Farah's Odyssey I: Divide & Conquer (m/f, f/f)
Farah's Odyssey II: Embrace (m/f, f/f)
Farah's Odyssey III: Union
Farah’s Odyssey
part 3: A Tickling Union
(non-consensual tickling, sexual content, violence)
“Coincidence is God’s way of remaining anonymous.”
— Albert Einstein
CHAPTER I
“Twenty seven, down to three. You might think that leaving the security of a prison—even if it was a brutal and abusive place—to wander the chaotic roads of Florida during a violent civil war would be enough to keep a band of women together,” said Farah.
Farah, Vanessa and Imani—a young woman who neither of them had known while they were inside—were crossing the Captain Chad Allen Reed Sr. Memorial Bridge, Steinhatchee, having chosen to avoid several smoking towns in ruins and ending up at this one.
“I know what you’re doing,” said Vanessa, looking into the distance. “Tell you what: you come with me to New York to save my sister, then I’ll walk across country to Texas to save your family. Deal?”
“There isn’t a redneck psycho with vendetta against you on the loose in New York.”
“Sure, New York with no reason to abide by any laws is going to be the safest place in the world right now!”
“Okay, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” said Farah. “I’m not trying to play one-up. I just don’t want to do this on my own.” She was looking west where, like a collection of slow moving typhoons, smokestacks plumed into the sky as far as the eye could see.
“I get it,” said Vanessa. “And you’re sure you want to go with me, kid?”
Imani nodded. “I know my history enough to know if Americans are killin’ who they wanna kill, I’m better off goin’ north. Sorry, girl.” She addressed this apology to Farah.
“Don’t be,” said Farah. “I know that first-hand. But my family are Dallas. I think.”
“Good luck,” said Vanessa and held out a hand.
Farah wanted a hug, as much for a sense of comfort before the journey she was about to take alone, as for the friendship they had developed and all they had been through in prison. But she also knew how strong Vanessa’s aversion to close physical contact was. Even holding out her hand was a big deal for her at this point, so Farah shook it.
“You too,” said Farah.
With that, Vanessa and Imani headed north and Farah headed west.
After a few moments Vanessa called back: “Hey, maybe we’ll see each other again one day!”
It was such an uncharacteristic statement of optimism that Farah felt more touched by it than anything else and for a while just watched them walk away until the drifting dust and smoke from wrecked buildings hid them from sight.
CHAPTER II
A short way down the road Farah came across a gas station that had been turned into a burnt-out shell long ago. Pretty much everything had been looted, from the cigarettes to the comics. However, amongst the debris and trash, she found what she was looking for – a road map. She was familiar enough with the layout of the states to know that she would have to cross Alabama, Mississippi and Louisiana before she got to Texas, but needed a map to know exactly how far she would have to walk. Much to her dismay, she calculated the route as being around 1,150 miles; approximately a 17-day journey.
That’s if it’s plain sailing all the way, she thought to herself as she sauntered into the station lot. I highly doubt it will be.
Amid a constant, inexplicable low-level rumble that had been present since the war began, the echoing pops of gunfire and occasional distant explosions, came the growl of rapidly approaching engines. Farah crouched behind an upturned dumpster as two vehicles burned around the corner. She peeked through a gap between the dumpster and the gas station wall to see a battered silver car skid sideways and bump up the kerb into the station lot. It didn’t have time to rest before a dusty blue pickup truck jumped the sidewalk and crashed into the car’s side rear, spinning it on the forecourt.
Two men in the back of the pickup fired shotguns at the car, which momentarily came to rest. The back door opened and a pretty woman, with dark cropped hair, just a little older than Farah—perhaps 25—and her clothes torn, leapt barefoot from the car and ran as fast as she could, evidently distraught. Two more men jumped from the car and exchanged fire with the guys in the truck and shot the driver, bringing it to a stop. Another man leant from the passenger side with a pistol and joined the exchange.
“Fuck you, puto! She ain’t yours!” he shouted.
“She ain’t yours either, shithead!”
Farah stopped watching as the gunfire accelerated into the inevitable clicks of empty barrels, followed by shouting and visceral sounds of violence that she didn’t want to see. That’s when she noticed the barefoot woman running—almost falling—through the grassland behind the gas station.
The violence was over quickly, followed by a sound that chilled Farah’s blood: the men laughing at the opponents they had just slaughtered.
“Get Pablo out the driving seat! My turn at the wheel!”
“You can have the wheel –where is that perrita? It’s my turn on her!”
“There she is!”
“Hey! Bonita! Wait for me!”
Farah heard the men scramble back into the truck and the wheels spin on the gravel. She curled into a ball and sheltered her face from flying dust and stones as they sped after the woman. Despite the distance, the growl of the truck and the whooping of the men chasing her, Farah clearly heard the woman’s desperate scream of terror. That’s when it hit her with full-force: nowhere was safe. The entire country was wild. This wasn’t just about politics, it was about the uncivilised taking advantage of a breakdown in order and chaos becoming a playground for anyone who only cared for themselves.
This was the first encounter with strangers on the first step of a 1,150 mile journey, and if one of the men had looked her way when they drove past, she would now be the one running for her life.
The woman screamed again. More shrilly this time – the type of scream that is purely instinctual; when your subconscious takes over because there is nothing else you can do. Then she considered that she couldn’t just turn her back and let this young woman get savaged and possibly killed by these men.
Farah peeked over the dumpster to confirm that there was nobody else around. She shakily ran to the car, doing all she could not to look directly at the men who lay on the ground. She picked up a handgun and opened the passenger door to rifle through the glove box. Thankfully, she found what she was looking for as several gun clips fell from the compartment. She grabbed them and gasped – suddenly noticing the passenger in the back seat who looked like he had been shot dead several hours ago.
She got the shivers and slammed the passenger door as she backed away, only broken from her shock by the sound of the truck returning. She sprinted for her hiding place, fumbling to reload the gun as she went and dropping two clips, not daring to stop and pick them up in case the men saw her.
“Hey! Look at this! Another one!”
Farah felt a rush of gooseflesh on her back. The truck launched from a dip in the grassland, almost clipping the upturned dumpster as it landed and skidded to a stop in the lot.
Farah froze, faced by the truck with two men sitting either side of their hostage in the cab and one in the back.
“Get her!” said the driver and the man in the back of the truck immediately jumped to the ground.
Before she knew it, Farah was aiming the pistol at them. Unlike the situation in the prison in which she had McGunn covered with a semi-automatic, this time her adrenaline was driven by fear rather than anger and she couldn’t help but notice that the pistol shook crazily in her hand.
“Woah!” said all three men.
“You don’t need to do that, baby,” said the man on the ground. “We’re gonna protect you, uh? Take you with us to a safe place where nobody will find you.”
Farah aimed at him and he smiled back at his compadres. They could tell just by looking at her that she’d never fired a gun before. This added another doubt in her mind – if she pulled the trigger, there was no guarantee that she wouldn’t accidentally hit the young woman she was trying to save.
The man’s smile suddenly disappeared and he raised his shotgun at her. “Puta, put down the fockin’ gun!”
“You don’t scare me!” said Farah. “I saw you r-un out of a-ammo.”
The man laughed. “Two things, bitch: I can tell y-y-you’re fockin’ scared, and I reloaded in the truck.” He pumped the shotgun.
Farah flinched and squeezed the trigger.
The man ducked as the bullet flew past him.
“Get out the truck!” yelled Farah as she ran for the gas station and fired again.
The barefoot woman saw her chance and lashed out at the man in the passenger seat. The punches had little effect and he grabbed her wrists as the driver hit the gas.
The man on the ground seethed as the second bullet hit the dumpster behind him and he unloaded one barrel at Farah. She shrieked as a single pellet caught her in the backside and went to shoot again but the bullet sailed into the sky. She was almost at the gas station door when something blew her sideways.
She landed in the dust, choking and winded. The pistol in her hand was gone. She looked down to see her arm and side peppered with bloodstains.
The girl bit the passenger’s hand to let her go. “Aaaagh! Fuckin’ bitch!” he said, forced to release her.
“Control her, cabrón!” shouted the driver before she pulled her knee to her chest and kicked him across the face.
A silhouette blocked the sun over Farah and she looked up to see the man with the shotgun aiming it at her. “Shoot me? No! I shoot y—”
His sentence was cut short as the truck rammed into him and narrowly missed crushing Farah’s legs. Farah watched as it barrelled from the parking lot, across the road and smashed into a shuttered pet store. The horn blared for a minute or so as she caught her breath.
Then the horn stopped. As Farah watched, the driver door opened. She got to her knees, knowing that she needed to leave, when she saw the young woman’s dusty bare feet emerge from the cab. She slid out, dropped to the ground and ran to Farah.
“We’ve got to leave,” she said as she helped Farah to her feet. “The guy with the shotgun is dead but the others are only unconscious. Let’s go!”
“Where?” asked Farah.
“I don’t know…”
The truck creaked and they watched as both men fell groggily from each door.
“That way!” said the barefoot woman and she supported Farah as they hurried back to the grassland. “I saw some boats.”
Thoughts came to Farah’s mind but she was too dazed and focussed on staying upright to express them. She hoped the men hadn’t seen them go, but from behind them she heard the men shouting and the sound of the truck attempting to start up. Two shotgun blasts filled the air followed by a distant cry of, “We’re coming for you, bitches!”
Farah was thankful that the boatyard was close. Her main thought was that there were unlikely to be any boats left at the dock, but to her surprise there were several. They reached a pier, at the end of which sat a good-sized cabin cruiser.
The truck’s engine was growling closer once more. Farah looked back to see it crash from the parking lot onto the grass, exploding the upturned dumpster on its way. She also noticed the bloody footprints she was leaving on the dock.
“Quickly!” Farah said as the truck closed on the boatyard.
The barefoot woman jumped into the cabin cruiser and helped her down. “Untie the ropes!” she shouted in a panic as she ran to the bridge and searched frantically for a way to start the boat.
