoed about. She could discern pleading, frenzied terror.

Emma hoped desperately that Christina wasn’t making those sounds. Maybe Frank had decided to watch a horror movie; who knew what sick shit that freak would relax with? But then why wasn’t Christina there? Had she wanted to sleep somewhere else, like on one of the couches? She knew the lowermost levels were meant to accommodate that, if the higher ones were compromised—but why?

Emma had a giggle, imagining all this worry because she snored in her sleep. Maybe Christina had moved to the living room and was now having a nightmare herself.

Now she heard another cry, this time of pain. If Frank wasn’t causing that, where was he? How could he not want to comfort whoever was making those noises? Was he that much of a sociopath that he could ignore another human being’s abject suffering?

Probably all those guns, Emma thought to herself, hurrying down the corridors in search of the sound. He’s deaf from firing .357 Magnums all day. He just reads lips really well—

Up ahead. The shower room. The noises had to be coming from there. The lights were on and everything. Emma switched off the lamp in her hand, then crept forward. Wondering now if maybe it were a trap. That Frank had broken Christina’s leg or something and now was waiting for Emma to be lured in.

She didn’t know why he would bother doing that when he could’ve probably clobbered them both in their sleep. Maybe he was just such a psycho that he had to go full commando on anyone he was pissed at. Would probably use C4 on some poor bastard who cut in line ahead of him at the DMV…

God, what if it was Frank in the shower? No Christina, just him. Emma imagined bursting in on him naked. The thought intimidated her. He seemed… contained when he was clothed. A big man, power rippling in every tigerish muscle, but she could halfway ignore that when he was wearing an ill-fitting jumpsuit like he was just some slob.

Emma pictured him naked and feared something might just… happen. She knew there was no earthly reason why he would make a pass at her when he was bare-assed and not when he was wearing clothes. But it still seemed like chanting Bloody Mary in front of a dark mirror. Something would Happen.

The shower wasn’t running, but she could hear dripping, draining water. Maybe Christina had just taken a shower and was now toweling herself dry. Emma’s mind seemed out to trick her; she wondered if those noises she heard before could possibly just be Christina delighting in a hot shower. She remembered when they’d been kids, sharing a bedroom and a bathroom. Christina loved her long, hot showers. Hell, maybe she loved them even more now—this bunker was so fancy, it might have massaging showerheads to go with all the other gimmicks.

A long, low moan came out of the shower. It sounded feminine. Maybe Christina was sick—she’d had an attack of some kind—now she couldn’t move. This whole day would be enough to drive anyone to an aneurysm or an embolism or some fucking thing. Emma had to check on her. If she saw Christina jilling off, tough shit. Christy would just have to learn to tie a sock on the doorknob.

Emma quietly eased open the door. She stepped inside; the tiles took her careful steps silently. Then she froze, her heart in her throat.

There, in the middle of the floor, was her sister on all fours, her long red hair streaming down alongside her dangling breasts, her naked and shower-wet body churning back and forth. Frank was kneeling behind her, his hands dug into Christina’s soft waist, holding her tight to his pistoning hips.

They were both facing away from Emma, their bodies at an angle that showed Emma all of how ghoulishly they were intwined. Both their physiques working together like one coupled machine, Frank giving and Christina being forced to take.

Emma slipped and dropped to the floor. The sound of her fall was drunken up by the smack of meeting bodies. Emma almost cried out but forced her scream in with the palm of her hand. She shuddered uncontrollably. She was actually witnessing her sister being ravaged!

“OOOH! NO! DON’T! PLEASE STOP! IT HURTS, FRANK, PLEASE, IT HURTS SO MUCH! YOU HAVE TO STOP, YOU BASTARD, YOU SON OF A BITCH! AAAGH! PLEASE DON’T DO THIS, PLEASE, I’M BEGGING YOU, DON’T, NO, NOT AGAIN! IT HURTS! IT HURTS!”

Emma was shaking too hard to hold onto the lamp. She had to grab the hand holding it with her other hand just so she didn’t drop it to the floor and give herself away. She took deep breaths, trying to regain her composure. What could she do? It was far too late to prevent Christina from being assaulted, obviously. If she acted now, she would ruin her one shot at surprising Frank. And then she’d be in for the same treatment, maybe killed. She had to be smart about this…

And God, could Christina ever use a good fuck, a part of her uncharitably thought.

“IT HURTS SO GOOD! DON’T MAKE ME COME AGAIN, NO, NOT AGAIN! I CAN’T! NOT ANYMORE! OH SHIT, PLEASE, PLEASE, YOU BASTARD, YOU EVIL BASTARD, DON’T! STOP! I HATE YOU, YOU BEAST, HOW CAN YOU DO THIS TO ME? HOW? HOW CAN YOU MAKE ME COME LIKE THIS? AAH!”

Emma went still. Her eyes widened. Her pupils dilated. She couldn’t have heard that right. Christina was being raped, wasn’t she? Used vilely, aggressively, given the roughest fucking Emma could imagine.

She couldn’t actually be enjoying that, could she?