S1 NNF Tyler EP 106

S1 NNF Tyler EP 106
The bench was a block of ice against my stomach. I didn’t move. Moving was a transaction, and I was broke on energy. The chains were a dead weight on my wrists, the cold of the steel a constant reminder.

An hour passed. Or maybe two. Time was a thick, syrupy thing in the dark, measured only by the changing pressure in my bladder and the ache in my joints.

Then, footsteps sounded.

Heavy boots on the concrete aisle, coming closer. A steady, rhythmic tread. Not Eddie’s lumbering shuffle or Jake’s jittery, quick pace. This was someone new or someone I hadn’t bothered to learn their cadence yet. The beam of a flashlight cut through the gloom, a sharp, white spear that stabbed into the stall across from mine, then the next, and then finally mine.

The light washed over me, pinning me in place and chasing away the shadows of darkness. I didn’t flinch. I didn’t even open my eyes all the way; I just watched the glare through my lashes. The beam lingered for three seconds. I counted them.

One. Two. Three.

Then it moved on, sweeping into the stall beside me, the one that had been empty since they took Alice. The footsteps continued down the row, the light shrinking until it was just another firefly in the distance. Then it was gone. The silence that fell afterward was heavier than before.

That was the new protocol. Every hour. A body count. A reminder that we were inventory. That I was their fucking property.

I let my head loll to the side, the rough texture of the bench scraping my cheek. I tested the chains again. A pointless, stupid gesture. I knew the outcome.

My wrists pulled up short. The fucking cuffs dug into skin that was already raw. The bolts were deep in the concrete floor from what I could ascertain.

There was no give. No angle. No hope of leverage.

The length was exact. I could kneel. I could sit on my heels if I stretched my arms out far enough. Hell, I could lie down on the bench and almost curl up on my side. But I couldn’t stand up straight.

Naw, the cocksuckers made sure of that.

I could not reach the gate. I could not even take a piss in the bucket in the far corner of the room. Naw, I had to partially squat, which was more like performing a degrading gymnastic exercise just to relieve my bladder.

I’ll get those fuckers… every last one of them. The thought was cold and sharp.

Another hour dripped by. Another set of footsteps. Another three-second bath in white light. I started learning the handlers by their sounds. There was Boots, the methodical one. There was Scuff-and-Drag, who was either lazy or injured. There was Jangles, who kept too much shit on his belt. They were just systems, predictable and programmable. And every one of them had a weakness.

It was my job to exploit them.

Four times a day, a handler released me from the cuffs and made me crawl on all four. They led me on a leash like a fucking animal, and I let them because ‘good cows’ earn little acts of freedom.

Now, all I had to do was play the part. And I could do that.

This evening, the water trough was full. The feed bin had a scoop of dry pellets that tasted like chalk, vitamins, and ass. I ate when they filled it, drank when I had to. I didn’t speak to the handlers who brought the food. I didn’t look at them. I was a broken thing. An asset. And an asset doesn’t have opinions.

An asset doesn’t have a voice. It just performs its function. My function, for now, was to be the perfect, broken creature Aaron and the others wanted.

Sometime during what I guessed was the fourth day, the sounds were different.

It wasn’t the lonely tread of a single guard. It was a cluster of sounds. Two sets of boots, at least. One heavy, one shuffling. A low murmur of voices rose from the shadows. And the unmistakable, agonizing scrape of the gate on the stall next to mine. The one that had been Alice’s.

I pushed myself up, my muscles screaming in protest. The chains bit into my wrists, holding me in a crouch over the bench. I leaned as far as the chains allowed, moving my head up, down, and around to find a view through the thin slats between my pen and the one next door.

I could only see a slice of the space next door.

Two handlers, their faces impassive in the dim light, shoved someone inside.

It was Alice.

My breath snagged in my throat. She stumbled forward, catching herself on the wall before she curled into a ball on the straw. She looked smaller. Thinner. But her belly looked larger. The fire was gone from her eyes, and her hair was matted and dull.

“Alice,” I breathed, the name a puff of vapor in the cold air.

“Cows don’t talk,” spat Mike. “So, shut the fuck up.” Mike leaned over the wall separating Alice’s stall from mine. “Guess what tomorrow is. Can you guess?”

I remained silent and stripped my face of all emotion.

“Doc lifts your medical restrictions.” Mike sucked spit between his teeth, and then the fucker spit on the bench next to my shoulder. “Get some rest.” He winked. “You’re gonna need it.”

My gaze focused on a single point on the fence, ignoring the asshole. I kept my anger intact. It wouldn’t do Alice or me any good if I mouthed off. So, I avoid eye contact, waiting for the fuckers to finish with Alice.

The handlers slammed her gate shut, the bolt driving home with a sound like a breaking bone. They muttered something to each other and walked away, their job done. Another piece of inventory returned to its shelf.

“Alice,” I whispered. “You okay?”

Alice remained perfectly still, her back to me. Her shoulders were slumped. She just stared at the back wall of her stall. She didn’t have chains. Not yet anyway. They’d left her untethered.

A test, maybe. Or maybe they’d done something to her that made chains unnecessary.

The thought sent a spike of ice through my gut.

“Alice,” I said again, my voice a harsh whisper. “Hey. It’s me.”

Nothing. Not a twitch. Not a flicker. She just lay there like a statue carved from marble.

“Talk to me, goddammit.” My voice was louder now, a raw scrape. A few of the other women shifted in their stalls down the row, the rustle of straw and the clink of chains the only reply.

Alice slowly, so slowly, rose to her knees. She didn’t curl up. She didn’t cry. She just knelt in the straw, her hands limp at her sides, and continued her silent communion with the wall.

What did they do to you? What the fuck did Reddy and Rios do?

I rattled my chains. “Alice!”

The sound was loud in the oppressive quiet of The Barn. A handler down the way yelled something indistinct, a threat to shut the hell up. I ignored him.

“Alice, look at me.”

She finally moved her head. It was a slow, mechanical turn, as if the muscles in her neck had forgotten how to work. Her face was pale, her eyes wide and empty. They weren’t the eyes I knew. The ones that flashed with defiance and hope. These were windows into a vacant room. There was nothing behind them.

No recognition. No fear. No anger. Just… nothing.

She looked right at me, right through me, and her expression didn’t change. Her mouth was a flat, colorless line. She didn’t speak. She didn’t even seem to breathe.

The great silence. That’s what it was. They hadn’t just broken her body. They’d stolen her words. They’d reached inside and scooped out the part of her that fought, the part that wove plans together and spit out courage, and they’d left this hollow shell.

My fist tightened and pounded against the bench, the steel cuffs digging into my wrists. Rage was a useless emotion here. It was fuel for their plans. But this was different. This was cold. This was the kind of anger that didn’t burn but froze. The kind that could wait.

She turned her head away, back to the wall. The conversation was over. It had never even begun. I was alone again, but it was a new kind of alone. Before, it was just Alice and me against them. Now, there was a ghost in the pen next door.

A warning. A vision of what those sick fuckers wanted for all of us.

Obedience. Submission. Control.