Farah winced in pain as she released the lines at the bow and stern. She then grabbed the closest thing she could find—a parasol—to push the boat away from the dock… but it didn’t move. Suddenly the boat’s engine came to life.
“I did it!” called the barefoot woman. “Are we clear?”
Farah pushed harder but the boat still didn’t move.
“Are we clear!?” said the barefoot woman as she appeared on deck. “Oh, shit!”
Farah followed her line of sight to see the truck jump from the pier’s entry gate. Both women froze with fear as the truck flew directly towards them, vicious revenge scrawled on the faces of the two injured men inside. The truck landed, front bumper first, with a loud CRACK! on the pier.
There was a rushing sound before an instant of silence. Both men tried unsuccessfully to open their doors when the truck’s radiator exploded and the pier began to collapse. Farah felt the boat begin to move.
“There!” said the barefoot woman, finally seeing the third line that connected them to the pier. She released it and ran to the bridge, pushed down on the throttle and clumsily steered the boat towards Deadman Bay.
Farah crawled to her knees and looked back to see the two men kicking desperately at the truck’s windscreen as it slipped from the collapsing pier and nose-dived into the water. She began to feel dizzy and wanted to watch; to make sure at least two more incarnations of evil were gone from the world, but her body had other ideas.
She passed out.
CHAPTER III
Farah’s consciousness drifted back to her in pieces. She didn’t know how long she’d been out, but the warmth of her skin from the sun told her it had been quite some time.
“Oh, my God. Thank God,” said the barefoot woman, who was sitting on the deck beside her. “I didn’t know if you were going to wake up and I couldn’t find smelling salts or whatever in the first aid kit.”
There were sticking plasters all the way down Farah’s left arm. She could also feel them under her shirt and on her butt and thigh.
“We’ve gotta get to a hospital…” said Farah. She stopped herself when she saw her companion’s doubtful expression.
“I don’t think so. There are no hospitals working like normal. Don’t you know that?”
“I’ve been away a long time,” said Farah. “And you’re welcome, by the way.”
“For what?”
“I stuck around when I saw those guys after you.”
“Oh… Well I made sure you got on this boat and we escaped, so I guess we’re already even, huh?”
Farah gave a slight smirk. The smart-arsedness reminded her of Mira. “I’m Farah, by the way.”
“Ruthie.”
“Nice to meet you, Ruthie. So, where are we now and where are we headed?”
“We’re currently somewhere in the Gulf of Mexico – I’m trying to keep the land in sight but not within reach. And we can head wherever we like. I’d personally prefer it to be somewhere where there are no psycho-rapist men.”
“Mars it is,” said Farah, adjusting her position and squinting into the sky. “Although I would appreciate it if it was somewhere with medical facilities, because I think I’m already hallucinating.”
“Why?” asked Ruthie. “What can you see?”
“A plane. Coming towards us.”
Ruthie looked to the sky. She was worried about having this stranger going fever-crazed on the boat, but then she heard the btt-btt-brrrrtt of a light aircraft’s engines failing and she saw it – smoke trailing from its tail. “Oh, Mary Mother! What now?!”
She bolted for the bridge and started the engine. She pressed down hard on the throttle but the boat didn’t respond fast enough for her. “Move, goddamn it!”
Farah was open-mouthed as the plane closed rapidly. Finally the boat’s propellors caught the water and jerked the boat forward. Farah felt the rush of wind as the plane’s wheels passed close enough to see the tyre treads and skimmed the surface behind them before crashing into the ocean.
The spray covered Farah and re-wetted the dried blood on the deck. She grimaced through the pain enough to pull herself onto the rear seating. Ruthie joined her. For several moments they just watched as the aircraft bobbed on the water. Then the pilot’s door opened and a young Indian woman—around 20-years-old—stepped out, put on a backpack and waved at them. Speechless, Farah and Ruthie waved back.
“I call that a lucky escape!” called a distant voice that made Farah and Ruthie jump. A large shadow prompted them to look up and see a beautiful and more mature Indian woman—around 35—descending towards them on a parachute. Farah and Ruthie looked at one another.
The woman on the parachute effortlessly ran the boat from front to back and detached the parachute, letting it settle onto the water. The woman in the water trotted with perfect balance along the top of the plane, from the cockpit to the tail, before diving into the water and swimming over to them. Ruthie helped her from the water.
“Thanks! I’m Uma.”
“Ruthie,” said Ruthie, astounded that this seemed perfectly natural to Uma.
For several moments all four women stood looking at one another in an awkward silence until Uma indicated the huge bloodstain on the deck. “Someone’s time of the month?”
“I was shot,” said Farah.
“And that’s why you prioritise the full first aid kit,” said the beautiful woman with the tone of a mentor.
“Oh…” said Uma.
“You left it on the plane, didn’t you?”
With a fizz and a loud pop, they turned to see the aircraft start to sink.
“I’ll get it!” said Uma and she immediately dove back into the water.
“Who are you both?” said Farah, shivering and half-feeling that she’d wandered into the middle of a spy movie.
The newcomer smiled. “I get that question sometimes. And, although I’m grateful for your hospitality—”
“Not much choice—”
“—I can’t tell you anything about me.”
“Not even your name?” asked Ruthie.
“I can do that. You can call me Syra.”
CHAPTER IV
The boat rested on a glassy sea against a sky of orange as Syra and Uma got Farah to drink her fifth shot of vodka from the bar and they worked to pull the shot from her wounds.
“You think she’ll be okay?” asked Ruthie from the doorway. She didn’t want to see any more blood but also didn’t want to be alone and so was counting how many gulls she could see.
“Shock, exhaustion, heatstroke, fever, hunger and the first taste of alcohol in a while means we probably won’t be able to gauge much right now,” said Syra. “But I’d guess she’ll be all right.”
“Don’t sp-speak as though I’m not h-here—owww!” Farah yelped as Uma plucked another piece of shot from her butt cheek.
“Tell me something,” Uma said to Ruthie, “if you weren’t in prison with her, how did you come to be out and about on your own?”
“I was on my way to find my auntie. She’s the only family I’ve got. We managed to stay in touch for the first year of the war but then we lost contact and I knew roughly where she was. On my way I got cornered by this gang and…” she went through a range of emotions, trying to give only the detail that was required without reliving any of it. “I don’t know how many months later, they were raided by another gang who thought I was a possession that could be stolen from them.”
“Maybe we can pay those gangs a visit when the war is over?” Uma muttered to Syra with a wild look in her eye.
“Revenge is a road that never ends,” said Syra without looking up from the current extraction. “All you do is meet assholes coming the other way.”
“I don’t know about that; they’re all dead now anyway,” said Ruthie.
They stopped talking for a while. The only sounds became the lapping of water and Farah’s shivering breaths as she bore the pain of the extractions.
“What did you do before the war?” Even though she didn’t look up, Syra’s question was directed at Ruthie. “Something in fashion?”
“Fashion? No. I was a personal assistant and trainee.”
“To who?”
“A BDSM mistress,” said Ruthie. She was used to this being an impactful piece of information, but the present company took it as casually as she’d announced that she used to be a checkout girl.
“Cool,” said Uma. “Where did you operate?”
“Atlanta. Although we need to relocate.”
“Why’s that?”
“Our dungeon was targeted and burnt down.”
“By the right or the left?”
“Both? Neither? Who cares? By anyone who had the opportunity to destroy the things they don’t like or agree with. Let them keep going. That way the world will eventually be one colour – ash. And hopefully it’ll start again without humans.”
Syra suppressed a sigh that would indicate she had no time for such dramatic hypotheses. “What did your Mistress teach you, then?”
“Oh, everything. Her mother was also a Mistress so she’s a fountain of knowledge even though she’s only 32. She had to learn a lot and grow up quick. I’ve learnt needling, sounding, breath play, Shibari, spanking, caning, tickling—”
Uma cast a look to Syra, who maintained her regular poker face.
“Tickling!” shouted Farah, surprising them all. “Tickling. Tickling… He tickled…” Her eyes were closed and she was shivering and sweating. Beads of sweat rolled from her forehead and soaked into the pillow.
“Get me the medi-bag,” said Syra. “She’s got a proper fever now. This has come on quick.”
“Maybe it was already incoming,” said Uma as she retrieved the bag of medicine.
“Tickling. So much tickling…” whispered Farah.
“What’s she talking about?” asked Ruthie. Syra shook her head.
“The prison… the prison they did it…” Farah said softly. “They tickled me all year. Tickle torturing… They tickled my feet and my ribs. My armpits! My knees! My armpits are so ticklish… They tickled me. They tickled us all… They had us captive. So much tickling…”
Syra prepared a syringe of penicillin and injected it into Farah’s leg.
Farah giggled and continued: “Stop it… it’s unbearable… I can’t stop them… I’m tied to the bars… They just want to tickle me… Tickle me all over… Tickle me forever… Tickle me to deathhh…”
Her last words faded into sleep.
“All the shot is out,” said Syra. “Let’s patch her up.”
“It sounds like she was imprisoned and tortured,” said Uma.
“If you can call tickling torture,” Ruthie guffawed.
“I thought you knew about BDSM!” said Uma.
Ruthie was obviously offended. “I do. Tickling isn’t that bad.”
Uma was ready to make a point when Syra stopped her. “Stop bickering. Patch her up.”
Uma did as she was told, but there was unfinished business between herself and Ruthie.
CHAPTER V
“What’s the status on your mission, Senior Agent?” asked Director Zhang. She had been joined by Mission Supervisor Baker.
Syra Rahul had spent a lot of time over the past decade being briefed and debriefing her superiors, but it had been a very long time since she felt like she was being judged negatively on her results.
“It’s not straightforward, ma’am,” she said.
“Wait a minute,” said Baker, “where’s Agent Tailor?”
“Outside, sir.”
“Bring her in.”
Syra collected Uma from the waiting area.
“Your mission was asked of us by certain a certain left-leaning political heavyweight,” said Director Zhang, “but even if it hadn’t been, we would have taken it upon ourselves to do the same thing in order to bring this civil war to a expedited completion.
