Posted by Extranjero on April 16, 2007 at 13:54:41:
DOLL SOLDIERS (Part 2)
The bodies of the redcoats had been lined up on the grass, like college girls sunbathing in their briefs. But it wasn’t sun-tan lotion that gleamed slickly on their curves, and their snuggled closeness was already cold. The jackets had been stripped off and the helmets gathered up. A hand-held camera tracked from corpse to corpse.
“You see now why we minimise the outfits,” Vincent said. “The less they wear, the more we can re-use it.”
“I couldn’t help but wonder,” Jaz said dryly.
The team in the Control Vault kept on working, unperturbed. Keyboards rattled and computers hummed. The screen was full of punctured tits and heartbroken young faces. Vincent studied them approvingly.
“See that one?” he said as Katy’s body came in view. “We put her in to see if she could pull the rest together. She’d already done two missions, while the rest of them were fresh in from Outside ...”
Katy seemed to gawk at them, like a spoilt girl who’d just seen something horrid. Jaz gazed at her blood-soaked breasts, and felt a pleasant tingle down her spine.
“So, we wipe her memory again - but not her instincts. You saw how much she was on edge, while all the others were just lounging round. Or going for a pee, like that smug bitch …” The camera had moved on to study Leighanne’s shapely corpse. The teenager’s lace briefs were sopping wet.
“… And yet she lets herself get killed - and the snot-nosed little blonde outlives them all!” Vincent sat back in his padded chair and shook his head. “That’s what makes these games such fun. You can’t predict the outcome.”
The Amazons lay tits-up too, Kathleen beside the two girls she had killed. Jaz kept staring at the screen till all the lifeless bodies had been scanned. Then she turned away, towards the electronic map. It occupied a table at the centre of the Vault, the dim air soaking up its greenish glow. She leaned her slender arms against the edge and studied it. The area they’d been looking at was designated here as Range 16. Thirty-odd square miles of grass, with copses here and there, along with foxholes, trenches, even tank wrecks. The wood in which the girls had died was marked as Marston’s Clump. She wondered who had given it that name.
Jaz was a graceful Indian girl, attractive but grim-faced. She wore the standard uniform, black shorts and sleeveless top. Her hair was scraped severely back, in keeping with her humourless expression. Her skin was smooth as caramel, her eyes as dark as bitter chocolate drops.
“Fun and games aside, how are we doing?” she asked flatly.
Unruffled, Vincent swivelled on his chair. She looked at him. Cropped dark hair, a chiselled face, and blue eyes that were almost luminous. Caught by light they seemed to float like pools of burning brandy.
“We’re doing rather well,” he told her calmly. “Enough to form a regiment, and more are graduating every week. They’re soldiers to the marrow after what we put them through. You’d never think they started out as temps and checkout girls.”
Jaz glanced at the screen again. Of course the great majority would end up as dead temps and checkout girls. The wastage in the programme was enormous. The Snatchers had their work cut out to keep the system fed.
Vincent smiled disarmingly and turned to his console. Like the rest of the control team he was wearing a white coat, as if that sanitised the whole procedure. Jaz stayed looking at the map, chewing idly on her thumbnail. The ranges covered thousands of square miles. War and global warming had transformed the former landscape. There were ruined towns now swallowed up within the Training Zone.
“Where else is active today?” she asked.
“We’re setting up an action in the Forest,” Vincent said.
Range 9 was an upland area, popularly know as the Red Forest. Jaz nodded, dark eyes brooding. “Bring it up for me, will you?”
Vincent glanced across the room at Karen, his assistant: a quiet girl with thick brown hair and oval spectacles. She tapped a few commands into her keyboard, and Range 9 unfurled its contours on the map. The picture on the main screen changed to show a wintry woodland, the hidden camera slowly zooming in. An armoured personnel carrier was sitting in a clearing, with a dozen slender figures gathered round.
“What level are they?” Jaz asked.
“Level 6,” said Vincent, “just about to graduate.”
“Jessika’s platoon,” Karen put in.
“And what do you have planned?”
“Infantry skirmish – just to polish up their skills.”
“Virgin troops?”
“Sure. Just a couple of shepherds ...”
“Hit them with a mechanised attack,” Jaz said. “Then send a human wave into their rear.”
Vincent blinked at her. “But they’ve already proved themselves …”
“Then let the bitches prove themselves again.”
