Miscreants: Next Generation by Natalie Bennett (essential reading .txt) 📗

Unable to see anything, I had no choice but to rely on whomever was leading me to be my eyes. At least I could still feel and smell. I knew the ground was muddied because my boots kept sinking down. The air was thick with malodor and traces of sawdust.

I counted down from sixty, so I knew how long it would take to get back to the vehicle from where I was being led. After three minutes, we stopped. A chain rattled, a low groaning noise followed, and then we were moving again.

“Watch your step,” the man warned, tugging on my arm.

I used the toe of my boot as a feeler, discovering a low, solid ledge of some sort.

I lifted my leg and stepped up onto it, slightly faltering. The air had gone stale and stuffy. There was an underlying stench of urine and…old blood? Whatever the odor was, it was foul. Somewhere high above me a fan was blowing lukewarm air, which wasn’t helping the smell situation.

“Going right.” My guide steered me around something. Then, after a few more steps, he said, “Stand here.”

His hands landed on my shoulders and angled me horizontally. Another warm body, an arm, brushed against mine as they were instructed to do the same. I rubbed my wrists together as best I could to get blood circulating beneath the zip ties.

Once the sack on my head was removed, I blinked a few times, allowing my eyes to compensate for the dim pallor of light. My vision cleared, revealing dusty old pillars and a curvature of wooden stalls built in the shape of a U.

Behind me was the man who’d been my guide. He was average height, sporting two dark braids beneath a Stetson. I figured he was trying to be in character, seeing as we were in a draughty barn that had seen much better days.

The wooden planks that made up the walls had begun to rot. The roof was so old that small shafts of light streamed through where missing shingles no longer existed. A large arena was the main attraction of the space. It took up the entire midsection, reminding me of a bowl full of gravy.

A small sense of relief flowed through my chest when I saw Takara right beside me and in once piece, albeit looking pissed and confused. To her immediate left was a redhead. On the other side of me was a blonde. All of us seemed to be fine—physically, at least.

Blondie’s eyes were overflowing with tears and so puffy it was amazing they were still able to open.

I would bet my left lung that she was the one who’d been hysterical back in Phobos.

Goggles clapped his hands loudly to summon our attention. “Welcome to the Roboys’ Roadhouse, ladies. Where joy and pain are all part of the gain.”

Roboys’ Roadhouse.

I think the sign hanging on the arena gate had said that once upon a time, but it was too faded and worn to make out much of it now.

“You be good and continue to not cause me any problems, and I promise your stay here will be enjoyable for both of us,” Goggles continued.

As he spoke, he made wild motions with his arms. It would’ve been hard to take him seriously if I weren’t bound as a hostage.

Bound, but not helpless.

There were always options. I just had to consider which ones would get Takara and I out of here the safest. There was Poet to think about, too. They’d taken him in a separate vehicle. Since Goggles was in front of us and not currently driving it, Poet could be anywhere. I didn’t know if he were okay or not.

“Ma said dinner will be ready in twenty,” another guy announced as he walked into the barn. The dirty gun Goggles had been wielding back in Phobos was grasped in his hands.

“Good, let me search them and then we can go help her.”

“Search us?” the redhead questioned, her voice low and somewhat slurred. They must have given her something.

“We can’t have any of you trying to hurt one of us or using anything to escape.” Goggles removed a swiss knife and forced the redhead to take a step forward.

“But you already took—”

“Still gotta check you.” He sliced through the maroon fabric of her shirt, straight down the middle. Beneath it was a bra a size too small.

With a perverted inhalation of air, he placed his knife between his teeth and grabbed each of her breasts. She shut her eyes and turned her head as his fingers kneaded them through the fabric of her bra.

What the hell kind of weapon did he expect to find there? But then, it became apparent this wasn’t about us having weapons at all when he dropped his hands to the waistband of her shorts and dragged them down.

It was plain to see she wasn’t packing anything beneath them. They didn’t even have pockets. This shrimp dick fucker still ran his hands over her ass, down her thighs and back up. Her jaw clenched, but she didn’t beg or plea for him to stop.

“No faction markings,” he noted after lifting her hair and checking her back. “I think it’s lucky we were the ones who found you then.” He took both of her hands and extended them so that she was making the shape of a T.

“Jacob, Tyson, what do you two think a this one?”

“She’s too old to be a filly,” the man with the Stetson replied.

“She’s no heifer either, look at that ass,” the other man answered.

Heifer? Filly? Were they seriously comparing us to farm animals?

“Mare then,” Goggles confirmed, pushing her arms down. He had the decency to lift her pants back up before pulling her forward again and all but shoving her into one of