“I know your opinion on getting involved in political matters, Senior Agent Rahul. It has a great deal to do with the ceiling your career has reached here at RID. However, no matter where you sit—left, right or fence in between—none of it will matter if the country implodes and falls into the hands of foreign dictators who are intent on taking over the planet. The USA is weak and taking out the biggest chaotician since President Calhoun is absolutely necessary.”
“Yes, ma’am,” said Syra, as calmly as she could muster. “I am aware of all of that. I can assure you that the slow progress of our mission so far has not been to do with my political opinions.”
“What is it then?” said Baker, in his characteristically oil-on-waters tone.
“Our information systems are becoming more and more disrupted by the day. It’s not just the civilian world that’s affected. The FBI, the CIA and us – lines of communication are being bombed, satellites are being sabotaged—”
“I know all this,” said Zhang. “We are above all of that.”
“I’m afraid we’re not, ma’am. I would like nothing more than to deliver Senator Skylar Bryant to you personally, but whenever we arrive where she is supposed to be, the information has been changed or is old.”
“Then go old-fashioned, Miss Rahul. Steak her out!”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And don’t think that all of this lies on the shoulder of your supervisor, Agent Tailor,” Zhang said sharply.
“No, ma’am,” Uma replied.
“I want to see something from you on this mission. The world around us may be falling apart, but I will accept nothing but the best from this organisation. As always.”
“Yes, ma’am,” both agents replied.
“You’re dismissed.”
“Where to now, boss?” asked Uma as they closed Director Zhang’s door behind them.
“You heard the director. Get your stuff and meet me at the airfield. We’re off to Alabama.”
- - -
Uma was first to arrive at the airfield. She collected the key to one of the cult’s light aircraft, got into the pilot seat and waited for Syra.
As she waited she took out her phone and, for what may have been the 100th time, perused the file of their target:
Name: Senator Skylar Bryant
Age: 45
Ethnicity: Caucasian
Height: 5’6”
Weight: 135lbs
Shoe size: 6 US (womens)
T statistics:
In an online chat with supporters she received the question: “How tiklish r u?”
Her response was: “If anyone knew that, it may one day be a threat to national security!”
Our analysts have predicted that she has a high likelihood of being in or above the 95th percentile for ticklishness.
If she was unbiased, Uma would have said that the senator was an attractive woman – fit with wavy brunette hair and big blue eyes, who occasionally wore glasses when she wanted to convince her followers of something that was vital to her cause. But because her cause was the expulsion or incarceration of all immigrants—whether first, second or third generation—and to have a country that was “pure of heart” and “right-thinking”, Uma could not be unbiased. She knew racism would always exist because she had grown up with it all around. Even though she was only 25, she knew that, like a weed, you can cut racism down, but it grows again; there will always be ignorance and there will always be the self-serving who will use that ignorance for their own purposes. She also knew she couldn’t accept this knowledge without reacting to it.
A fact that she kept quiet was that she relished the idea of taking Skylar Bryant down – not just for the mission but for everything she stood for. She also liked that whoever commissioned this mission wanted to make a public show of the senator’s downfall, although at this point, only Mission Supervisor Baker and Director Zhang knew who the client was.
Syra opened the door and took the co-pilot’s seat. “Good. I was going to ask you to take control.”
“No need!” said Uma as she started the plane and they trundled toward the runway. “What’s that soun—?”
Before she could finish, Syra and Uma were aghast to see two missiles sailing overhead, travelling directly toward the RID HQ.
“Move!” ordered Syra. “Go! Go! Go!”
Uma accelerated. They both looked back as the first missile whooshed overhead and plunged into the building. The resulting fireball engulfed the entire site. While Syra watched in horror the second missile landed and doubled the size of the fireball, which chased them along the tarmac.
“Get us up!” said Syra.
Uma pulled back on the central column and the plane left the ground.
Syra couldn’t take her eyes off the destruction. The one place she had felt at home and the people—the friends—she had known for over twelve years, were gone. They circled the site twice looking for signs of life, but as the smoke began to clear it was evident that nobody could have survived.
“Let’s go,” said Syra. “Whoever did this will be checking the area for survivors.”
“It wasn’t rogue missiles…?”
“Nobody was supposed to know we were there, Uma. This was deliberate.”
Uma banked the plane and they headed for Alabama.
As they flew, neither of them said anything. RID had bases all over the world and, no doubt, intelligence would quickly inform them that the main hub had been destroyed. Syra didn’t know who else in the US may be alive – which agents were out on a mission and not at the HQ when the missiles hit.
“Reaching Atmore, Alabama,” said Uma and started to descend.
Syra took a breath and put herself back into professional mode. Uma responded to this and did the same.
“Good. We’ll land and go to the hideout. If there are any other agents in the area, they’ll have done the same—” PT-TWING! Something ricocheted against Syra’s window. “What the…?”
PT-TANGGG! Something else hit the wing. Syra looked down to see a field of youths sitting on hay bails and taking pot-shots at them with a range of weapons, from bolt-action rifles to semi-automatics.
“Take us up!” Syra shouted.
BT-BT-BT-BT-BT-BT-BT-BT! A series of semi-automatic bullets rattled the fuselage.
“What a great fucking hobby they’ve got!” shouted Uma. “We’re losing fuel,” she said. A quick check out the window confirmed what the fuel gauge was telling her and the engine started to sputter.
“Get on your parachute and get us over ground,” said Syra.
“Over ground? If hicks are shooting at planes for fun, what do you think they’ll do to us?”
Syra considered and saw that they were headed out to sea. “What’s your plan, Agent?”
“There’s a boat out there. Look.” Uma pointed at a tiny speck in the shape of a lone cabin cruiser.
“Fine,” said Syra as she donned her parachute. “Let’s go.”
“I think I can land it safely!” said Uma.
Syra wasn’t in the mood to argue. “Suit yourself.” CHAPTER VI
Farah woke in a bottom bunk in a dark cabin below deck. She had stopped shivering. For a brief moment she thought she was back in prison but the rocking of the boat and the sound of lapping waves reminded her where she was. She could also sense that she was not alone.
“Water,” she croaked.
There was movement from the upper bunk. A pair of pretty bare feet swung over the side and Syra dropped elegantly to the floor. She filled a cup from a sink in the corner of the cabin, handed it to Farah and sat on her bed.
“Thanks,” said Farah. “How long have I been out?”
“Only a couple of days.”
“Goddamn it.”
“What’s wrong?”
“I’ve got to get home. My family are in danger – I can’t just sleep for days!”
“Calm down. You couldn’t have done anything in the state you were in. You still need to mend up.”
“I don’t have time—”
“Your family are in Dallas, right?” asked Syra.
“Yes… How did you know that?”
“You were in the news a lot, Farah. I know who you are. I’ll tell Uma to take us to Galveston. Good?”
“Yeah.”
Syra left the cabin and Farah gave a long sigh. Even though she had been unconscious for 48 hours, it felt like the first proper breath she had taken in a very long time. It was nice to encounter someone who seemed like the take-charge type.
“Do you remember me?” asked Syra when she returned.
Farah nodded. “Syra. My mysterious parachuting angel with the medicine.”
Syra smirked. “Sounds like you’ve had some adventures yourself. You were babbling in your sleep, but I got the impression it wasn’t just hallucinations.”
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” said Farah.
“Try me.”
There was something so hypnotically authoritarian but reassuring about Syra’s manner that Farah immediately told her the entire story – saving her parents from Tyler Mulhill, Davey Anderson & Cassie Jones and killing Mulhill in the process; being sentenced to prison in Florida; being saved by Vanessa Holbrook; the outbreak of war; spending over a year at the mercy of a regime who tickled and tortured the prisoners; meeting Yuri Stone; overthrowing McGunn and Dayton; escaping the prison and the fight at the gas station; and the urgency of getting home before Cassie Jones could take her revenge on her family for killing her boyfriend.
As she spoke, she realised that it was the first time she admitted to someone else that she didn’t know if she had intended to kill Mulhill or not.
When she finished, Syra slumped against the wall.
“I told you you’d find it incredible,” said Farah.
“I do. But not for the reasons you think.”
“How do you mean?”
“Again, I’m afraid I can’t tell you. Yet, anyway.”
Farah pouted a little, feeling that she had just divulged the most intense parts of her own life story. “How far to Texas?”
“About a day, if we motor.”
“We’ve got time to kill then. I bet your story isn’t as crazy as mine anyway.”
Syra suppressed a laugh. “Yeah,” she said. “Probably not.”
CHAPTER VII
They cruised beyond Galveston, to the mouth of the San Jacinto River, where a graveyard of sunken boats prevented them going any further. They managed to find a desolate cove with no signs of life and the four women watched the approaching shoreline with a quiet sense of dread. None of them relished the idea of setting foot back on land and, realistically, they knew that seeing four attractive women together could inflame the basest and most violent instincts in men. However, they also felt that they would be safer together.
“Well, thank you for dropping me off,” said Farah as the cabin cruiser came to a stop.
“You don’t expect us to let you go alone, do you?” said Uma.
Farah turned to them. “We hadn’t talked about it, but this isn’t your fight.”
“We rarely get into a fight that is ours,” said Uma, indicating herself and Syra.
Syra just stood with her arms folded; happy to let Uma speak for her.
“And you were right a couple of days ago,” said Ruthie, “I do owe you one. You did save my life.”
Farah’s eyes began to well up.
“Don’t start that crap,” said Uma and she leaped from the boat to tie a mooring rope to a tree stump. “Thanks, old gal!” she said, slapping the cruiser on the bow.
From what Farah could tell, Houston wasn’t as decimated as the towns and cities in Florida. She hoped the same was true for Dallas. When they came across a well-to-do house with five cars outside, Farah couldn’t tell if it was Uma’s youth and beauty or Syra’s threatening intensity that persuaded the geriatric owner to “lend” them a vehicle. In any case, with a quick stock up of food, plus four hoodies to hide their appearance and a pair of sneakers plucked from a smashed Walmart window for Ruthie, whose feet had been bare for days, they headed for Dallas.