“Jaz, what are you playing at?” said Vincent, half intrigued. Jaz gave him a complacent little smile. No-one else would even think of calling her by name, instead of by her rank: Battalion Leader.
“Okay, then.” Vincent raised his hands. He looked at Karen. “Activate some armour.” His assistant typed in more commands. The other techs were busying themselves. Bleeps and clatters echoed off the brickwork of the Vault.
Chevrons of bright light had started moving on the map. Up on the screen, the unsuspecting soldiers huddled round a fire. Vincent looked around again, his pale eyes quizzical.
“Let’s test them to destruction,” murmured Jaz.
* * *
Away from the dry heat of the plain, the foothills were still cool enough for snow. The forest had been dusted white, the clearing blanketed. The morning sun had softened it, and patches of wet grass were showing through. But the thin air was still nippy for a girl with nothing on beneath her coat.
Jessika was sitting on the carrier, with one leg dangling idly down the side. She was a tall girl, auburn-haired, a mischievous expression on her face. Her rank gave her the privilege of a parka, the garment mottled ochre, green and brown. The jacket underneath was black, with a skull emblazoned on the collar patch. Both had lost their buttons and hung open to reveal her underwear. Her half-cup bra and briefs were black, together with her forage cap and boots. A pistol belt was cinched around her hourglass-slim waist.
She sucked air through her cigarette and blew a stream of smoke. The silent forest whispered in her ears. The other girls had gathered round a bonfire in the snow, to gossip and drink coffee from tin mugs. Their forage caps and thigh-length coats were panzer-black as well. Their guns were slung but ready at their sides.
They were as close as sisters now. They sensed each other’s feelings, guessed their thoughts. The giggly camaraderie bespoke a deep coherence. The things they’d seen and done had bonded them.
Jessika could not remember what it was she’d done before the War. Her focus was the here and now – the endless running struggle to survive. But weird dreams still haunted her, like flashbacks to a previous existence. She saw herself in different settings, different uniforms – or even as a naked Amazon. Imagination playing tricks … and yet her instincts drew from every role. She could stalk her prey, fight tool and nail, or use whatever weapon was to hand.
The cigarette ash flared again. She glanced around the group. Sophie smiled delightfully, the most unlikely killer of them all. She was elegant and willowy, with dark bobbed hair and melting-toffee eyes. A posh girl from a private school, and yet she fought with relish, as if this uncouth life was perfect freedom. A rat’s tail hung across her face, and dirt smudged her soft cheek. Her bra and briefs were blue expensive silk.
None of the coats would button up. The girls breathed smokily and hugged themselves. Amelia was a round-faced teenager with playful eyes, her brown hair neatly combed under her cap. She looked as if she’d come here from a Sunday School parade, despite the fishnet stockings that she wore. But she could use a Bergmann sub-machine gun like a bitch. And they still called her the baby of the team.
Zoe was an impish-looking blonde with calm blue eyes. Her yellow gloves and scarf contrasted with her coat and cap. She’d lost her bra along the way, and her shapely breasts were tensed against the cold. She huddled closer to the fire, its oily flicker glowing on her skin.
Deep in the forest, something cracked. Jessika sat up a little straighter. A branch giving way beneath the weight of snow, or something else? She looked round at the firs which hedged them in. The woods were hushed.
A scuffle broke out down below. Amelia had started throwing snowballs. Some of the other girls joined in, the rest looked on with sisterly indulgence. Jessika smiled thinly – then looked skyward. A pink flare had appeared above the treetops. She watched it burning like a daytime star.
“Okay, girls: stand to!” she snapped. The team reacted smoothly. Coffee spilled and sizzled in the snow as guns were cocked. Each girl had a Bergmann with a heavy wooden stock, the magazine projecting from the side.
The flare had drifted out of view. The eerie stillness prickled at their necks. Jessika breathed out and flicked her cigarette away. Then they heard the muffled roar of engines, and a squeaking metal clatter through the trees.
“Jesus …” murmured Jessika. Her team began to bunch instinctively. And yet they kept their cool; she was becoming proud of them. Amelia hunkered down and scooped a snowball up one-handed. “Hey, Justine!” she hissed and Justine turned. A pretty, rather snooty-looking girl with turquoise eyes. Amelia pitched the snowball at her breasts.
