her way into the brush, finding a tissue in the inside breast pocket of her jacket. The night was alive with sounds, the scraping and chittering of insects, the breezes splashing through the trees. Clio squatted down to pee.
When she stood up, pulling up her pants, she heard a noise in front of her, saw a movement of shadow, heard a man say, “Might as well leave them down, girl.”
In her surprise, Clio jerked back, hit her head against a tree, and tried to rise with her pants around her knees and her feet struggling to dig in and run. Then the man struck her, with a bruising slap to the side of her face. The blow sent her reeling back against the tree, where she toppled, stunned.
Her ears sang. For an instant she was only conscious of the pain of her body, of her head threatening to crack open and spill all that she knew, all that she was. Then he was smashing her into the ground, and his boots pushed her ankles apart, and she heard noises in the direction of the camp, shouts and trampling feet. His knee was wrenched into her groin, and she cried out in pain as he leaned harder into her, but her shoulders were free as the man fumbled with something, a flashlight.
She twisted her shoulders, punching into his fleshy gut, and screamed with all the breath she could muster, but it sounded like a scream under water. When he flicked on a light, aiming it into her eyes, she stopped screaming and froze as he grabbed at her shirt and clawed his hands across her breasts.
“Pretty, too,” he said, with a twist in his face. He pierced her cheek with a needle, no, not a needle, a scratch pack, and in her thrashing it went in deep. She could smell the man’s cologne: a sweet, vinegary scent that, crazily, reminded her of her eighth-grade boyfriend, Keith Irving. The man held the scratch pack under the flashlight, watching for the color to turn, and when her smear of blood turned into deep purple, like a bruise, he said, “You’re clean,” in a friendly voice, “lucky for you. Well, now, let’s have us some fun.”
Something in the man’s words. In her wooziness, Clio heard
Have us some fun, have us some fun
, and she wanted to strike the words from his mouth. Her right arm flew up to his face and she jammed her thumb into his left eye, and for a moment he reeled backward—just in time to receive her foot in his groin. She rolled away from him, onto her hands and knees, scuttling fast for the brush until she felt a fierce pull on her ankle with a strength that dragged her back, back, and she heard him spit out, “Son of a bitch, son of a fucking bitch,” and then she felt herself whipped over onto her back.
A voice and a flashlight came from above as someone appeared beside them. “Get off her, Cole, you dickhead.”Another man was standing at their side, shining the flashlight in Clio’s eyes.
“You gotta be kidding! At the point I’m at? You can have her next, asshole.” He pushed her legs wider apart. The other man lunged at him, toppling him off her. They argued, leaving her on the ground, still aiming the flashlight at her so she couldn’t see, but only felt the rocks against her back.
She heard the second man say, “She’s Recon, you know that? Biotime for chrissakes.”
“I wasn’t going to kill her, I was just going to fuck her.” He punctuated the word “fuck” with a kick into her ribs. The flashlight switched away from her face as the men moved off. She heard the second man say, “Don’t want to hurt the merchandise, shithead.”
Clio crawled away from the spot where she had lain, pulling on her clothes, unable to stand. The woods were quiet except for the dry leaves crunching under her hands and knees. She heard a small barking sound. Realized it was coming from her as she emitted short, staccato gasps. She stifled herself, kneeled in the underbrush, and listened for her attackers.
She heard someone call her name. Zee. Zee calling her name. “Here,” she said, but it was more of a croak.
When she stood up, pulling up her pants, she heard a noise in front of her, saw a movement of shadow, heard a man say, “Might as well leave them down, girl.”
In her surprise, Clio jerked back, hit her head against a tree, and tried to rise with her pants around her knees and her feet struggling to dig in and run. Then the man struck her, with a bruising slap to the side of her face. The blow sent her reeling back against the tree, where she toppled, stunned.
Her ears sang. For an instant she was only conscious of the pain of her body, of her head threatening to crack open and spill all that she knew, all that she was. Then he was smashing her into the ground, and his boots pushed her ankles apart, and she heard noises in the direction of the camp, shouts and trampling feet. His knee was wrenched into her groin, and she cried out in pain as he leaned harder into her, but her shoulders were free as the man fumbled with something, a flashlight.
She twisted her shoulders, punching into his fleshy gut, and screamed with all the breath she could muster, but it sounded like a scream under water. When he flicked on a light, aiming it into her eyes, she stopped screaming and froze as he grabbed at her shirt and clawed his hands across her breasts.
“Pretty, too,” he said, with a twist in his face. He pierced her cheek with a needle, no, not a needle, a scratch pack, and in her thrashing it went in deep. She could smell the man’s cologne: a sweet, vinegary scent that, crazily, reminded her of her eighth-grade boyfriend, Keith Irving. The man held the scratch pack under the flashlight, watching for the color to turn, and when her smear of blood turned into deep purple, like a bruise, he said, “You’re clean,” in a friendly voice, “lucky for you. Well, now, let’s have us some fun.”
Something in the man’s words. In her wooziness, Clio heard
Have us some fun, have us some fun
, and she wanted to strike the words from his mouth. Her right arm flew up to his face and she jammed her thumb into his left eye, and for a moment he reeled backward—just in time to receive her foot in his groin. She rolled away from him, onto her hands and knees, scuttling fast for the brush until she felt a fierce pull on her ankle with a strength that dragged her back, back, and she heard him spit out, “Son of a bitch, son of a fucking bitch,” and then she felt herself whipped over onto her back.
A voice and a flashlight came from above as someone appeared beside them. “Get off her, Cole, you dickhead.”Another man was standing at their side, shining the flashlight in Clio’s eyes.
“You gotta be kidding! At the point I’m at? You can have her next, asshole.” He pushed her legs wider apart. The other man lunged at him, toppling him off her. They argued, leaving her on the ground, still aiming the flashlight at her so she couldn’t see, but only felt the rocks against her back.
She heard the second man say, “She’s Recon, you know that? Biotime for chrissakes.”
“I wasn’t going to kill her, I was just going to fuck her.” He punctuated the word “fuck” with a kick into her ribs. The flashlight switched away from her face as the men moved off. She heard the second man say, “Don’t want to hurt the merchandise, shithead.”
Clio crawled away from the spot where she had lain, pulling on her clothes, unable to stand. The woods were quiet except for the dry leaves crunching under her hands and knees. She heard a small barking sound. Realized it was coming from her as she emitted short, staccato gasps. She stifled herself, kneeled in the underbrush, and listened for her attackers.
She heard someone call her name. Zee. Zee calling her name. “Here,” she said, but it was more of a croak.
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