CHAPTER VIII
There were several signs of war on the drive, but the main thing Farah noticed was an eerie sense of calm. Shops had been looted and buildings and highways firebombed, but there were very few signs of life. Uma speculated that this might be because Texas was one of the most “tooled-up” states in the nation and people knew how to keep to themselves, so they were just staying indoors until the heat blew over.
A sense of foreboding increased in Farah throughout the journey due to one overshadowing thought – she was too late.
When she saw her family home she knew she was right. The doors and windows were smashed while all other houses on the street were untouched and newly shuttered. Their shutters were down, like those households had their eyes closed to what had happened here.
“We’ll come in with you,” said Syra.
“No,” said Farah. “I’ll go in myself.”
She felt like she was floating above herself as she went indoors; observing from afar. When she found the bodies of her parents in the living room—where she had once fought with her sisters to save them—she didn’t react.
A hand-scrawled note rested on the sofa. It read:
Syra, Uma and Ruthie didn’t speak when Farah came back to the car. They could tell the news wasn’t good.
“My parents are dead,” she said. “Cassie Jones is in a gym a few blocks away. My sisters might be there.”
“I’ll drive,” said Syra.
As they pulled into the gym car park Syra noticed three men with semi-automatic rifles on the roof. A fourth, who had been standing by the entrance, ran inside.
“She’s got a crew,” said Syra, mostly directing this comment to Uma.
Moments later Cassie arrived at the entrance doors with two armed escorts.
Farah’s eyes locked on her. Cassie smiled and acknowledged to her escorts that this is who she had been waiting for. She beckoned for Farah to come over.
“Wait here,” said Farah.
“Nope,” said Syra. “Ruthie – you wait here.”
Ruthie was relieved to sit this confrontation out. Soon Farah stood in the car park, flanked by Syra and Uma.
“What did I tell you, boys?” Cassie called out. “Three more dirty bitches – now you’ve got one each!”
“There are four of them, Cass! Plus the two inside – that’s six altogether.”
“Nah,” said Cassie, and she pointed at Farah, “This one’ll be dead soon.”
Syra and Uma didn’t take their eyes off the men. “You going high?” asked Uma.
“Yes,” said Syra. “You go low.”
“Just the way I like it.”
“What are you saying, bitch?!” shouted Cassie, but before the echo of her question had disappeared, Syra and Uma grabbed pistols from their waistbands and—BANG! BANG! BA-BANG! BANG!—the five men were shot dead.
Ruthie screamed in surprise. Farah and Cassie froze with shock. As one of the roof guards toppled to the ground, Cassie snapped into action and ran back indoors. Farah gave chase.
“Careful! She’s got guns!” Uma called after her.
CHAPTER IX
Farah ran with the focus of a cheetah hunting its prey. She knew the danger but didn’t care. She heard Cassie’s footsteps running up a staircase and raced after her, three stairs at a time.
At the top of the stairs she burst through a swinging door and found Cassie in the machine room, which overlooked an olympic swimming pool. Cassie had her own gun pointed to one side where Farah saw Sabrina and Mira tied to two power-lifting machines by the arms and neck. They were beaten and bleeding, but they were alive.
“Fari!” called Mira.
Cassie had a victorious snarl. “You killed ma man, I’m gonna kill yo’ whole family. Then I’m gonna kill you!”
“You pathetic bitch,” said Farah. “You need a gun? Too scared you can’t take me on one-one-one.”
“Yeah, and get shot by those other bitches?”
“They’re not here, you idiot!”
Cassie hesitated, wavering as to what to do. Farah mimicked the beckon Cassie had given outside and Cassie put her gun down. “I’m gonna mess you up, ho’.”
Farah ran at her and threw a punch that connected with Cassie’s cheekbone, but had zero effect. Cassie retaliated by grabbing Farah’s hair and tugging her down, sending two knee kicks into her face. Farah swung two hook punches into Cassie’s ribs and they fell against the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the pool.
Farah’s head was yanked up and she wasn’t quick enough to stop Cassie head-butting her squarely in the face and felt the scratch of fingernails lacerating her cheek. Fury overtook Farah. She couldn’t see clearly, but reached forward and felt Cassie’s neck, pushed her backward and they tumbled into something—some piece of gym equipment. She reached out her hand, seeking to steady herself and found a pulldown bar. She yanked it down, circled it around Cassie’s neck and pushed herself free, leaving a handful of hair in Cassie’s grip.
Before Cassie could release herself from the cable, Farah leapt to the rack and managed to load it with 200lbs. The wire shot back and slammed Cassie’s spine against the frame. She dangled, grasping at the pulldown bar with both hands, but was unable to move it and each time she had to let go to try a different tactic, the cable tightened on her throat.
Farah ran to Sabrina and Mira and released them. “I’ve been home,” she said and they all hugged and cried.
Cassie’s struggles brought their attention back to her. Sabrina picked up the gun.
“No,” said Farah. “That’s too easy.”
She stepped up to Cassie. “Struggling to stay alive? Does it feel that things could go very wrong at any moment? Got no control?”
Cassie said nothing, just looked at Farah with bitter resentment as she sweated and trembled in her efforts to hold the weight.
Farah looked her up and down. Cassie was dressed in a T-shirt and jeans. Although she was an escaped convict, the men she had convinced to protect her obviously gave her the chance to live a care-free existence. Despite being what many would describe as white trash, she was pretty with a well-toned body.
Because of the things Farah had been force to endure over the past year, a twisted method of revenge came to her mind. She leant forward and peeled up Cassie’s top, exposing her midriff. Her taut abdominals seemed to direct Farah towards specific places. Farah recalled what it was like to be touched in all those places and how torturous they could be, so she reached forward…
“Don’t you touch me, bitch!” growled Cassie.
Farah took no notice as she lightly danced her fingernails on the flanks of Cassie’s tummy.
Cassie jolted and stared at Farah, confused at feeling this absurd sensation in this moment.
“Don’t touch me!”
“Shut up,” said Farah and she continued lightly teasing the skin on Cassie’s stomach, recalling how torturous it was to endure prolonged, incessant tickling on the most sensitive parts of her own skin. It was the preferred method of torment from Prison Officer Archer, who could partake in it for hours on end, keeping her victim on the verge of squeamishness and laughter all day long.
Sabrina and Mira looked at each other totally perplexed, when a prolonged gurgle of frustration coincided with pomegranate complexion as Cassie attempted to resist the compulsion to laugh. Suddenly, Sabrina understood.
Farah began scurrying her fingertips all over Cassie’s bare midriff - teasing her navel and pressing lightly just above her hips, prompting Cassie to crack. “Get off me! You crazy fuckin’ bitch!” she said through titters.
“I think I can help you there, sis,” said Sabrina.
Cassie gritted her teeth and tried unsuccessfully to give Sabrina a warning look as the eldest sister stepped up close and maintained eye contact with Cassie as she inserted her fingers into the sleeves of her T-shirt.
Cassie’s frustration couldn’t have been greater. “I’m warnin’ yoooooeeeeee!” she shrieked as Sabrina began tickling her sweaty underarms.
Mira hadn’t before seen anything but malice in Cassie’s expression. But now, with her eyebrows raised and biting her own bottom lip in an attempt to cope with the sensations she was going through, Mira felt a vindictiveness raising in her – not only to see Cassie physically suffer and mentally panic, but to see her emotionally humiliated at the same time.
Farah grasped Cassie’s sides and pressed her thumbs into the fibres of her stomach muscles. Cassie looked to the heavens as she bellowed with laughter and lost control of the pulldown bar. The weights dropped, tugging the cable tight and cutting off her breath, momentarily stopping all sound from her. In a rage, she pulled down the bar and gasped. Farah and Sabrina continued to tickle her but it now had no effect. Her aggression gave her an added strength, the veins in her arms protruded through as she strained down on the bar and began to loosen the cable.
Mira saw what was coming and leapt forward.
“I think it’s time we did this!” she said. She hooked Cassie’s left foot under her arm and pulled off her sneaker.
Cassie looked down in surprise and before she could pull any further, Mira started tickling the sole of her socked foot.
Cassie froze and bit her lip again. Every sinew of her being strained in an attempt to not react, but she couldn’t hold out.
Seeing that her feet were her weak spot, Farah switched positions and mirrored Mira, pulling off Cassie’s right shoe and sock. Her long, slender sole was like a playground – Farah honed in on all the places she could sense Cassie would be ticklish.
Mira saw how much greater the effect was of tickling Cassie’s sweaty bare foot and pulled off the other sock.
With all three sisters tickling to maximum capacity, Cassie exploded with laughter and lost all strength. The weights dropped again and yanked her firm to the column of the machine. She couldn’t breathe but was helpless with laughter despite it all. She kicked and spasmed with a primal strength that knew she was fighting for her life and the machine rocked. The sisters struggled to hold on. Farah looked back as Cassie spasmed, even stronger than before. This time the machine even tilted back off the ground. Sensing that Cassie was ready to give her last attempt to break free, Farah yelled, “Push!” and Sabrina and Mira followed her lead: as Cassie bucked one last time, they shoved against the machine with an almighty strength born of everything Cassie and her cohorts had put them through.
The machine toppled backwards and crashed through the window. The machine, Cassie and shattered glass tumbled into the depths of the swimming pool and sank quickly to the bottom.
CHAPTER X
The three sisters watched for a while until the foam cleared and they were certain they would never hear from Cassie Jones again.
They hugged. They shared tears over their parents and they felt relief that the three of them were back together at last.
Syra and Uma watched from the bleachers of the pool.
“It’s unbelievable,” said Uma.
“Yeah,” said Syra. “Of all the boats in all the seas in all the world, we nearly crash land into hers.”
“What are you thinking, boss?”
“I’m thinking that things are never going to be the same again. But we’ve still got a mission to do.”
Farah's Odyssey II: Embrace (m/f, f/f)
Farah's Odyssey III: Union
Farah’s Odyssey
part 3: A Tickling Union
(non-consensual tickling, sexual content, violence)
“Coincidence is God’s way of remaining anonymous.”
