Posted by Menagerie on August 29, 2004 at 07:13:42:
SAVAGES
Edith sighed as she went over her routine paperwork one more time. This sure wasn't how she'd planned to help humanity.
The pretty young woman had signed up for the Peace Corps right out of college. She had dreams of a career in politics, and figured the credentials of four years of sacrifice in the service of poor natives would prove impressive. The brochures had shown volunteers building dams, digging wells, teaching native children; with a degree in education and a sturdy body--if a little on the short side--she'd be up to all of those challenges.
What she hadn't anticipated was the mind-numbing boredom of endless reports--who got aid and from where, mostly. She was helped in this task by Hattie, a stocky young native woman who'd been educated in the States and could translate from the native Ndebele to English. The two became fast friends, giggling late into the evening about life back in America.
And Zimbabwe was certainly a beautiful place. A mile-high veldt towered to the northwest; dense hardwood forests loomed in the southeast. Playful gazelles and zebras roamed, at peace with the pastoral wilderness outside the villages. All that was wonderful, and Edith didn't even mind the tedious paperwork all that much.
The one thing that unnerved her was the lurid tales by local military men, remnants of Her Majesty's army in the colonial days. Those who had stayed held menial jobs or were lost in drink; they were forever getting into fights.
Periodically a young village girl would disappear, and one of the veterans, a mean-looking ex-sergeant named Duggan, would tell Edith in his Cockney drawl, “It's the natives, I tell ya, Missy. They eat each other, they're cannibals. Every once in a while, me 'n the boys would find bones and a fire out in the veldt. Old savages, can't adjust ta civilized life. You mind yerself, now!”
Edith had never heard of such a thing; in fact, her history courses had taught there was no cannibalism in that part of Africa. Duggan would have none of that--”Don't believe what they book-larn ya!” The local newspapers never reported remains being found; just disappearances. All the same, she was worried--maybe wild beasts were dragging the victims off, or it could just be there was a serial killer loose. She related the strange tales in letters back home, and locked the door to her one-room wooden hut at night.
Looking at the villagers, at first Edith simply couldn't believe they could be killers; they were always so delighted to see her, especially the older men. But Duggan and his cronies kept at it: “Shure they're glad ta see ya--you're their next meal! I tell ya, lassie, this ain't a safe place.” She started seeing their bright eyes, their friendly smiles, their ivory teeth in a different light.
But then the workload got heavier, and she didn't have time to think about the old soldier's crazy stories. There were fences and huts to build, there was running water to tap. Hattie cheerfully pitched in, her smooth, chocolate-brown skin glinting with perspiration as she joined Edith and the local women with each heavy chore.
December in the tropics on the other side of the world brought intense heat. Edith wore khaki shorts and a cotton shirt tied above her navel, her good-sized breasts standing free and proud. She had always stayed in good physical shape; her arm and leg muscles were lean and firm. Her long brown hair was tied in a pony tail; her big brown eyes shone as she related the day's exhausting chores to Hattie.
The native girl, solid and chunky, also had her colorful blouse tied at her midsection; a long, lightweight skirt draped translucently over smooth legs. The two of them would pitch in during the day, then retire to Edith's hut in the evening for another evening of endless filing and, later, camaraderie. Sometimes, they would tap into the strong homemade wine the natives were always eagerly offering them, and chat into the night immersed in a pleasant buzz--just like Edith's old college days, days that now seemed to have been a hundred years ago.
It was that way on this certain night. The well had been completed, and the villagers had repaid Edith's efforts with tasty treats from their groves and many jugs of the good stuff. Typically, Duggan was leering nearby. “Gettin' you fattened up, they are,” he declared. Edith grinned at the addled old sergeant. “Duggan, you're welcome to stop on by tonight for a drink.”
“Won't touch the stuff,” he retorted. “Makes you helpless. They'll carry you off like newborn babes.”
Duggan's warnings were still in the back of Edith's mind in the gentle breeze of the Zimbabwean summer night. Drenched in sweat, the girls kicked off their shoes and relaxed on the floor of the hut, drinking repeated toasts to each other over their accomplishment. Edith hesitated; she'd never asked Hattie about Duggan's wild tales. After all, he was accusing her own people of--but the natives' home brew had loosened her tongue; she hadn't drunk this much in years! Haltingly, she related the old soldier's stories.
Hattie grinned drunkenly. “Oh, sure, we eat people all de time--had one for breakfas' meself this morning!” She cackled delightedly, her bosom bouncing with laughter. “And suppose I was to go back home wit' you and ask who's for dinner. What do you t'ink we are--savages?”
Edith was instantly apologetic. “No, really, I didn't mean--I mean, I didn't believe--”
“Sgt. Duggan has been spreading dese silly tales since the soldiers went home,” the African girl continued. “I think dey used to make dem up to entertain demselves. But, you know”--she frowned--”did dey ever tell you about Kathy?”
