The buzzing grew louder as the air continued to fill. Bees flew about, landing everywhere, crawling over her face and in her ears. They nestled in her hair, getting stuck, frustrated, and flapping their powerful wings to break free. Marla twitched as one crawled between her lips. She crushed it quickly, but not before it stung her. She let out a small squeak, keeping her eyes closed, fighting the pain.

Bees lined her body like moving skin, tickling her. The worst were the ones under her shorts and shirt, like a thousand unwanted caressing hands. Her body was naturally tense, but still. Her breathing came in controlled, even breaths through her nose.

Suddenly, a sharp pain struck her belly. Marla bit down, fighting against the need to yell. Warmth gushed on to her legs, dampening her pants, her bladder no longer able to contain itself.

She received another sting on her leg as tears streamed from the corners of her eyes.

As time pa.s.sed she'd acquired five more stings: One on her left beast, two on her face, one on her scalp, but the most painful being the one on her spine. She wasn't sure how the little devil got under her, but it had.

Some time later, exhausted and in unimaginable agony, both mentally and physically, a slot opened on the side of the box. "Hold your breath," the man's voice said. Marla wasn't sure what was about to happen, but she took a long intake of air and held it in.

A cool, damp air, coming from the slot, covered her skin. Slowly the bees stopped tickling her. The buzzing died down. Soon the insects were silent, unmoving.

The lid opened, the cold air sucked out. She opened her eyes, the man standing over her held a hose. The sound of a vacuum filled the air as the man began sucking up the bees. He made sure to get the ones in Marla's hair. After vacuuming the bees the man shut the lid. Marla lay in the dark, ready to pa.s.s out. Her body ached and throbbed with the fierceness of a hundred root ca.n.a.ls. She had to do something before it was too late. The maniac was using a deadlier creature each time, increasing the poison and pain until she died. The antidotes were used to prolong her suffering.

The lid opened again, Marla's eyes not as sensitive to the bright lights. The man held a bottle of water, tossing it to her. She had to do something.

Marla downed the water, another antidote, its taste sour. The man retrieved the empty bottle before bending down and picking up a black box. He placed it at Marla's feet and removed its top, quickly. A loud hissing sound came from within. The hulking figure stood, laughing, holding his belly.

Son of a b.i.t.c.h, Marla thought. The sick f.u.c.k is really enjoying himself. She'd had enough. Dying wasn't going to be an option today, especially by the hands of this freak.

Looking into the box, she saw a large black snake, the bright lights reflecting off its scales like a warning sign. No longer caring, realizing the antidote was flowing through her veins, Marla reached into the box. She grabbed the snake by the back of its head. The angry reptile hissed and spat, its tail whipping wildly. Marla, seeing the man coming at her, flung the serpent at her tormentor.

The man put his arms out, trying to keep the flailing snake away. It landed on him, wrapping its tail around his forearm. The snake's mouth opened wide, revealing two glistening poison-filled fangs, and bit the man in the center of his chest. The maniac grabbed at the snake, stumbling backward, trying to pull it free. The creature refused to let go, like some kind of attached alien sucker. The man's eyes rolled up as he fell over, crashing to the ground and convulsing as the poison went to work.

Marla watched, mouth agape, in terror yet relief at the same time. The man continued convulsing and began foaming at the mouth like a rabid dog. After a minute, he stopped moving, except for a few minor spasms. A pool of bubbles leaked from his mouth. The snake slithered away.

Marla stood, legs shaky, body racked with agony. She stepped out of the coffin. Looking around she saw the confines of a bas.e.m.e.nt. Six halogen lights on stands surrounded her along with a video camera. The red recording light was glowing.

Marla bent, pulling the man's mask off. She didn't recognize him. A stranger. Just some deranged lunatic.

She found a set of stairs and climbed, the wood creaky. Her head was foggy and she more than once had to steady herself, but she made it to the top. She opened the door and found herself in a kitchen.