— Albert Einstein
CHAPTER I
“Twenty seven, down to three. You might think that leaving the security of a prison—even if it was a brutal and abusive place—to wander the chaotic roads of Florida during a violent civil war would be enough to keep a band of women together,” said Farah.
Farah, Vanessa and Imani—a young woman who neither of them had known while they were inside—were crossing the Captain Chad Allen Reed Sr. Memorial Bridge, Steinhatchee, having chosen to avoid several smoking towns in ruins and ending up at this one.
“I know what you’re doing,” said Vanessa, looking into the distance. “Tell you what: you come with me to New York to save my sister, then I’ll walk across country to Texas to save your family. Deal?”
“There isn’t a redneck psycho with vendetta against you on the loose in New York.”
“Sure, New York with no reason to abide by any laws is going to be the safest place in the world right now!”
“Okay, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” said Farah. “I’m not trying to play one-up. I just don’t want to do this on my own.” She was looking west where, like a collection of slow moving typhoons, smokestacks plumed into the sky as far as the eye could see.
“I get it,” said Vanessa. “And you’re sure you want to go with me, kid?”
Imani nodded. “I know my history enough to know if Americans are killin’ who they wanna kill, I’m better off goin’ north. Sorry, girl.” She addressed this apology to Farah.
“Don’t be,” said Farah. “I know that first-hand. But my family are Dallas. I think.”
“Good luck,” said Vanessa and held out a hand.
Farah wanted a hug, as much for a sense of comfort before the journey she was about to take alone, as for the friendship they had developed and all they had been through in prison. But she also knew how strong Vanessa’s aversion to close physical contact was. Even holding out her hand was a big deal for her at this point, so Farah shook it.
“You too,” said Farah.
With that, Vanessa and Imani headed north and Farah headed west.
After a few moments Vanessa called back: “Hey, maybe we’ll see each other again one day!”
It was such an uncharacteristic statement of optimism that Farah felt more touched by it than anything else and for a while just watched them walk away until the drifting dust and smoke from wrecked buildings hid them from sight.
CHAPTER II
A short way down the road Farah came across a gas station that had been turned into a burnt-out shell long ago. Pretty much everything had been looted, from the cigarettes to the comics. However, amongst the debris and trash, she found what she was looking for – a road map. She was familiar enough with the layout of the states to know that she would have to cross Alabama, Mississippi and Louisiana before she got to Texas, but needed a map to know exactly how far she would have to walk. Much to her dismay, she calculated the route as being around 1,150 miles; approximately a 17-day journey.
That’s if it’s plain sailing all the way, she thought to herself as she sauntered into the station lot. I highly doubt it will be.
Amid a constant, inexplicable low-level rumble that had been present since the war began, the echoing pops of gunfire and occasional distant explosions, came the growl of rapidly approaching engines. Farah crouched behind an upturned dumpster as two vehicles burned around the corner. She peeked through a gap between the dumpster and the gas station wall to see a battered silver car skid sideways and bump up the kerb into the station lot. It didn’t have time to rest before a dusty blue pickup truck jumped the sidewalk and crashed into the car’s side rear, spinning it on the forecourt.
Two men in the back of the pickup fired shotguns at the car, which momentarily came to rest. The back door opened and a pretty woman, with dark cropped hair, just a little older than Farah—perhaps 25—and her clothes torn, leapt barefoot from the car and ran as fast as she could, evidently distraught. Two more men jumped from the car and exchanged fire with the guys in the truck and shot the driver, bringing it to a stop. Another man leant from the passenger side with a pistol and joined the exchange.
“Fuck you, puto! She ain’t yours!” he shouted.
“She ain’t yours either, shithead!”
Farah stopped watching as the gunfire accelerated into the inevitable clicks of empty barrels, followed by shouting and visceral sounds of violence that she didn’t want to see. That’s when she noticed the barefoot woman running—almost falling—through the grassland behind the gas station.
The violence was over quickly, followed by a sound that chilled Farah’s blood: the men laughing at the opponents they had just slaughtered.
“Get Pablo out the driving seat! My turn at the wheel!”
“You can have the wheel –where is that perrita? It’s my turn on her!”
“There she is!”
“Hey! Bonita! Wait for me!”
Farah heard the men scramble back into the truck and the wheels spin on the gravel. She curled into a ball and sheltered her face from flying dust and stones as they sped after the woman. Despite the distance, the growl of the truck and the whooping of the men chasing her, Farah clearly heard the woman’s desperate scream of terror. That’s when it hit her with full-force: nowhere was safe. The entire country was wild. This wasn’t just about politics, it was about the uncivilised taking advantage of a breakdown in order and chaos becoming a playground for anyone who only cared for themselves.
This was the first encounter with strangers on the first step of a 1,150 mile journey, and if one of the men had looked her way when they drove past, she would now be the one running for her life.
The woman screamed again. More shrilly this time – the type of scream that is purely instinctual; when your subconscious takes over because there is nothing else you can do. Then she considered that she couldn’t just turn her back and let this young woman get savaged and possibly killed by these men.
Farah peeked over the dumpster to confirm that there was nobody else around. She shakily ran to the car, doing all she could not to look directly at the men who lay on the ground. She picked up a handgun and opened the passenger door to rifle through the glove box. Thankfully, she found what she was looking for as several gun clips fell from the compartment. She grabbed them and gasped – suddenly noticing the passenger in the back seat who looked like he had been shot dead several hours ago.
She got the shivers and slammed the passenger door as she backed away, only broken from her shock by the sound of the truck returning. She sprinted for her hiding place, fumbling to reload the gun as she went and dropping two clips, not daring to stop and pick them up in case the men saw her.
“Hey! Look at this! Another one!”
Farah felt a rush of gooseflesh on her back. The truck launched from a dip in the grassland, almost clipping the upturned dumpster as it landed and skidded to a stop in the lot.
Farah froze, faced by the truck with two men sitting either side of their hostage in the cab and one in the back.
“Get her!” said the driver and the man in the back of the truck immediately jumped to the ground.
Before she knew it, Farah was aiming the pistol at them. Unlike the situation in the prison in which she had McGunn covered with a semi-automatic, this time her adrenaline was driven by fear rather than anger and she couldn’t help but notice that the pistol shook crazily in her hand.
“Woah!” said all three men.
“You don’t need to do that, baby,” said the man on the ground. “We’re gonna protect you, uh? Take you with us to a safe place where nobody will find you.”
Farah aimed at him and he smiled back at his compadres. They could tell just by looking at her that she’d never fired a gun before. This added another doubt in her mind – if she pulled the trigger, there was no guarantee that she wouldn’t accidentally hit the young woman she was trying to save.
The man’s smile suddenly disappeared and he raised his shotgun at her. “Puta, put down the fockin’ gun!”
“You don’t scare me!” said Farah. “I saw you r-un out of a-ammo.”
The man laughed. “Two things, bitch: I can tell y-y-you’re fockin’ scared, and I reloaded in the truck.” He pumped the shotgun.
Farah flinched and squeezed the trigger.
The man ducked as the bullet flew past him.
“Get out the truck!” yelled Farah as she ran for the gas station and fired again.
The barefoot woman saw her chance and lashed out at the man in the passenger seat. The punches had little effect and he grabbed her wrists as the driver hit the gas.
The man on the ground seethed as the second bullet hit the dumpster behind him and he unloaded one barrel at Farah. She shrieked as a single pellet caught her in the backside and went to shoot again but the bullet sailed into the sky. She was almost at the gas station door when something blew her sideways.
She landed in the dust, choking and winded. The pistol in her hand was gone. She looked down to see her arm and side peppered with bloodstains.
The girl bit the passenger’s hand to let her go. “Aaaagh! Fuckin’ bitch!” he said, forced to release her.
“Control her, cabrón!” shouted the driver before she pulled her knee to her chest and kicked him across the face.
A silhouette blocked the sun over Farah and she looked up to see the man with the shotgun aiming it at her. “Shoot me? No! I shoot y—”
His sentence was cut short as the truck rammed into him and narrowly missed crushing Farah’s legs. Farah watched as it barrelled from the parking lot, across the road and smashed into a shuttered pet store. The horn blared for a minute or so as she caught her breath.
Then the horn stopped. As Farah watched, the driver door opened. She got to her knees, knowing that she needed to leave, when she saw the young woman’s dusty bare feet emerge from the cab. She slid out, dropped to the ground and ran to Farah.
“We’ve got to leave,” she said as she helped Farah to her feet. “The guy with the shotgun is dead but the others are only unconscious. Let’s go!”
“Where?” asked Farah.
“I don’t know…”
The truck creaked and they watched as both men fell groggily from each door.
“That way!” said the barefoot woman and she supported Farah as they hurried back to the grassland. “I saw some boats.”
Thoughts came to Farah’s mind but she was too dazed and focussed on staying upright to express them. She hoped the men hadn’t seen them go, but from behind them she heard the men shouting and the sound of the truck attempting to start up. Two shotgun blasts filled the air followed by a distant cry of, “We’re coming for you, bitches!”
Farah was thankful that the boatyard was close. Her main thought was that there were unlikely to be any boats left at the dock, but to her surprise there were several. They reached a pier, at the end of which sat a good-sized cabin cruiser.
The truck’s engine was growling closer once more. Farah looked back to see it crash from the parking lot onto the grass, exploding the upturned dumpster on its way. She also noticed the bloody footprints she was leaving on the dock.
“Quickly!” Farah said as the truck closed on the boatyard.
The barefoot woman jumped into the cabin cruiser and helped her down. “Untie the ropes!” she shouted in a panic as she ran to the bridge and searched frantically for a way to start the boat.
Farah winced in pain as she released the lines at the bow and stern. She then grabbed the closest thing she could find—a parasol—to push the boat away from the dock… but it didn’t move. Suddenly the boat’s engine came to life.
“I did it!” called the barefoot woman. “Are we clear?”
