FOUNDLING: LOST AND FOUND

BY CHRISTOPHER TOILKIEN

[ part 27 ]

Mavis walked out of the tent of two German antiterrorist group leaders. Ignoring the startled looks of the Spanish security people, who realized she must have already penetrated their supposedly secure perimeter to get into the tent in the first place. One of their attack dogs sniffed, puzzled as she apparently had no scent.

A number of events both sublime and pertinently obvious had just occurred. Those two knew she was coming, calmly waited for her, personalized material all prepared. Had her actions become that predictable, her reasoning that obvious? Such might be a fatal flaw if the opposition was as astute, or had access to the same information as these two.

They had not commented on her looks, or attire.

She looked exactly as she had fifteen years ago in that dingy East Berlin rat hole they had cornered her in. They had aged, she had not. But had made no comment on her physical appearance. She knew the suit provided by that Alice had morphed twice while she sat talking, but neither had commented on it either. Mavis held up her right hand, the Alice weapon was clearly still there, its bronze and gold metallic threads already fading as it melted itself into her body. But neither of the two very observant "Hard Men" had commented on it.

By now Mavis had walked out of their camp. The Spanish security people ignoring this affront to their vaulted proficiency. Over the next rocky hill the terrain changed to lush rolling hillsides covered with vegetation. Mavis stopped, scanned for anyone tracking her and slipping into search mode attempted to pick up little Foundlings tracks. Those two were right; they led into a much-trampled campsite beside the old road. Even now a herd of leathery cows was being hustled past. Horse drawn wagons, possibly Romaine, were joining the flow. Others arriving and departing constantly. But there did not appear to be any permanent residents who might have witnessed the arrival, or possible departure of two young females.

But here again people who were close enough to see her had no reaction to a single female in military camo armed with a smg, pistols and a great machete across her back. A middle aged swarthy Bearded man, in worn work clothes approached. Mavis's mind assessing his possible threat level as he got closer.

"Out for a little out of the way vacation backpacking seniorita?" He inquired in locally dialect Spanish.

"Yes, a slightly puzzled Mavis replied. Just wandering, but I have to be in Grenada soon, my husband will be cross at me if I am late"

"Yes, I understand, he is reluctant to let his hawk fly too far. She may not return to his hand," He said, half jokingly.

"Pardon me, what are you talking about?" Mavis retorted.

"Sorry for the philosophical response, I am Brother Nemon of the Jesuit order." He replied, extending his hand.

"The Holy See's version of the "Hard Men" Mavis thought, but said. " Nice to meet you, Father"

"Not a Priest, just a working lay brother, but I do have a small car hand, if you require a lift" He inquired.

"Sure" Mavis replied, for what reason she did not really know. This man may not be what he claims to be, but on the other hand, neither is she. The car was a banged up old British Land Rover, but Mavis could tell the dents, rust and scratches may have made it looked clapped out, but none would effect it's operation.

And third hands clapped out vehicles do not have military class run-flat tires.

He gentlemanly opened the passenger door for her, and Mavis, seeing her reflection in the oversized towing side mirror, nearly fainted. Mavis, wearing hiking clothes and backpacks in place looked back out at her. The camo had searched her memory for a likely representation; one from a picture album of her time before Evans came into her life.

And reproduced it. Mavis almost died when she reached back and slid the backpack off onto her lap. And wondered what the two Germans had seen.

Nemon, slid into the drivers seat, eased his way into the flow of last centuries traffic and moving to the outer lip of the old road, made reasonable speed.

"What brings you here?" Mavis inquired. "Still doing the old things. Searching for Evil in its myriad forms. Pursuing heretics. Though the secular world objects to the old style of retribution" He replied looking at her.

"Burning witches at the stake and the embrace of the tender mercies of the Spanish inquisition are no longer allowed" Mavis replied.

"Except for lucky sex slaves, who's masters think fucking her on a rack is normal sex "She reminisced to herself.

"It's a real bummer, but we soldier on, regardless" He smiled. And you?"

"Assisting in the search for three lost little girls. It appears Basque terrorists attempted to kidnap a busload of Swiss Schoolgirls, here on holiday. But they all scattered when one shot and killed a nun. Three are still unaccounted for" Mavis, telling this man more than she had planned.

"I heard of it, and that would explain why the district is crawling with gun toting Spanish security police" The Jesuit brother replied. But on the news I heard the nun, I understand from a Swiss teaching

order, is only wounded. One student, interestingly enough with the odd name of "Giggles" has turned up. The two missing are called

Foundling and Melissa."

By this time they had entered the outskirts of Patiua, a fairly large hillside town and Mavis indicated this was were she wanted out. He stopped at a busy thoroughfare and Mavis climbed out.

"Search out the local police and Church child welfare agencies" He told her as he drove off.