“Kathy?”
“Kathy was a missionary who came here a few years ago. She vanished, jus' like de others. Duggan carried on all excited for weeks, 'It was the cannibals,' he kept saying. He talked about it all de time; dey had to lock him up for a while. I t'ink he's got dis 'cannibal' stuff locked in his brain.”
That conversation turned to others, and was soon forgotten. It was well after midnight when the two girls hugged each other one more time, and Hattie went on her way. Edith, sleepily drunk, bolted the door to the hut, stripped down to her birthday suit--too hot for sleepwear--and tumbled into her cot.
She was jerked out of her slumber by rough hands. They grabbed her, pinned her arms and legs and bound them. A scream was trapped by a cloth gag. She groggily kicked her fettered legs as a man in a mask slung her over his shoulder; a second ran outside, where an old jeep was idling. A blindfold was fastened around Edith's eyes; she felt her captor jump with her into the vehicle, and it sped away into the grassland.
The alcohol gradually wore off. The men were silent; Edith could do nothing but wait, her heart throbbing. After an hour or more, the jeep slowed and stopped; the naked girl was rudely picked up and again carried over a man's shoulder, then dumped on the warm, high grasses.
She heard muffled sounds, men talking and laughing, and the crackling and popping of a campfire; she could smell smoldering wood. Hogtied, she thrashed around, trying to reach the knots around her wrists and ankles. Suddenly, she felt--bare skin. There was another person with her; that person was also writhing.
The blindfold and gag were abruptly removed; Edith tried to adjust to the dim light of the fire. She rolled over, heard a familiar voice--”Edit'?”--and looked into the face of the other captive.
It was Hattie; she was also nude, and struggling with ropes that bound her hands and feet. Her large breasts heaved with the effort; her heavy thighs and arms strained. And a hooded figure walked up to them, and removed his mask. Duggan.
“Took you up on yer offer to stop by,” he chuckled, taking a swig out of a jug. “Told ya t' mind yerself, Missy; quite a fix you two're in, now!”
“Sergeant,” Edith croaked, her voice dry. She swallowed, said unsteadily, “Sergeant, why did you do this?”
“Oh, t'warn't me,” he slurred, gesturing to two other men, building the fire, “McGill and Edwards did the heisting. First yer buddy, there--she put up quite a fight, I'm told--and then you; bloody 'ell, you were so knocked out, I coulda done it all meself.”
“What are you going to do with us?” Edith cried. Duggan grinned crookedly and leaned forward, the gin heavy on his breath. “Well,” he said, “first we're going to screw the living daylights out of you. Don't get the opportunity very often. And then--”
Edith suddently realized there were many more men behind the sergeant, maybe fifteen or twenty; they were drinking, roaring, slapping each other on the back. And she saw four Y-shaped posts paired on either side of the flames.
“And then,” he continued, “the bad old native cannibals will 'ave ye fer supper. I know y'been writin' 'ome about them; the postmaster is in with us. I'll go back t' the village, act crazy; the old men will eye each other. Again, y'll disappear--no remains!” Laughing, he turned and rejoined his mates.
The helpless girls wriggled in the lush savanna, trying to get free. Edith heard Hattie sobbing with fear. They sidled back-to-back, their buttocks and shoulders, black and white, pressing against each others' as they reached for their bindings; the knots were too tight, their fingers too numb from lack of circulation, fumbling to get a grip.
Two men, unknown to them, ambled up. One stopped before Edith, suddenly bowed low--almost toppling over--and said, “'Scuse me, miss; Corporal Lethridge, at yer service!” Laughing, he dropped his trousers, fell to his knees and grabbed the frightened girl by her arms, then fell forward upon her.
Edith gasped as Lethridge entered her. Her sexual encounters had been limited to a few cautious, eager frat boys who had stopped when she had told them to. She started to scream as the corporal was thrusting into her, her bound hands behind her clenching and unclenching; she could see other men queuing up. She heard Hattie choking on tears; the African girl had told her a secret--she was a virgin. “Yer a solid one!” panted Lethridge, his hands clenching Edith's ribs, then her curvy hips, then behind her as he gripped her buttocks and plunged into her. “You'll do well over there!”, he wheezed, gesturing to the fire.
His partner shouted over, “'Ey--Lethridge!” He was holding up Hattie's feet, as the girl twisted and turned on her shoulders. Gesturing to her thick thighs and calves, he laughed, “I want one of these legs; I may not even wait!”
The orgy went on, the helpless young women repeatedly assaulted; they were seared by pain and acutely felt the heat of the fire, of the African night, of their ordeal. The sweat of a dozen men dried on Edith's body, each giving way to another. Finally, she heard Duggan shout, “Time's up!” Her last assailant, a burly, balding man, backed away, grumbling.