Farah pushed harder but the boat still didn’t move.
“Are we clear!?” said the barefoot woman as she appeared on deck. “Oh, shit!”
Farah followed her line of sight to see the truck jump from the pier’s entry gate. Both women froze with fear as the truck flew directly towards them, vicious revenge scrawled on the faces of the two injured men inside. The truck landed, front bumper first, with a loud CRACK! on the pier.
There was a rushing sound before an instant of silence. Both men tried unsuccessfully to open their doors when the truck’s radiator exploded and the pier began to collapse. Farah felt the boat begin to move.
“There!” said the barefoot woman, finally seeing the third line that connected them to the pier. She released it and ran to the bridge, pushed down on the throttle and clumsily steered the boat towards Deadman Bay.
Farah crawled to her knees and looked back to see the two men kicking desperately at the truck’s windscreen as it slipped from the collapsing pier and nose-dived into the water. She began to feel dizzy and wanted to watch; to make sure at least two more incarnations of evil were gone from the world, but her body had other ideas.
She passed out.
CHAPTER III
Farah’s consciousness drifted back to her in pieces. She didn’t know how long she’d been out, but the warmth of her skin from the sun told her it had been quite some time.
“Oh, my God. Thank God,” said the barefoot woman, who was sitting on the deck beside her. “I didn’t know if you were going to wake up and I couldn’t find smelling salts or whatever in the first aid kit.”
There were sticking plasters all the way down Farah’s left arm. She could also feel them under her shirt and on her butt and thigh.
“We’ve gotta get to a hospital…” said Farah. She stopped herself when she saw her companion’s doubtful expression.
“I don’t think so. There are no hospitals working like normal. Don’t you know that?”
“I’ve been away a long time,” said Farah. “And you’re welcome, by the way.”
“For what?”
“I stuck around when I saw those guys after you.”
“Oh… Well I made sure you got on this boat and we escaped, so I guess we’re already even, huh?”
Farah gave a slight smirk. The smart-arsedness reminded her of Mira. “I’m Farah, by the way.”
“Ruthie.”
“Nice to meet you, Ruthie. So, where are we now and where are we headed?”
“We’re currently somewhere in the Gulf of Mexico – I’m trying to keep the land in sight but not within reach. And we can head wherever we like. I’d personally prefer it to be somewhere where there are no psycho-rapist men.”
“Mars it is,” said Farah, adjusting her position and squinting into the sky. “Although I would appreciate it if it was somewhere with medical facilities, because I think I’m already hallucinating.”
“Why?” asked Ruthie. “What can you see?”
“A plane. Coming towards us.”
Ruthie looked to the sky. She was worried about having this stranger going fever-crazed on the boat, but then she heard the btt-btt-brrrrtt of a light aircraft’s engines failing and she saw it – smoke trailing from its tail. “Oh, Mary Mother! What now?!”
She bolted for the bridge and started the engine. She pressed down hard on the throttle but the boat didn’t respond fast enough for her. “Move, goddamn it!”
Farah was open-mouthed as the plane closed rapidly. Finally the boat’s propellors caught the water and jerked the boat forward. Farah felt the rush of wind as the plane’s wheels passed close enough to see the tyre treads and skimmed the surface behind them before crashing into the ocean.
The spray covered Farah and re-wetted the dried blood on the deck. She grimaced through the pain enough to pull herself onto the rear seating. Ruthie joined her. For several moments they just watched as the aircraft bobbed on the water. Then the pilot’s door opened and a young Indian woman—around 20-years-old—stepped out, put on a backpack and waved at them. Speechless, Farah and Ruthie waved back.
“I call that a lucky escape!” called a distant voice that made Farah and Ruthie jump. A large shadow prompted them to look up and see a beautiful and more mature Indian woman—around 35—descending towards them on a parachute. Farah and Ruthie looked at one another.
The woman on the parachute effortlessly ran the boat from front to back and detached the parachute, letting it settle onto the water. The woman in the water trotted with perfect balance along the top of the plane, from the cockpit to the tail, before diving into the water and swimming over to them. Ruthie helped her from the water.
“Thanks! I’m Uma.”
“Ruthie,” said Ruthie, astounded that this seemed perfectly natural to Uma.
For several moments all four women stood looking at one another in an awkward silence until Uma indicated the huge bloodstain on the deck. “Someone’s time of the month?”
“I was shot,” said Farah.
“And that’s why you prioritise the full first aid kit,” said the beautiful woman with the tone of a mentor.
“Oh…” said Uma.
“You left it on the plane, didn’t you?”
With a fizz and a loud pop, they turned to see the aircraft start to sink.
“I’ll get it!” said Uma and she immediately dove back into the water.
“Who are you both?” said Farah, shivering and half-feeling that she’d wandered into the middle of a spy movie.
The newcomer smiled. “I get that question sometimes. And, although I’m grateful for your hospitality—”
“Not much choice—”
“—I can’t tell you anything about me.”
“Not even your name?” asked Ruthie.
“I can do that. You can call me Syra.”
CHAPTER IV
The boat rested on a glassy sea against a sky of orange as Syra and Uma got Farah to drink her fifth shot of vodka from the bar and they worked to pull the shot from her wounds.
“You think she’ll be okay?” asked Ruthie from the doorway. She didn’t want to see any more blood but also didn’t want to be alone and so was counting how many gulls she could see.
“Shock, exhaustion, heatstroke, fever, hunger and the first taste of alcohol in a while means we probably won’t be able to gauge much right now,” said Syra. “But I’d guess she’ll be all right.”
“Don’t sp-speak as though I’m not h-here—owww!” Farah yelped as Uma plucked another piece of shot from her butt cheek.
“Tell me something,” Uma said to Ruthie, “if you weren’t in prison with her, how did you come to be out and about on your own?”
“I was on my way to find my auntie. She’s the only family I’ve got. We managed to stay in touch for the first year of the war but then we lost contact and I knew roughly where she was. On my way I got cornered by this gang and…” she went through a range of emotions, trying to give only the detail that was required without reliving any of it. “I don’t know how many months later, they were raided by another gang who thought I was a possession that could be stolen from them.”
“Maybe we can pay those gangs a visit when the war is over?” Uma muttered to Syra with a wild look in her eye.
“Revenge is a road that never ends,” said Syra without looking up from the current extraction. “All you do is meet assholes coming the other way.”
“I don’t know about that; they’re all dead now anyway,” said Ruthie.
They stopped talking for a while. The only sounds became the lapping of water and Farah’s shivering breaths as she bore the pain of the extractions.
“What did you do before the war?” Even though she didn’t look up, Syra’s question was directed at Ruthie. “Something in fashion?”
“Fashion? No. I was a personal assistant and trainee.”
“To who?”
“A BDSM mistress,” said Ruthie. She was used to this being an impactful piece of information, but the present company took it as casually as she’d announced that she used to be a checkout girl.
“Cool,” said Uma. “Where did you operate?”
“Atlanta. Although we need to relocate.”
“Why’s that?”
“Our dungeon was targeted and burnt down.”
“By the right or the left?”
“Both? Neither? Who cares? By anyone who had the opportunity to destroy the things they don’t like or agree with. Let them keep going. That way the world will eventually be one colour – ash. And hopefully it’ll start again without humans.”
Syra suppressed a sigh that would indicate she had no time for such dramatic hypotheses. “What did your Mistress teach you, then?”
“Oh, everything. Her mother was also a Mistress so she’s a fountain of knowledge even though she’s only 32. She had to learn a lot and grow up quick. I’ve learnt needling, sounding, breath play, Shibari, spanking, caning, tickling—”
Uma cast a look to Syra, who maintained her regular poker face.
“Tickling!” shouted Farah, surprising them all. “Tickling. Tickling… He tickled…” Her eyes were closed and she was shivering and sweating. Beads of sweat rolled from her forehead and soaked into the pillow.
“Get me the medi-bag,” said Syra. “She’s got a proper fever now. This has come on quick.”
“Maybe it was already incoming,” said Uma as she retrieved the bag of medicine.
“Tickling. So much tickling…” whispered Farah.
“What’s she talking about?” asked Ruthie. Syra shook her head.
“The prison… the prison they did it…” Farah said softly. “They tickled me all year. Tickle torturing… They tickled my feet and my ribs. My armpits! My knees! My armpits are so ticklish… They tickled me. They tickled us all… They had us captive. So much tickling…”
Syra prepared a syringe of penicillin and injected it into Farah’s leg.
Farah giggled and continued: “Stop it… it’s unbearable… I can’t stop them… I’m tied to the bars… They just want to tickle me… Tickle me all over… Tickle me forever… Tickle me to deathhh…”
Her last words faded into sleep.
“All the shot is out,” said Syra. “Let’s patch her up.”
“It sounds like she was imprisoned and tortured,” said Uma.
“If you can call tickling torture,” Ruthie guffawed.
“I thought you knew about BDSM!” said Uma.
Ruthie was obviously offended. “I do. Tickling isn’t that bad.”
Uma was ready to make a point when Syra stopped her. “Stop bickering. Patch her up.”
Uma did as she was told, but there was unfinished business between herself and Ruthie.
CHAPTER V
“What’s the status on your mission, Senior Agent?” asked Director Zhang. She had been joined by Mission Supervisor Baker.
Syra Rahul had spent a lot of time over the past decade being briefed and debriefing her superiors, but it had been a very long time since she felt like she was being judged negatively on her results.
“It’s not straightforward, ma’am,” she said.
“Wait a minute,” said Baker, “where’s Agent Tailor?”
“Outside, sir.”
“Bring her in.”
Syra collected Uma from the waiting area.
“Your mission was asked of us by certain a certain left-leaning political heavyweight,” said Director Zhang, “but even if it hadn’t been, we would have taken it upon ourselves to do the same thing in order to bring this civil war to a expedited completion.
“I know your opinion on getting involved in political matters, Senior Agent Rahul. It has a great deal to do with the ceiling your career has reached here at RID. However, no matter where you sit—left, right or fence in between—none of it will matter if the country implodes and falls into the hands of foreign dictators who are intent on taking over the planet. The USA is weak and taking out the biggest chaotician since President Calhoun is absolutely necessary.”