Waiting for his car to disappear into the gathering traffic, Mavis walked back into the hills, finding a tree surrounded glade and eagerly, waited for the swiftly oncoming night. She had lost Foundlings trail, but at least knew were it and Melissa's may have ended.

That fat bastard had better not harm either one. He was a walking dead man already, but there are many ways to kill someone. And Mavis had spent centuries practicing every one of them. Mavis had been called many things by many people, most unrepeatable in "polite society" but an inefficient killer had never been one of them.

Nightmares

Night eventually came, but Foundling and Melissa did not welcome it. The wagon train had moved on, but only as far as the next large town nestled in the lush hills. It had stopped near a large ruin, the wagons moving into a circular parking pattern around an often-used fire pit.

The two new acquisitions were fed, a little, watered, a little, and temporarily dressed. Foundling and Melissa were given adult sized old, but clean white blouses, gathered at neck and sleeve in the Spanish style. Ankle length, newly washed, black skirts completed the backcountry poor farm girl look. And finally led, hands tied behind their backs, by thin leather thong chock halters around their necks into the brick ruins.

The main remaining structure stood three stories of thick walled brick square tower. It's below ground reaming stone floor mostly taken up by a brick lined circular pit another half story deep. The two frightened little girls were becoming aware of their new way of life.

Starving dog fighting for their lives in a pit had become passé', moving into it's place a refreshingly erotic new spectator sport.

Nude little girls fighting for their lives in the very same pits. Loosing girls were often gang rapped by those who had lost a great deal of money betting on them. Then either sold off to brothels or

worse, turned out into the streets as drug addicted prostitutes.

Foundling and Melissa had been shown a snarling pack of dogs, kept chained up in the corner of another part of the ruin. They had been thrust, just out of the reach of those hungry mouths, and even without a common language knew exactly what their handlers had intended to show them. Running away got you only reduced to being Fox to these vicious Hounds.

Night came, and with it men from the surrounding towns and villages. The sounds of Flamingo guitars and castanets, female laughter, and a general party disguised the dark and sinister entertainment for those in the know.

A swarthy bearded man, dressed in rough working mans attire called for silence in the throng surrounding the pit. Foundling and Melissa were brought forth. Two young girls, possible from the area were brought forth from the crowd. Foundling felt the noose around her neck pull tight and her hands released. The two across the pit similarly dressed and controlled started to strip. Foundling, followed by Melissa copied their movements. Silence reigned as the four were stripped of their garments.

Each little girl was thrust right to the edge of the pit, her toes hanging over and turned around for all to see. Foundling saw the crowd appraising her nude body. Not as a sex object as she had been trained for years to be, but a fighting animal, something she had not. Money changed hands and a number of the wagon people appeared to be taking bets.

She saw the swarthy middle-aged man hold out something in his hand, flick it up ad catch it flopping it down o the back of his other had. A sudden coin toss. Melissa cried out as hand shoved her into midair and arms flailing managed to land on her feet. All those school dancing lessons paying off. Another girl dropped, but did not land as well, Melissa rushing over and jumping on her arms as she lay there out of breath quickly ending the match.

A knotted rope was let down and Melissa quickly climbed up. A startled Foundling looked into the triumphant eyes of her best friend. Melissa had been put through a great deal of horror by both her ogre uncle and the kidnappers. Something may have snapped in her mind, or she would do anything to stay with the anchor to reality, Foundling her lover.

The crying looser was left in the pit, huddled terrified up against the wall.

The swarthy man smiled as money changed hands. Many of the betters did not.

Foundling was moved to the edge, her sweating body rotated by her handler. Money changed hands and her opponent made ready across the pit. The swarthy man held a red rag over the edge, and as he let it go her handler put his hand on her back, but Foundling jumped.

She landed on her feet and was waiting as her opponent fell. Foundling swept her feet out from under the startled girl, with a sweep of her foot and kicked her right in the head. The girl moved her head, but the blow broke her nose anyway. Foundling dropped to one hand as the glancing blow temporarily put her off balance. Her opponent was on her in a flash, the two rolling in the dirt of the pit floor.

These Spanish girls always go for the throat, Foundling thought. If you can ignore it for a few seconds their body is unprotected. Foundling punched her opponent in the gut; she kept both of her hands tight on Foundlings throat, legs kneeling over her. Foundling brought her knee up hard into her groin and landed a roundhouse on the side of her head. The girl groaned and holding her vaginal area rolled off. Foundling stood, kicked her twice in the head and again in her bleeding nose.

The girl's arms dropped in submission and Foundling looked up at the crowd. The knotted rope dropped and Foundling swarmed up. On top the organizer smiled broadly, his hands full of money. Foundling's handler thrusts her clothes into her hands and indicated she get dressed. Melissa was already standing dressed with hands bound behind her back and the handlers noose around her neck. When Foundling was ready the two were led out.

Foundling promised herself to kill that swarthy man with her bare hands one day. Her opponent had been the girl who had let them into the wagon the first day and saw that they were fed and watered.