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And The Waters Ran Red

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11.​
Someone grabs me by the ankles and drags me face up through the icy cold waters, arms stretched out behind, naked body bumping over the twisted forms of the slain. I feel sand and grit on my back as I reach dry ground. Thankfully I am among the living, at least for now, but I keep my eyes closed, not knowing what to expect next.

Our little plan had gone awry. By choosing to follow the stream bed we had unwittingly ended up exactly where we didn't want to be ... reunited with the other fleeing girls and caught in a deadly massacre.

We, along with all the other girls, were helpless ... bunched together in the middle of a stream, surrounded with nowhere to go … the hunters closed in and mercilessly cut us down in droves ... the waters ran red with blood and the piles of bodies choked and channeled the flow.

"Hurry up now lads, step lively," barks the Laird. "Don't want to leave any telltale skeletons behind this year, now do we? Separate the living from the dead. Pile the dead over there and tend to the wounded here."

I'm propped by my handler against a tree, head down, chin on my chest, wet hair plastered to my head and half-covering my face ... one leg bent at the knee and tucked awkwardly beneath me, the other stuck out straight, deep wound in the thigh oozing dark red blood.

I moan, raise my head slowly and cautiously open one eye. Men in coveralls rush by carrying limp female bodies, which they toss carelessly on a growing body pile. I look away.

A man crouches by my side, examining my thigh wound. He pulls a dirty white rag from his coverall pocket and ties it around my thigh to bind the wound, then he turns his attention to the shaft stuck in my chest just below the shoulder. I wince as he tugs experimentally at it.

"How is she?" asks the Laird.

"She'll live," he grunts, adding "don't want to pull the shaft in her shoulder though ... in deep and too close to a lung ... best to leave it be."

"Anyone made a count yet?"

"Yeah, we killed 54 of them, mostly out there in the stream."

"How many survivors?"

"Just three ... the one I am patching up here ... think she is an American ... and the two others lying behind me ... pretty bad shape both of them."

"54 plus three more makes 57. That means two got away. Any idea who?"

"Can't say for sure ... haven't sorted through the dead yet, but I haven't seen any sign of that French girl."

"Ok, we'll get the last two before the day is out. They can't have gotten far. Quite a hunt this year, yes? Imagine bagging the whole lot of them in one spot like we did? Couldn't miss! All you had to do was fire right into them."

"Like lambs to the slaughter alright ... you'd think the bitches would be smart enough to scatter."

"Ok, have the men get some rope to haul the bodies up the slope to the road. We'll have the tractor come around to carry them back. I assume those two behind you are too weak to get up and walk. Put them on the tractor carts too."

"Yessir"

"And that one ... the American ... Moore, if I remember correctly ... get her on her feet ... we'll march her back to camp in front of the column ... be a fine sight!"

I continue to lie against the tree, thinking of the throbbing pain in my shoulder and watching as the “coveralls” tie ropes around the ankles of the corpses and haul them up the slope, one by one.

Meanwhile, the hunting party stands around congratulating one another, chattering away, boasting about how many kills they made. My bearded dapper hunter makes the rounds, pointing repeatedly at me, as he tells and retells the story of how he brought me down.

hunt 40a.jpg Finally, they decide it's time to return to camp. The horses and dogs are brought around. The hunters mount up. I am pulled to my feet and forced to walk at the head of the column, limping on my injured leg, blood trickling over my breast from the shaft embedded in my shoulder.

We follow the stream around a bend, and then up onto a track. Relieved of my trusty Keds, mud covers my feet and oozes through my toes as I trudge wearily along, dogs darting up from time to time to sniff between my thighs.

The Laird rides behind me, looking very smug and satisfied on his white horse. Groups of mounted hunters trail behind, surrounded by their dogs.

The track leads back to the opening with the tent pavilion ... the place where the hunt began. A small crowd of well-wishers ... mostly women ... the wives and tarts who accompanied their men to the event ... stand in line to cheer and raise their glasses as I pass by.