The room was eloquently decorated. The windows had flowered drapes, the floor was Italian tile, the table decorated with lace doilies and the sink was of French design. On the refrigerator were pictures of a happy family: a man, his wife, and young boy and girl. All had warm smiles and looked to be enjoying their time together. The man in the photos was the same man lying dead in the bas.e.m.e.nt. Marla felt a chill run up her back.

"Honey," a female voice sounded from around the corner. "You finish your video yet?"

Marla grabbed a steak knife from the cutlery block. A five-foot-seven, pet.i.te blonde came around the corner. She wore a pink skirt, white blouse, and high heels. "Oh," she said, surprised. "You got out?"

Marla stood, knife out, too confused for words.

"Did you kill my husband?" the woman asked. "Please, tell me he's dead." Tears began falling down her cheeks.

"Yes," Marla finally said. "He's dead." She lowered the knife.

The woman broke down, falling to her knees. "I'm finally free."

Marla came over. The poor woman had been a prisoner. She felt for her, wondering if she'd survived the same ordeal to become the sicko's prize. Marla hugged the woman. "It's over now. It's over."

Marla patted the woman's head until she felt a sharp pain in her abdomen. Her stomach began burning. She shoved the woman away and tried to stand, but her legs gave out. She fell to the floor, unconsciousness taking hold.

Hours later she awoke in semi-darkness, a sliver of light coming through the slot in the coffin's side. "No, no," she cried and began pounding against the familiar confines.

From the slot, Marla heard the female's voice. She sounded far away. "Yes, yes, b.i.t.c.h. You killed my hubby."

"Let me out, let me out," Marla yelled.

"Don't worry, baby doll," the woman said. "You're all alone in there this time."

Something heavy thudded the box's top before breaking apart. The sound kept repeating itself, becoming softer. Pieces of dirt fell in through the slot before jamming it up. Complete, well-known darkness filled Marla's s.p.a.ce. She began laughing hysterically. She finally had the place to herself.

Rise Up Nanking.

by A.J. Brown.

Kym Pau Lie jerked awake. His eyes fluttered and he listened for a sound he wasn't sure he had heard. A single heavy thud echoed through the apartment, bristled the hairs on the back of his neck. He rubbed his eyes and shook his head trying to push away the remnants of sleep.

The knock came again, sounding more like wood on wood than the hand of a visitor. Kym sat up on the couch and glanced at the clock across the living room. It read just past four in the morning.

"Who knock on my door?" he called in broken English.

He stared at the entrance, waited for a reply.

Another thump on the door came, this one much harder.

Kym licked his lips and swallowed; his skin p.r.i.c.kled with goose b.u.mps, his heart revved up. He reached over to the edge of the couch and grabbed his cane. He stood, his knees popping and his back begging him to sit back down.

"Who there?" he asked.

The single rap at the door came again. Kym frowned. "Who there? Answer me." He took several hobbled steps toward the door. He stopped just short of opening it and listened; waited for another knock that didn't come. After several minutes Kym unlocked the door and the dead bolt. He slid the chain free and opened the door.

With the exception of the small white light near the stairwell just down the hall, all was dark. Kym looked in both directions, his eyes slits, and searched the black corridor. He saw nothing, no one. He shook his head and grunted, then rubbed a wrinkled hand through his thinning white hair.

Kym turned to go back inside. A blinding pain started in his jaw and raced up into his cheekbone as something hard struck him. Kym crumpled to the floor, his jaw on fire and blood spilling from the split bottom lip and the holes where two teeth had been. He spat one of them out onto the floor; the other one slid down his throat. Tears spilled from his eyes.

Looking up, Kym saw a lone figure standing in the shadows, his muddied boots the only thing visible in the dim light of the front room. One of the boots came up and landed solid against his ribs. Kym fell onto his back, his lungs burning and his mouth open, trying to suck in some air. He held his ribs and rolled onto his side, his knees to his chest. Nausea filled his stomach.