“Yes, ma’am,” said Syra, as calmly as she could muster. “I am aware of all of that. I can assure you that the slow progress of our mission so far has not been to do with my political opinions.”
“What is it then?” said Baker, in his characteristically oil-on-waters tone.
“Our information systems are becoming more and more disrupted by the day. It’s not just the civilian world that’s affected. The FBI, the CIA and us – lines of communication are being bombed, satellites are being sabotaged—”
“I know all this,” said Zhang. “We are above all of that.”
“I’m afraid we’re not, ma’am. I would like nothing more than to deliver Senator Skylar Bryant to you personally, but whenever we arrive where she is supposed to be, the information has been changed or is old.”
“Then go old-fashioned, Miss Rahul. Steak her out!”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And don’t think that all of this lies on the shoulder of your supervisor, Agent Tailor,” Zhang said sharply.
“No, ma’am,” Uma replied.
“I want to see something from you on this mission. The world around us may be falling apart, but I will accept nothing but the best from this organisation. As always.”
“Yes, ma’am,” both agents replied.
“You’re dismissed.”
“Where to now, boss?” asked Uma as they closed Director Zhang’s door behind them.
“You heard the director. Get your stuff and meet me at the airfield. We’re off to Alabama.”
- - -
Uma was first to arrive at the airfield. She collected the key to one of the cult’s light aircraft, got into the pilot seat and waited for Syra.
As she waited she took out her phone and, for what may have been the 100th time, perused the file of their target:
Name: Senator Skylar Bryant
Age: 45
Ethnicity: Caucasian
Height: 5’6”
Weight: 135lbs
Shoe size: 6 US (womens)
T statistics:
In an online chat with supporters she received the question: “How tiklish r u?”
Her response was: “If anyone knew that, it may one day be a threat to national security!”
Our analysts have predicted that she has a high likelihood of being in or above the 95th percentile for ticklishness.
If she was unbiased, Uma would have said that the senator was an attractive woman – fit with wavy brunette hair and big blue eyes, who occasionally wore glasses when she wanted to convince her followers of something that was vital to her cause. But because her cause was the expulsion or incarceration of all immigrants—whether first, second or third generation—and to have a country that was “pure of heart” and “right-thinking”, Uma could not be unbiased. She knew racism would always exist because she had grown up with it all around. Even though she was only 25, she knew that, like a weed, you can cut racism down, but it grows again; there will always be ignorance and there will always be the self-serving who will use that ignorance for their own purposes. She also knew she couldn’t accept this knowledge without reacting to it.
A fact that she kept quiet was that she relished the idea of taking Skylar Bryant down – not just for the mission but for everything she stood for. She also liked that whoever commissioned this mission wanted to make a public show of the senator’s downfall, although at this point, only Mission Supervisor Baker and Director Zhang knew who the client was.
Syra opened the door and took the co-pilot’s seat. “Good. I was going to ask you to take control.”
“No need!” said Uma as she started the plane and they trundled toward the runway. “What’s that soun—?”
Before she could finish, Syra and Uma were aghast to see two missiles sailing overhead, travelling directly toward the RID HQ.
“Move!” ordered Syra. “Go! Go! Go!”
Uma accelerated. They both looked back as the first missile whooshed overhead and plunged into the building. The resulting fireball engulfed the entire site. While Syra watched in horror the second missile landed and doubled the size of the fireball, which chased them along the tarmac.
“Get us up!” said Syra.
Uma pulled back on the central column and the plane left the ground.
Syra couldn’t take her eyes off the destruction. The one place she had felt at home and the people—the friends—she had known for over twelve years, were gone. They circled the site twice looking for signs of life, but as the smoke began to clear it was evident that nobody could have survived.
“Let’s go,” said Syra. “Whoever did this will be checking the area for survivors.”
“It wasn’t rogue missiles…?”
“Nobody was supposed to know we were there, Uma. This was deliberate.”
Uma banked the plane and they headed for Alabama.
As they flew, neither of them said anything. RID had bases all over the world and, no doubt, intelligence would quickly inform them that the main hub had been destroyed. Syra didn’t know who else in the US may be alive – which agents were out on a mission and not at the HQ when the missiles hit.
“Reaching Atmore, Alabama,” said Uma and started to descend.
Syra took a breath and put herself back into professional mode. Uma responded to this and did the same.
“Good. We’ll land and go to the hideout. If there are any other agents in the area, they’ll have done the same—” PT-TWING! Something ricocheted against Syra’s window. “What the…?”
PT-TANGGG! Something else hit the wing. Syra looked down to see a field of youths sitting on hay bails and taking pot-shots at them with a range of weapons, from bolt-action rifles to semi-automatics.
“Take us up!” Syra shouted.
BT-BT-BT-BT-BT-BT-BT-BT! A series of semi-automatic bullets rattled the fuselage.
“What a great fucking hobby they’ve got!” shouted Uma. “We’re losing fuel,” she said. A quick check out the window confirmed what the fuel gauge was telling her and the engine started to sputter.
“Get on your parachute and get us over ground,” said Syra.
“Over ground? If hicks are shooting at planes for fun, what do you think they’ll do to us?”
Syra considered and saw that they were headed out to sea. “What’s your plan, Agent?”
“There’s a boat out there. Look.” Uma pointed at a tiny speck in the shape of a lone cabin cruiser.
“Fine,” said Syra as she donned her parachute. “Let’s go.”
“I think I can land it safely!” said Uma.
Syra wasn’t in the mood to argue. “Suit yourself.” CHAPTER VI
Farah woke in a bottom bunk in a dark cabin below deck. She had stopped shivering. For a brief moment she thought she was back in prison but the rocking of the boat and the sound of lapping waves reminded her where she was. She could also sense that she was not alone.
“Water,” she croaked.
There was movement from the upper bunk. A pair of pretty bare feet swung over the side and Syra dropped elegantly to the floor. She filled a cup from a sink in the corner of the cabin, handed it to Farah and sat on her bed.
“Thanks,” said Farah. “How long have I been out?”
“Only a couple of days.”
“Goddamn it.”
“What’s wrong?”
“I’ve got to get home. My family are in danger – I can’t just sleep for days!”
“Calm down. You couldn’t have done anything in the state you were in. You still need to mend up.”
“I don’t have time—”
“Your family are in Dallas, right?” asked Syra.
“Yes… How did you know that?”
“You were in the news a lot, Farah. I know who you are. I’ll tell Uma to take us to Galveston. Good?”
“Yeah.”
Syra left the cabin and Farah gave a long sigh. Even though she had been unconscious for 48 hours, it felt like the first proper breath she had taken in a very long time. It was nice to encounter someone who seemed like the take-charge type.
“Do you remember me?” asked Syra when she returned.
Farah nodded. “Syra. My mysterious parachuting angel with the medicine.”
Syra smirked. “Sounds like you’ve had some adventures yourself. You were babbling in your sleep, but I got the impression it wasn’t just hallucinations.”
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” said Farah.
“Try me.”
There was something so hypnotically authoritarian but reassuring about Syra’s manner that Farah immediately told her the entire story – saving her parents from Tyler Mulhill, Davey Anderson & Cassie Jones and killing Mulhill in the process; being sentenced to prison in Florida; being saved by Vanessa Holbrook; the outbreak of war; spending over a year at the mercy of a regime who tickled and tortured the prisoners; meeting Yuri Stone; overthrowing McGunn and Dayton; escaping the prison and the fight at the gas station; and the urgency of getting home before Cassie Jones could take her revenge on her family for killing her boyfriend.
As she spoke, she realised that it was the first time she admitted to someone else that she didn’t know if she had intended to kill Mulhill or not.
When she finished, Syra slumped against the wall.
“I told you you’d find it incredible,” said Farah.
“I do. But not for the reasons you think.”
“How do you mean?”
“Again, I’m afraid I can’t tell you. Yet, anyway.”
Farah pouted a little, feeling that she had just divulged the most intense parts of her own life story. “How far to Texas?”
“About a day, if we motor.”
“We’ve got time to kill then. I bet your story isn’t as crazy as mine anyway.”
Syra suppressed a laugh. “Yeah,” she said. “Probably not.”
CHAPTER VII
They cruised beyond Galveston, to the mouth of the San Jacinto River, where a graveyard of sunken boats prevented them going any further. They managed to find a desolate cove with no signs of life and the four women watched the approaching shoreline with a quiet sense of dread. None of them relished the idea of setting foot back on land and, realistically, they knew that seeing four attractive women together could inflame the basest and most violent instincts in men. However, they also felt that they would be safer together.
“Well, thank you for dropping me off,” said Farah as the cabin cruiser came to a stop.
“You don’t expect us to let you go alone, do you?” said Uma.
Farah turned to them. “We hadn’t talked about it, but this isn’t your fight.”
“We rarely get into a fight that is ours,” said Uma, indicating herself and Syra.
Syra just stood with her arms folded; happy to let Uma speak for her.
“And you were right a couple of days ago,” said Ruthie, “I do owe you one. You did save my life.”
Farah’s eyes began to well up.
“Don’t start that crap,” said Uma and she leaped from the boat to tie a mooring rope to a tree stump. “Thanks, old gal!” she said, slapping the cruiser on the bow.
From what Farah could tell, Houston wasn’t as decimated as the towns and cities in Florida. She hoped the same was true for Dallas. When they came across a well-to-do house with five cars outside, Farah couldn’t tell if it was Uma’s youth and beauty or Syra’s threatening intensity that persuaded the geriatric owner to “lend” them a vehicle. In any case, with a quick stock up of food, plus four hoodies to hide their appearance and a pair of sneakers plucked from a smashed Walmart window for Ruthie, whose feet had been bare for days, they headed for Dallas.
CHAPTER VIII
There were several signs of war on the drive, but the main thing Farah noticed was an eerie sense of calm. Shops had been looted and buildings and highways firebombed, but there were very few signs of life. Uma speculated that this might be because Texas was one of the most “tooled-up” states in the nation and people knew how to keep to themselves, so they were just staying indoors until the heat blew over.