The posts to which I and the others were bound early this morning look oddly empty. Behind them, teams of "coveralls" have erected a series of tall posts, connected to one another at the top with sturdy cross beams, to which they are busy stringing dead naked girls up by the ankles. A photographer is setting up a camera and tripod for a "trophy photo shoot".

On the other side of the pavilion, coals are being fired up, and spits set up in preparation for the evening's banquet. Rows of white-cloth tables are neatly laid with china and crystal under the shelter of the pavilion tent.

I arrive at the end of my trek. Feeling faint, I sway and lurch in front of the row of hanging dead girls, my knees buckle, and I collapse on the ground.

TO BE CONTINUED

(credit to Tree for supplying the manip for this episode)
 
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Barbaria1 said:
11.​
Someone grabs me by the ankles and drags me face up through the icy cold waters, arms stretched out behind, naked body bumping over the twisted forms of the slain. I feel sand and grit on my back as I reach dry ground. Thankfully I am among the living, at least for now, but I keep my eyes closed, not knowing what to expect next.

Our little plan had gone awry. By choosing to follow the stream bed we had unwittingly ended up exactly where we didn't want to be ... reunited with the other fleeing girls and caught in a deadly massacre.

We, along with all the other girls, were helpless ... bunched together in the middle of a stream, surrounded with nowhere to go … the hunters closed in and mercilessly cut us down in droves ... the waters ran red with blood and the piles of bodies choked and channeled the flow.

"Hurry up now lads, step lively," barks the Laird. "Don't want to leave any telltale skeletons behind this year, now do we? Separate the living from the dead. Pile the dead over there and tend to the wounded here."

I'm propped by my handler against a tree, head down, chin on my chest, wet hair plastered to my head and half-covering my face ... one leg bent at the knee and tucked awkwardly beneath me, the other stuck out straight, deep wound in the thigh oozing dark red blood.

I moan, raise my head slowly and cautiously open one eye. Men in coveralls rush by carrying limp female bodies, which they toss carelessly on a growing body pile. I look away.

A man crouches by my side, examining my thigh wound. He pulls a dirty white rag from his coverall pocket and ties it around my thigh to bind the wound, then he turns his attention to the shaft stuck in my chest just below the shoulder. I wince as he tugs experimentally at it.

"How is she?" asks the Laird.

"She'll live," he grunts, adding "don't want to pull the shaft in her shoulder though ... in deep and too close to a lung ... best to leave it be."

Anyone made a count yet?"

"Yeah, we killed 54 of them, mostly out there in the stream."

"How many survivors?"

Just three ... the one I am patching up here ... think she is an American ... and the two others lying behind me ... pretty bad shape both of them."

"54 plus three more makes 57. That means two got away. Any idea who?"

"Can't say for sure ... haven't sorted through the dead yet, but I haven't seen any sign of that French girl."

"Ok, we'll get the last two before the day is out. They can't have gotten far. Quite a hunt this year, yes? Imagine bagging the whole lot of them in one spot like we did? Couldn't miss! All you had to do was fire right into them."

"Like lambs to the slaughter alright ... you'd think the bitches would be smart enough to scatter."

"Ok, have the men get some rope to haul the bodies up the slope to the road. We'll have the tractor come around to carry them back. I assume those two behind you are too weak to get up and walk. Put them on the tractor carts too."

"Yessir"

"And that one ... the American ... Moore, if I remember correctly ... get her on her feet ... we'll march her back to camp in front of the column ... be a fine sight!"

I continue to lie against the tree, thinking of the throbbing pain in my shoulder and watching as the “coveralls” tie ropes around the ankles of the corpses and haul them up the slope, one by one.

Meanwhile, the hunting party stands around congratulating one another, chattering away, boasting about how many kills they made. My bearded dapper hunter makes the rounds, pointing repeatedly at me, as he tells and retells the story of how he brought me down.

View attachment 295985 Finally, they decide it's time to return to camp. The horses and dogs are brought around. The hunters mount up. I am pulled to my feet and forced to walk at the head of the column, limping on my injured leg, blood trickling over my breast from the shaft embedded in my shoulder.

