Page 121 of Sin Like the Devil

“What is that noise?” I ask fearfully.

“Sounds like Patient Three has been causing trouble again.”

Elon stops outside one of the cells where a different thudding sound is leaking through the reinforced steel. He slides back the hatch to give me a clear view inside of the brutal beating taking place.

The woman being pummelled to a meaty pulp barely resembles a human. More like a misshapen, bruised bag of organs, slick beneath a curtain of fresh blood. She doesn’t even grunt in pain at the blows being rained down.

“Afternoon, Professor,” Elon calls jovially.

Beyond the man delivering the beating, another stands, watching on. I don’t recognise him from the clinical staff. With silver-streaked, gelled hair, a thin but strong nose and square-framed glasses, the professor wears a pressed white lab coat over his suit.

Seemingly enraptured by the show being put on for him, it takes him a moment to look up at Elon. The moment he does, his curious smile blossoms, creasing weathered lines and wrinkled skin.

“Elon! What a surprise.”

“Just making a delivery. Ripley, this is Professor Craven. Lead researcher of the Z wing here in Harrowdean.”

Craven turns his attention to me. “My, my, she is a fine specimen.”

Disgust crawls over me. He’s looking at me like I’m some five-course tasting menu to be savoured and dissected, dish by dish. I tear my gaze from his ebony eyes and look at his thug, dressed in all black.

“Harrison.” Elon nods in acknowledgement.

The man delivering the beating pauses, his vacant gaze briefly flickering up. “Elon.”

Harrison uses the back of his black glove to swipe sweat from his brow. He leaves a thick smear of blood across his face, his gnarly features resting beneath a sharp military buzz cut. He seems unfazed as he looks me over.

“Got some fresh meat for us?”

Elon jabs a thumb over his shoulder at me. “Just giving our stooge a little tour of headquarters.”

“She still causin’ trouble?”

“Not if she’d like to avoid the same fate as Patient Three.”

To illustrate his point, Elon flashes me a sick leer. My blood freezes in my veins as his friend nods, casting a critical eye over me again. With a glance at Professor Craven, he ducks out of sight to retrieve something.

“Bring her closer, Elon. This’ll teach her not to bite her master.”

I’m dragged close to the door before I can think about fleeing. Elon pins me against the steel slab, forcing me to look directly through the hatch and into the dank, padded cell, lined with bloody handprints and deep scratch marks.

I can now see a table of instruments tucked in the corner. Harrison inspects the selection, humming lightly under his breath. When he picks up a medieval looking pair of shackles, the inner circles lined with wickedly sharp spikes, I recoil.

“Fancy those cuffs, Rip?” Elon breathes in my ear.

I gulp hard. “What are you doing to her?”

“Reconditioning.”

Harrison nods agreeingly. “The human mind can only endure so much pain before it splinters apart to cope. We reform those shattered pieces and create something new. Something useful.”

Booting the semiconscious woman in the stomach, he kneels down and grabs her wrists. She’s still conscious despite looking like she got shredded by a violent woodchipper. Something tells me this isn’t her first beating.

But when Harrison clamps the torture cuffs around her wrists, the scream it elicits makes me fear for the integrity of my eardrums. The spikes inside the cuffs sink deep into her flesh, causing blood to ooze down her arms.

“Why are you h-hurting her?” I ask despite the boulder in my throat.

Craven produces an amused chuckle. “Ah, it’s been so long since we had a new recruit. I forgot how entertaining their naïvety can be.”

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