A dull crack echoed through the small apartment and Kym's head erupted in a pain of white and yellow circles that danced in his vision. His world swam away as he faded from consciousness. Just before pa.s.sing out, Kym heard a command given to someone he couldn't see. It was in a familiar Chinese dialect.

Take him to the rice fields.

Kym woke face down in a puddle of mud. Rain poured down and the world was cast in gray tones. He lifted his humming head and grit slid off of him. On his knees he realized he was naked. Kym's face hurt and the sound of old locomotives rushed through his ears with each heavy heartbeat.

A sharp jab in his back sent Kym sprawling back to the ground, his hands out in front of him but not keeping him from landing back in the mud. He spat out the dirty water and grunted as the pain of another poke came between his shoulder blades. He shook his head trying to get rid of the wave of disorientation that swept over him. A third prod came and Kym rolled onto his back and sat up.

A machine gun pointed at him. He followed the barrel up the arms and to the face of his captor. Kym's bladder released. A dead Chinese soldier stood in front of him, the skin on his face peeling off and the tissue beneath it a sickly gray color.

Angry words spouted from the Chinese man's decaying mouth.

Get up! Get up! Or I'll shoot you! I kill you!

Kym stole a quick glance around as he pushed himself to his feet. He stood in a rice field. Though the rain fell down all around them, the ground looked dry and harvested. Thousands of bodies lay strewn about, most of them barely skin and bones with black hair still growing from long dead skulls.

The bones moved, many of them standing and taking on flesh. Kym watched as the paddy field became alive with men, women, and children. The sounds of weeping and begging swept through the air, followed by the loud cracks of gunshots.

Kym looked for the Chinese soldier but he was gone. He turned in time to see a j.a.panese man bring the b.u.t.t of a rifle down on the head of a small boy. It split with a hollow crack and the child crumpled to the ground; one eye popped from the socket. A woman screamed and dropped to the ground to cradle her child. Tears streamed down her dirt stained face as she lifted the boy in her arms.

The j.a.panese soldier grabbed the woman's arm and jerked her up. She dropped the child to the ground and struggled to break free. Kym thought the man looked familiar; his features, the tone of his voice. The man yelled at her, warning her that no one would cry for her when she was dead. He threw her to the ground next to her child.

The woman glared up at the soldier, hate in her eyes. The soldier turned his rifle around, pointed it at her. The bayonet appeared sharp, even with rust and bloodstains covering it. He yelled for her to get back to work. When she didn't comply he thrust his rifle forward, the bayonet tearing into her throat despite her attempt to protect herself. He jerked the rifle from side to side and her lifeless body flailed about until he pulled the bayonet free. He drove the blade into her body several times, jabbing it down into her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, stomach, face, and crotch.

A young Chinese man looked up from his rice and quickly glanced back down. The soldier smirked and grabbed the man's arm. He pointed to the woman.

f.u.c.k her! f.u.c.k her now, or I'll kill you!

The man shook his head but the soldier slapped him hard across the face. Blood spilled from the man's lips and his eyes filled with tears.

You will f.u.c.k her! Now!

He shook his head again in protest. The soldier turned his bayonet on him and rammed it into one leg. The man fell to the ground. The soldier lifted him up and shoved him forward. He motioned for other soldiers to pull the woman's black pants off and to do the same to the man. They pushed him on top of the woman. He screamed and tried to get off of her but several steel bayonets punctured his legs and shoulders and he fell forward again.

The man begged for mercy.

f.u.c.k her! Or I will kill you!

The man shook his head again. An instant later he slumped over, the front of his skull missing.