A sense of foreboding increased in Farah throughout the journey due to one overshadowing thought – she was too late.
When she saw her family home she knew she was right. The doors and windows were smashed while all other houses on the street were untouched and newly shuttered. Their shutters were down, like those households had their eyes closed to what had happened here.
“We’ll come in with you,” said Syra.
“No,” said Farah. “I’ll go in myself.”
She felt like she was floating above herself as she went indoors; observing from afar. When she found the bodies of her parents in the living room—where she had once fought with her sisters to save them—she didn’t react.
A hand-scrawled note rested on the sofa. It read:
I’m finishing what you started.
If you wanna see your sisters alive, come to Iron Kyle’s Gym.
Or I could get bored waiting and kill them too!
C.
If you wanna see your sisters alive, come to Iron Kyle’s Gym.
Or I could get bored waiting and kill them too!
C.
Syra, Uma and Ruthie didn’t speak when Farah came back to the car. They could tell the news wasn’t good.
“My parents are dead,” she said. “Cassie Jones is in a gym a few blocks away. My sisters might be there.”
“I’ll drive,” said Syra.
As they pulled into the gym car park Syra noticed three men with semi-automatic rifles on the roof. A fourth, who had been standing by the entrance, ran inside.
“She’s got a crew,” said Syra, mostly directing this comment to Uma.
Moments later Cassie arrived at the entrance doors with two armed escorts.
Farah’s eyes locked on her. Cassie smiled and acknowledged to her escorts that this is who she had been waiting for. She beckoned for Farah to come over.
“Wait here,” said Farah.
“Nope,” said Syra. “Ruthie – you wait here.”
Ruthie was relieved to sit this confrontation out. Soon Farah stood in the car park, flanked by Syra and Uma.
“What did I tell you, boys?” Cassie called out. “Three more dirty bitches – now you’ve got one each!”
“There are four of them, Cass! Plus the two inside – that’s six altogether.”
“Nah,” said Cassie, and she pointed at Farah, “This one’ll be dead soon.”
Syra and Uma didn’t take their eyes off the men. “You going high?” asked Uma.
“Yes,” said Syra. “You go low.”
“Just the way I like it.”
“What are you saying, bitch?!” shouted Cassie, but before the echo of her question had disappeared, Syra and Uma grabbed pistols from their waistbands and—BANG! BANG! BA-BANG! BANG!—the five men were shot dead.
Ruthie screamed in surprise. Farah and Cassie froze with shock. As one of the roof guards toppled to the ground, Cassie snapped into action and ran back indoors. Farah gave chase.
“Careful! She’s got guns!” Uma called after her.
CHAPTER IX
Farah ran with the focus of a cheetah hunting its prey. She knew the danger but didn’t care. She heard Cassie’s footsteps running up a staircase and raced after her, three stairs at a time.
At the top of the stairs she burst through a swinging door and found Cassie in the machine room, which overlooked an olympic swimming pool. Cassie had her own gun pointed to one side where Farah saw Sabrina and Mira tied to two power-lifting machines by the arms and neck. They were beaten and bleeding, but they were alive.
“Fari!” called Mira.
Cassie had a victorious snarl. “You killed ma man, I’m gonna kill yo’ whole family. Then I’m gonna kill you!”
“You pathetic bitch,” said Farah. “You need a gun? Too scared you can’t take me on one-one-one.”
“Yeah, and get shot by those other bitches?”
“They’re not here, you idiot!”
Cassie hesitated, wavering as to what to do. Farah mimicked the beckon Cassie had given outside and Cassie put her gun down. “I’m gonna mess you up, ho’.”
Farah ran at her and threw a punch that connected with Cassie’s cheekbone, but had zero effect. Cassie retaliated by grabbing Farah’s hair and tugging her down, sending two knee kicks into her face. Farah swung two hook punches into Cassie’s ribs and they fell against the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the pool.
Farah’s head was yanked up and she wasn’t quick enough to stop Cassie head-butting her squarely in the face and felt the scratch of fingernails lacerating her cheek. Fury overtook Farah. She couldn’t see clearly, but reached forward and felt Cassie’s neck, pushed her backward and they tumbled into something—some piece of gym equipment. She reached out her hand, seeking to steady herself and found a pulldown bar. She yanked it down, circled it around Cassie’s neck and pushed herself free, leaving a handful of hair in Cassie’s grip.
Before Cassie could release herself from the cable, Farah leapt to the rack and managed to load it with 200lbs. The wire shot back and slammed Cassie’s spine against the frame. She dangled, grasping at the pulldown bar with both hands, but was unable to move it and each time she had to let go to try a different tactic, the cable tightened on her throat.
Farah ran to Sabrina and Mira and released them. “I’ve been home,” she said and they all hugged and cried.
Cassie’s struggles brought their attention back to her. Sabrina picked up the gun.
“No,” said Farah. “That’s too easy.”
She stepped up to Cassie. “Struggling to stay alive? Does it feel that things could go very wrong at any moment? Got no control?”
Cassie said nothing, just looked at Farah with bitter resentment as she sweated and trembled in her efforts to hold the weight.
Farah looked her up and down. Cassie was dressed in a T-shirt and jeans. Although she was an escaped convict, the men she had convinced to protect her obviously gave her the chance to live a care-free existence. Despite being what many would describe as white trash, she was pretty with a well-toned body.
Because of the things Farah had been force to endure over the past year, a twisted method of revenge came to her mind. She leant forward and peeled up Cassie’s top, exposing her midriff. Her taut abdominals seemed to direct Farah towards specific places. Farah recalled what it was like to be touched in all those places and how torturous they could be, so she reached forward…
“Don’t you touch me, bitch!” growled Cassie.
Farah took no notice as she lightly danced her fingernails on the flanks of Cassie’s tummy.
Cassie jolted and stared at Farah, confused at feeling this absurd sensation in this moment.
“Don’t touch me!”
“Shut up,” said Farah and she continued lightly teasing the skin on Cassie’s stomach, recalling how torturous it was to endure prolonged, incessant tickling on the most sensitive parts of her own skin. It was the preferred method of torment from Prison Officer Archer, who could partake in it for hours on end, keeping her victim on the verge of squeamishness and laughter all day long.
Sabrina and Mira looked at each other totally perplexed, when a prolonged gurgle of frustration coincided with pomegranate complexion as Cassie attempted to resist the compulsion to laugh. Suddenly, Sabrina understood.
Farah began scurrying her fingertips all over Cassie’s bare midriff - teasing her navel and pressing lightly just above her hips, prompting Cassie to crack. “Get off me! You crazy fuckin’ bitch!” she said through titters.
“I think I can help you there, sis,” said Sabrina.
Cassie gritted her teeth and tried unsuccessfully to give Sabrina a warning look as the eldest sister stepped up close and maintained eye contact with Cassie as she inserted her fingers into the sleeves of her T-shirt.
Cassie’s frustration couldn’t have been greater. “I’m warnin’ yoooooeeeeee!” she shrieked as Sabrina began tickling her sweaty underarms.
Mira hadn’t before seen anything but malice in Cassie’s expression. But now, with her eyebrows raised and biting her own bottom lip in an attempt to cope with the sensations she was going through, Mira felt a vindictiveness raising in her – not only to see Cassie physically suffer and mentally panic, but to see her emotionally humiliated at the same time.
Farah grasped Cassie’s sides and pressed her thumbs into the fibres of her stomach muscles. Cassie looked to the heavens as she bellowed with laughter and lost control of the pulldown bar. The weights dropped, tugging the cable tight and cutting off her breath, momentarily stopping all sound from her. In a rage, she pulled down the bar and gasped. Farah and Sabrina continued to tickle her but it now had no effect. Her aggression gave her an added strength, the veins in her arms protruded through as she strained down on the bar and began to loosen the cable.
Mira saw what was coming and leapt forward.
“I think it’s time we did this!” she said. She hooked Cassie’s left foot under her arm and pulled off her sneaker.
Cassie looked down in surprise and before she could pull any further, Mira started tickling the sole of her socked foot.
Cassie froze and bit her lip again. Every sinew of her being strained in an attempt to not react, but she couldn’t hold out.
Seeing that her feet were her weak spot, Farah switched positions and mirrored Mira, pulling off Cassie’s right shoe and sock. Her long, slender sole was like a playground – Farah honed in on all the places she could sense Cassie would be ticklish.
Mira saw how much greater the effect was of tickling Cassie’s sweaty bare foot and pulled off the other sock.
With all three sisters tickling to maximum capacity, Cassie exploded with laughter and lost all strength. The weights dropped again and yanked her firm to the column of the machine. She couldn’t breathe but was helpless with laughter despite it all. She kicked and spasmed with a primal strength that knew she was fighting for her life and the machine rocked. The sisters struggled to hold on. Farah looked back as Cassie spasmed, even stronger than before. This time the machine even tilted back off the ground. Sensing that Cassie was ready to give her last attempt to break free, Farah yelled, “Push!” and Sabrina and Mira followed her lead: as Cassie bucked one last time, they shoved against the machine with an almighty strength born of everything Cassie and her cohorts had put them through.
The machine toppled backwards and crashed through the window. The machine, Cassie and shattered glass tumbled into the depths of the swimming pool and sank quickly to the bottom.
CHAPTER X
The three sisters watched for a while until the foam cleared and they were certain they would never hear from Cassie Jones again.
They hugged. They shared tears over their parents and they felt relief that the three of them were back together at last.
Syra and Uma watched from the bleachers of the pool.
“It’s unbelievable,” said Uma.
“Yeah,” said Syra. “Of all the boats in all the seas in all the world, we nearly crash land into hers.”
“What are you thinking, boss?”
“I’m thinking that things are never going to be the same again. But we’ve still got a mission to do.”
For me, that's all part of it! I like knowing who the characters are when they're not being tickled – it makes it all the more interesting when they are! 