“You always take too, long, McVicar!” shouted Lethridge, and the others roared in laughter. The girls were weeping, their senses dulled by the attack. Through tears, Edith saw Duggan approach. The sergeant gestured to Hattie. “Get her on, first!” he ordered, and turned to Edith; he grabbed her by her hair and roughly dragged her to her feet, while McGill and Edwards grasped Hattie and led the sobbing, half-conscious black girl toward the fire.
“Y'see, Missy,” rumbled the drunken soldier, pulling her face close to his, “it's kind of a club we got, 'ere. Used t'be, Her Majesty's men ran the show 'ere in Rhodesia. Nobody questioned back then when some girl disappeared. Now that it's Zim-bab-we”--he spat out the syllables--”most of me old mates are back in London and wot. We don't get together as much as we used to, but--”
He was interrupted by the sounds of screaming; Duggan shouted over his shoulder, “Good gosh, Edwards, put a sock in 'er,” then turned back to Edith. “You are a nice one,” he said, running a hand over her big breasts and firm abs, then behind her from her back to trim buttocks. “Not like that missionary; I figgered that city livin' softened you girls up, some. Yer 'ard as a rock.”
The screaming had stopped. “Ready, Sarge?” asked a voice behind Edith.
“Shure,” said Duggan, winking at the trembling Edith. Hands grasped her by the elbows. “Bye-bye, sweets,” said the old sergeant. “See yer in a bit!”
The men dragged the helpless girl to the fire, her bare feet stumbling over the rough terrain. Edith's eyes, stinging from the smoke, focused on a scene of horror. The lifeless body of Hattie was skewered over the fire, belly down, a steel pole plunged through her plump arse and out her throat. Her hands were tied to the pole in front of her face, her legs drawn up and splayed so her feet were bound to the spit directly behind her buttocks; Edith could see she'd been cut open and her viscera removed. Blood dripped from her body, hissing as it struck the logs.
“Yer turn, babe,” laughed one of the men, squeezing a ripe breast. She tried to kick at him; he grabbed a trim ankle, then the other, while his partner held her up by the armpits. A third man--Lethridge--stood over her with a large, curved knife. “This'll smart a bit, miss,” he laughed, as his partners joined in.
For all that had happened, she was unprepared for the knife plunging into her belly; she stiffened and caught her breath, her brain on fire, as the corporal drew the blade up between her breasts—
The two girls, black and white, sizzled on the makeshift spits. Their bodies glistened with fat that sputtered as it dripped and met the fire; it hung in droplets from their nipples, Edith's a bright pink, Hattie's a deep sepia. The soft undersides of their thighs, the delicate fold of skin beneath their rear ends, were licked by the flames. Drinking and storytelling, the men laughed and made coarse jokes about their favorite cuts of meat. McGill and Edwards donned heavy gloves and rotated the spits; now the women's backs and buttocks were exposed to the searing heat. The women, their hues so different in life, were turning the same rich, brown color.
Daybreak came over the forests to the east, the equatorial sun already starting to blaze. As they had lined up to violate the women, Duggan's club now approached the dying fire for their rewards. Great slabs of meat, chopped off by the joking Lethridge as he asked each man his pleasure, were passed around in tin bowls; the soldiers drew their knives and sawed off chunks, savoring the flavor of the women's flesh. Duggan had his prize; slashing off a large hunk of one of Edith's breasts, he devoured it in a single bite. McVicar, deprived of Edith's favors earlier, settled for one of her haunches; he picked it up by a broken end of thigh bone and took a huge chomp out of the delicately curved cut of meat.
“I don't know wot's better, McVick,” called out Lethridge from his duties at the fire, “before or after!”
“I never get to find out,” mumbled McVicar through the mouthful of ham as his mates whooped.
They returned to the fire for more, cutting more meat away from Edith and Hattie and cramming the greasy flesh into their mouths between slugs of hard drink. The two carcasses, once young, vibrant, well-built women, now hung sadly over the dimming coals, stripped of muscle, strands of sinew hanging from bone. Their heads remained, hair singed by the blaze, lips slightly parted; Duggan stiffly bent over and gave Edith a kiss, bringing whistles and foot-stomps from his comrades-in-arms.
They had had their fill, and morning was giving way to mid-day. McGill and Edwards hauled the poles bearing what was left of first Hattie, and then Edith, to a pit, sliding the picked-over carcasses to its bottom.
“Little, Moss--shovel patrol!” sang out Duggan, and two men ambled to the pit and began scooping back into it the mounds of earth piled nearby. The others clambered back into their vehicles, belching and groaning; they'd eaten their fill.
“When next, Sarge?” shouted Lethridge over the din as he fired up his ancient jeep.
Duggan thought about it, smacking his lips. “Don't know I want t' go right back t' natives,” he yelled. “That was shure different. Let's see what the States sends us next time.”
“Think they will?” the corporal called.
“Oh, shure,” he responded. “Gotta help out these savages.”