We follow the stream around a bend, and then up onto a track. Relieved of my trusty Keds, mud covers my feet and oozes through my toes as I trudge wearily along, dogs darting up from time to time to sniff between my thighs.

The Laird rides behind me, looking very smug and satisfied on his white horse. Groups of mounted hunters trail behind, surrounded by their dogs.

The track leads back to the opening with the tent pavilion ... the place where the hunt began. A small crowd of well-wishers ... mostly women ... the wives and tarts who accompanied their men to the event ... stand in line to cheer and raise their glasses as I pass by.

The posts to which I and the others were bound early this morning look oddly empty. Behind them, teams of "coveralls" have erected a series of tall posts, connected to one another at the top with sturdy cross beams, to which they are busy stringing dead naked girls up by the ankles. A photographer is setting up a camera and tripod for a "trophy photo shoot".

On the other side of the pavilion, coals are being fired up, and spits set up in preparation for the evening's banquet. Rows of white-cloth tables are neatly laid with china and crystal under the shelter of the pavilion tent.

I arrive at the end of my trek. Feeling faint, I sway and lurch in front of the row of hanging dead girls, my knees buckle, and I collapse on the ground.

TO BE CONTINUED

(credit to Tree for supplying the manip for this episode)
Click to expand...
Ex cellent as always. Brava
 
messaline said:
Messa is only using of a bow ....:)

... and, sometimes, of her charms .........
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but my dear Française it isn´t put in the right order
first Charms
second charms
third charms
last not the bow but a bowing:p
 
thehangingtree said:
Another great write Barb...
Click to expand...

Wragg134 said:
I'm not surprised! By God, walking in that condition! :eek:

The Moores are made of tough stuff! All I can say is

View attachment 296004

:eek:
Click to expand...


rb1956 said:
poor Barb wounded an treated so badly!!! this does not look good.
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Jollyrei said:
That is a beautiful job, yes. Nicely done, Madiosi.
And another gripping installment of the story, Barb. :)
Click to expand...

Thanks everyone. More to come tomorrow. Stay tuned ;)
 
First let me say I have placed "like" against each episode of this story, so the following in no way is a criticism of the story or storyteller.
Some threads on this site I read, enjoy (mostly) and move on. A few put thoughts in my head which interrupt my day completely, making me ponder in quiet moments and even when I am supposed to be thinking something else. This story and Prisoner 12 are two of the current ones.
This story upsets me thinking about it. Most stories here have a reason for the suffering and death, rarely 'fair' admittedly, but a reason nevertheless. Be it a ruthless regime suppressing dissent, a victor humiliating the vanquished, punishment for a sexual act deemed wrong, punishment for a genuine or perceived crime. The only reason for killing in this is the blood-lust of the hunters, and I find nothing at all redeeming in that act.
Thank you Barb for writing a story which gets to me so emotionally, even if that emotion is unsettling.
 
old slave said:
First let me say I have placed "like" againsyesterday's tsode of this story, so the following in no way is a criticism of the story or storyteller.
Some threads on this site I read, enjoy (mostly) and move on. A few put thoughts in my head which interrupt my day completely, making me ponder in quiet moments and even when I am supposed to be thinking something else. This story and Prisoner 12 are two of the current ones.
This story upsets me thinking about it. Most stories here have a reason for the suffering and death, rarely 'fair' admittedly, but a reason nevertheless. Be it a ruthless regime suppressing dissent, a victor humiliating the vanquished, punishment for a sexual act deemed wrong, punishment for a genuine or perceived crime. The only reason for killing in this is the blood-lust of the hunters, and I find nothing at all redeeming in that act.
Thank you Barb for writing a story which gets to me so emotionally, even if that emotion is unsettling.
Click to expand...
Mindless mahem is alas neither new nor unusual. Look at Sandy Hook Columbiine Charleston and yesterdays tragedy in Oregon. I've forgotten the Latin but, The price of freedom is eternal vigilance....
 
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