Kym closed his eyes and tried to push the images away. They flooded his mind, memories of a time long ago that he tried hard to forget. When he opened them again the scene had shifted, the rice field no longer there, the dead child, mother, and man gone as well. He wasn't naked but in full military regalia, like in his youth when he was a member of the j.a.panese army. He held a gun in his hands. At his feet lay a man in civilian clothes, his body ran through several times with a bayonet. Laughter amid screams rose up and he glanced to either side of him. Other j.a.panese soldiers, much like him, drove their blades into the living bodies of civilians. They laughed as they taunted the dying.

Kym threw the rifle down and stumbled backward, his hands shaking and his heart hammering. He fell over the leg of a corpse and tried to catch himself. His hands. .h.i.t the decaying body of one of the dead, pushed through its chest cavity with a wet splut. Kym screamed and rolled off the body.

He was old again and when he stood his knees and ankles popped and his muscles groaned in protest. The landscape had changed again.

He stood at the edge of a firing line, staring at a group of nearly two hundred young men roped together like bales of hay. One man sagged within the restraints, his head a pulpy ma.s.s of beaten flesh. The captives stood on the edge of a giant hole. Kym stood in a line with other soldiers as ancient as he was. Their eyes were frantic and they all held machine guns.

At the end of the line stood the Commander, his arm raised above his head.

FIRE! he yelled and lowered his arm.

The soldiers released a barrage of bullets on the civilians. Smoke billowed from the guns, clouding Kym's vision. He saw several men slump over and others topple backward. The smoke cleared and the civilians that didn't fall back into the hole lay on the ground near its edge.

"No," he cried and backed away. Again, he tossed his weapon down. Kym ran for the Yangtze River, his legs groaning, his heart racing, fear swelling in his chest. He stopped just short of the water. Hundreds of bodies floated in the blood clouded river. Many of them piled up along the banks, while others floated with the current downstream.

Kym grabbed his head and fell to his knees. He cried out and closed his eyes, hoping that when he opened them he would be back in his tiny apartment in the not so nicer part of town. Instead, all around him were many soldiers, their pants down to their ankles. Dead women and young girls lay about the grounds. Those who weren't dead were being raped, slapped, and stabbed by the soldiers. As they finished with each female they killed them and left them with the other bodies.

The same soldier who had killed the people in the paddy field stood, his pants down, a woman on her knees in front of him. He held a knife to her head and yelled for her to keep going. The look of fear was unmistakable in the young woman's eyes. The soldier's eyes rolled back as he let out a loud moan. He grunted and brought the knife across the woman's neck. Blood sprayed from the gash and she dropped to the ground, her body shaking and her eyes filled with shock.

A wave of nausea spilled over Kym and his legs grew weak; sweat beaded on his brow and the wounds on his face, head, and ribs resurfaced in a pounding anger. His head grew light and his knees buckled. As he fell, several arms caught him and lifted him back to his feet.

With his world in a haze, Kym couldn't make out who held him up. Death hung in the air, mixed with blood, smoke, s.e.x, and . . . fear. A vague memory surfaced of a j.a.panese Commander telling his soldiers of how defiant the Chinese had been; it would not be tolerated; lessons had to be learned.

The scent of gasoline, flames, and burning flesh seared Kym's nostrils. He gagged as he tried to catch his breath in the haze the stench left behind. They pulled him through the streets of Nanking, his feet dragging along the ground, over the bodies of the slain. Amid the chaos, Kym heard the crying and screaming of the wounded; the begging and pleading from those about to die; the gunshots and laughter as executions were committed. He smelled the smoke and the blood and the s.h.i.t and the dead. He could taste the polluted air, its mixture of scents turning his stomach. Worse still, he saw the deeds carried out; the soldiers cheerfully murdering innocents for the fun of it; the rapes; the baby killings.

They dropped him to his knees and a moment later one of them ran a bayonet through his shoulder. Kym screamed in pain and put one arm out in front of him to keep himself from falling on his face.

The sound of motors made him turn his attention to the Hsiakwan Gate. Its defenders, soldiers and civilians alike, lay in dead heaps in front of it. Tanks entered through the gate crushing the bodies. One Chinese man's body was lifted up in the treads and shredded, falling back to the ground in pieces.