Justine gave a little squeal but hadn’t time to duck. The snowball hit her in the chest – and spattered like a rotten red tomato. She jerked with shock, her mouth agape, then let her head fall back. Amelia stared in disbelief. The gunshot took a beat to register. Blood spilled over Justine’s breasts. She teetered back and slumped into the snow.
Even Jessika was stunned, but then she twisted round. Figures were erupting from the tree line, right behind them. Sub-machine guns chattered fiercely, kicking up the snow. The muzzles flashed like flaming feather-dusters.
Her team began returning fire in moments, but the shock had left them reeling and they were still on the back foot. Jessika swung up behind the carrier’s machine gun. She jerked the bolt and swung the weapon round. Attackers charged towards them, girls in tunics or white parkas. She squeezed the trigger over open sights.
The girls were mostly teenagers, the harvest of a dozen bars and nightclubs. Some were still convinced that this was nothing but a really weird trip. Most still wore the sexy underwear that they’d been snatched in, with only caps and coats to keep them warm.
They plunged into the clearing, firing wildly from the hip, as if caught up in some intoxicating game. The blast of heavy bullets were a mortifying shock. They squealed and jiggled helplessly, their precious lives snuffed out like candle flames. The machine gun kept on blazing, blowing holes in perky breasts and punching into slim, athletic stomachs. College students piled up next to shop girls, saucer-eyed. A cumulus of snow engulfed them all.
Jessika ceased firing for a moment. Her ears were ringing and her shoulder ached. Bullets were still raining in. She heard them clang against the carrier’s side. She pivoted with the machine gun, seeking out fresh targets.
The cloud of snow was spreading, and more figures blundered through it. Muzzle flashes stabbed like lightning bolts. The girls in black were splitting up as attackers came at them from every side. Jessika fired another burst, but the nearest enemies were now too close. She swung out of the carrier and dropped lightly to the ground, unbuttoning the holster on her hip.
On the far side of the vehicle, a girl called Judy slipped out of the trees. A seasoned fighter drafted in to “shepherd” the attack, she’d watched the massacre impassively. Those fresh-faced teens had done their job by soaking up the bullets. It was time to let the big girls have a go.
Judy had dark eyes, a pageboy haircut, olive skin. She wore a rust-brown tunic and a sidecap with a Russian star on it. Her lingerie was red as well – a satin bra and panties. Her calf-high boots crunched softly through the snow.
She kept her sub-machine gun braced: a PPSh with a drum magazine. She glanced around for Kelly, but her fellow shepherdess was out of sight. A pall of smoke and powdered snow had spread over the clearing. The fire-fight raged through it like a storm.
Jessika was triggering her Walther `38. A wide-eyed blonde cried out in pain as bullets smashed her breastbone. Amelia fired her Bergmann from the hip, her sweet face snarling. More girls grunted, gurgled and collapsed into the snow. One of them discharged her PPSh convulsively, the bullets searing through Amelia’s stomach. Amelia wailed and doubled up, still firing her own gun. The teenagers kept riddling each other for a moment, their bodies spasming, spattering the snow. Then Amelia sobbed and crumpled sideways like a doll. Her victim arched her spine and then went limp.
Jessika fired furiously. Her girls were falling back. She heard the squeak and rattle getting louder all the time. Sophie’s gun twanged empty. “Fuck!” she said in her posh voice. Jessika gave cover while she swung around the carrier to reload.
Sophie tossed the empty clip away and grabbed a fresh one. She was slotting it in place when she glimpsed Judy standing there. “Jesus, no -” she blurted, but the girl just pulled her trigger. The sub-machine gun blazed ferociously.
Sophie screamed and writhed as she was riddled from her navel to her neck. Her arms flailed out in useless self-defence and then fell back. Blood soaked her posh lingerie, splashed crimson on the snow, and smeared the carrier as she slithered downward.
Judy gave a twisted smile, and died with that expression on her face. A gunshot wound exploded in her forehead, like a bloody asterisk to match the red star on her cap. Her head flipped back, her shapely bosom bulging in her bra. Then her legs gave way and she fell sprawling.
Jessika glared down at her, and fired a shot into the dead girl’s groin. A smoking hole appeared in Judy’s panties and the impact made her pelvis bump and grind. “Bitch!” spat Jessika, and shoved her gun into its holster. She picked the Russian sub-machine gun up.
The shooting was sporadic now, the clearing strewn with corpses. The sheer weight of numbers had unravelled the defence. Judy’s best friend Kelly waved some more of her girls forward and prowled behind them with her weapon aimed. She wore a loose white parka over lacy bra and briefs. The snow hood framed her pretty, brown-eyed face.
Jessika swung into view and sprayed them from the hip. She gripped the sub-machine gun’s drum and shuddered with the vicious rate of fire. The hapless vanguard clutched their breasts and bellies as they dropped. Jessika lunged forward, squeezing off staccato bursts. The muzzle flare was like a fiery starfish. A curvy redhead squealed and died. A blonde with glasses clawed her punctured tits. Jessika glimpsed Zoe, also firing to her right. A sleek Latina girl writhed in their crossfire.
In moments there was no-one on their feet. The guns fell silent. Zoe stumbled back, her bare breasts panting. Jessika was soaked in greasy sweat, despite the chill. She retreated after Zoe with the gun against her hip. She didn’t notice Kelly in the haze.
The girl in white had dived into the snow and lay full length. She brought her head up cautiously. The hood slid off her tumbling chestnut hair. Gathering her slim bare legs, she started creeping forward. Her sub-machine gun bumped across the snow.
“Who’s left?” blurted Jessika – and then the firing started up behind them. She swung around in horror as a tank came roaring, crunching into view. The thing was black, no markings, hatches firmly battened down. She sensed at once that there was no-one in it. It rolled into the clearing, an implacable machine – a robot programmed only to destroy. Machine guns snarled like chainsaws from the turret and the hull. The nearest girls went down without a chance.
“Christ!” said Jessika. She skittered sideways. The black turret rotated, its machine gun spraying everything that moved. The last bewildered teenagers were killed without distinction, their nubile bodies tumbling to the snow. Jessika just reached the carrier’s shelter, but Zoe, at her heels, was just too slow. The stream of bullets caught her and she danced in agony, blood spurting through the back of her black coat. Then she toppled backwards, with her yellow gloves still clutching at the air. A wisp of steam curled upward from her panties as she slumped. Her blood melted the snow into an angel silhouette around her corpse.
The tank came rumbling forward. Bullets drummed and spanged against the carrier. Jessika stood frozen for a moment. Then she lunged towards the fuel cap and wrenched it off. With trembling hands she lit a cigarette and drew on it, then flicked it down into the hole and ran.
She sensed the tank latch onto her, as single-minded as a hunting dog. It slewed round on its belly and came driving at the carrier with force enough to smash the thing aside. The fuel tank ignited then, erupting with a whump, the vehicle exploding into flames. The tank bulldozed the blazing hulk but couldn’t disengage. Black smoke billowed outward like a cloak.
Jessika, still falling back, glimpsed movement from the corner of her eye. She wheeled and fired at Kelly as the other girl was rising to one knee. The PPSh snarled viciously, and crimson poppies bloomed on the white parka. Kelly’s mouth fell open in an O, her brown eyes wide. She sat down on her lace-clad bum and whimpered like a winded little girl.
Jessika glanced at the tank. It would be free in moments. She looked back round at Kelly, and burned off the last ten bullets in her gun. Kelly squealed as bloody holes appeared in her big tits. She thrashed and wriggled in the snow until the sub-machine gun had clunked empty.
Jessika threw down the gun and turned to face the tank. She dragged her pistol out and started firing. The tank had rammed the carrier to one side. It clattered forward. Jessika felt very calm. She backed away from it. One of the machine guns belched and kicked up spouts of snow. She stumbled and went down onto her back.
Lying there, she fired again. The bullet struck the armour and bounced off. She fired once more. The P-38 locked open. She let her gun hand drop and waited numbly, her sweaty breasts pulsating in her bra.
The tank had stopped. It sat there as if savouring the moment. The carrier burned. Dead girls sprawled everywhere. Jessika lay tensed to meet the searing blast of bullets. But the clatter of machine guns didn’t come.
* * *
Jaz stared at the tableau on the screen, then turned her head. “Isn’t she a beauty, though?” she purred.
“I can’t believe you, Jaz,” said Vincent wryly. “You’ve just wiped out a whole platoon to see how good she was!”
“She is good, though,” said Jaz. She smiled up towards the screen. “A real bitch. I want her for the Guard!”