Move!

Kym turned to see the familiar soldier, among many others, herding a group of blindfolded men, their hands bound behind their backs, toward a clearing where blood soaked the ground.

Get down! the soldier yelled. The men dropped to their knees, their heads down. The soldier rolled up his uniform sleeves. A circular scar sat on his forearm, a sign of loyalty to the j.a.panese military that only a handful of men had gotten. Kym looked down at his own arm, rubbing the scar in the exact same place as the young soldier before him.

"No," he said in j.a.panese, a language he hadn't spoken in over sixty years.

The soldier looked up, as if he had heard Kym speak. In his eyes Kym saw what he feared. Looking back to the prisoners the soldier said nothing, drew a sword from its sheath and raised it. He yelled and brought the blade down on the back of the neck of the closest captive. The man's head tumbled off and landed in front of Kym. The soldier-Kym in his younger years-picked the head up by the hair and held it high for all to see. He laughed and tossed it aside.

"No. No. No."

Come! the Chinese man barked and prodded Kym with his gun. Kym looked back at him. The man had been dead for a long while. What little skin remained sagged and was torn by bones poking through. His eyes were nothing more than black orbs; a gaping hole smiled at Kym from where the man's forehead used to be; his uniform was bloodied and tattered. He walked with a prominent limp.

Chinese civilians stood around him holding weapons in dead hands; their bodies decaying and barely more than skin covered bones. Dead children crawled on hands and knees, their faces missing, their bodies torn; their mouths hung open in death screams. Once pregnant women carried dead infants in their arms, their stomachs and v.a.g.i.n.as cut open. Some of the babies dangled from still tethered umbilical cords.

They approached an area where many dead people lay, but they were not civilians, their insides torn asunder and their heads bashed in. Instead, the men wore j.a.panese military uniforms, both Army and Navy. Many of them were as old as Kym was. Their bodies burned but the flames didn't melt them away. Screams and moans echoed from the dying soldiers. They reached for him, thousands of hands stretched out, begging for mercy only to be beaten away by civilians carrying guns, axes, and pitchforks.

One of the civilians grabbed Kym's hand and thrust a shovel into it.

Dig!

Kym shook his head. A bony hand slapped him across the face, tearing skin and tissue. Blood spattered across the civilian and he yelled at Kym.

Dig!

Kym drove the spade into the ground as another memory surfaced of Chinese men doing the very thing he had to do. He tossed the dirt aside and continued. Several civilians surrounded him. Many of them threw stones and poked him with sticks and pitchforks. Still, he dug until he stood in a hip deep hole that was about three feet long. His arms ached, his back felt like it would break if he lifted out another spade of dirt, his legs burned.

Another stone hit him in the ribs and he doubled over. Tears formed blurring his vision. Above him the civilians taunted him, much like he and his comrades had done to them so many years before. He wanted to say he was sorry but knew it would do no good.

Kym reached down, grabbed one of the rocks they had thrown. He scanned the dead men around the hole. Only the one that had brought him there held a gun. Kym slung the rock at the civilian, striking him in the chest. The dead man fell backward, dropping the gun.

Kym tried to push his way out of the hole but his exhausted body didn't want to cooperate. He reached for the gun and turned it on the mob surrounding him. He fired off one shot, taking out one of the men with a pitchfork. The trigger stuck. Before he could look back up, a sharp pain tore into his chest as the blade of an axe ripped down the front of his old uniform. Blood sprayed from the wound and Kym fell into the hole, holding his chest.

Bury him, one of the men said. A clump of dirt landed on his lap, followed by another and another. He looked up to see several of his comrades, shovels in hand, tossing dirt on to him. Their eyes held a familiar resignation in them-one he had seen on so many defeated Chinese men, women, and children during the seize of Nanking.