Mar 16th, 2027
For 6 months and 9 days, Brenda had been a prisoner. She meticulously gathered information for her escape, patiently awaiting the spring thaw to clear the mountain snows. Her planned route was audacious, leading straight over the mountain’s crest— an arduous path to Mittenwald that her captors would never think to follow.
During her captivity, Brenda feigned a lack of outdoor skills, orchestrating near-fatal falls that belied her true expertise. She had honed her climbing abilities in the Alps since her teenage years; now, in her 20s, she was adept and confident in her proficiency.
She cleverly crafted a façade of compliance and brokenness, absorbing every detail and snippet of conversation while presenting herself as defeated and subdued.
The first time Hardy forced himself on her, Brenda resisted with calculated ferocity. She knew resistance was futile but necessary to uphold the guise of her subjugation. She fought to leave a mark on his cheek, a token of her defiance. After a blow to her head made her dizzy, she allowed him to believe he had subdued her spirit. In truth, she had already steeled herself for such violations, ensuring her reactions painted a picture of psychological escape rather than submission. Frustratingly, he tried to be a generous lover. This, over time, confused her need to hate him.
Gradually, they lowered their guard around her, allowing Brenda more freedom—believing her spirit crushed, they exposed her to potential escape scenarios, likely as tests of her loyalty. Brenda ignored these opportunities, resolved to escape on her terms and by her meticulously laid plan.
Her captors had unwittingly brought her back into Germany, to the Ammergau Alps near the village of Halblech. The group, initially winter caretakers, had grown to almost a hundred members, blurring the lines between captors and captives. Since Brenda's capture, seven others had been forcibly integrated into this community.
She learned of a small, undisclosed graveyard marked by simple wooden crosses—a chilling testament to those who had resisted integration and were outnumbered though once native to the land.
The community lacked a definitive leadership structure, instead functioning as a conglomerate of families with fluctuating degrees of influence.
Among them, roles of lumberjacks, hunters, foragers, cooks, cleaners, farmers, and shepherds were allocated. Yet, Brenda's unique skills as an electronics engineer set her apart, a fact she proved by repairing non-functional solar cells afflicted only by corroded connections.
Her competence and compliance in not seizing obvious chances for rebellion, such as overlooked weaponry or unchecked opportunities for escape, eventually earned her the trust to conduct house checks for potentially useful equipment.
The last piece she needed for her escape came unexpectedly during an inspection of the first aid station. There, six-liter cartons of pure ethylene glycol, identified only by its chemical formula C2H6O2 and overlooked due to ignorance of its applications, caught her eye. Alone, she discreetly hid three liters in her clothing—her first overt act of defiance. To her fellow "community members," she presented the remainder as a wound-cleaning aid, further diminishing their scrutiny during her subsequent explorations.
Brenda had known her destination for a long time and had meticulously prepared for her escape, discreetly stowing her hiking gear in their house after she was expressly forbidden from climbing. Today was the day she had been waiting for. The sheer slope she had chosen was now clear of snow, having thawed over the last few days. They couldn't track her up the straight rock. Once over the first crag, she'd be out of their line of sight. And today, finally, was also her turn to cook dinner.
Brenda was making her way back from the jury-rigged icebox, a contraption they could utilize for a few more weeks before the necessity of switching to powered refrigeration for the summer months. Balancing a heavy slab of sheep meat over her shoulder, she navigated the terrain, discomfort seeping through her layers. Dressed in her thick sheepskin coat and several underlayers to combat the anticipated mid-afternoon temperature drop, she couldn't shake off the warmth that enveloped her, a stark contrast to the crisp air around. Time was not on her side, and a sense of urgency quickened her steps towards their dwelling.
The structure that awaited her was a split-level vacation home, its dark-stained wood panels melding into the rustic forests surrounding it, painting an idyllic yet secluded image. It was here, just as she neared the house, that she encountered Hardy—precisely the encounter she'd been hoping to orchestrate before delving into her culinary tasks for the evening.
"Afternoon, Hards!" she greeted him with a feigned casualness, doing her best to mask the undercurrents of tension between them. "Do you want the usual gumbo, or are you in the mood to try a sweet and sour stew instead?" Her voice carried a hint of jest. Deviating from the usual presented risks, yet her current predicament left her little choice. She framed the query innocuously, striving to maintain the facade of normalcy in their disrupted lives.
Hardy stood there, a figure of rugged perseverance, his appearance marked by the harsh living conditions. His hair, tousled by the wind, framed a face weathered yet resilient, with a beard that had known better days. His eyes, sharp as the cold they were accustomed to, met hers with a curiosity sparked by the unexpected offer. The setting sun cast a warm glow, highlighting the lines etched into his face—each a silent testament to the trials they endured, the life they now led at the edge of civilization.
The home behind him stood as a silent observer, its cozy allure belying the harsh realities they faced daily. Its sturdy build was a remnant of more hopeful times, now a bastion in their fight for survival. The contrast between Brenda's heated disposition, exacerbated by her layered attire against the impending chill, and the serenity of the wooded enclave they inhabited, encapsulated the constant battle between adaptation and the yearning for a semblance of the life before.
In that tense moment, Brenda's internal calculations were running at full speed. Hardy’s penchant for the exploratory, for tastes that ventured beyond the mundane, played right into her strategy, though it did little to calm the tempest raging inside her. When he opted for the more exotic sweet and sour stew, her insides churned with a mix of relief and anxiety. Outwardly, she maintained a façade of indifference, nodding nonchalantly as though his choice bore no significance. With practiced ease and the strength born from six months of rigorous labor, she maneuvered the hefty slab of meat from her shoulder to the solid chopping block, where it landed with a definitive thud, anchoring her back to the task at hand.
Before shedding the oppressive layers that cocooned her in warmth, Brenda navigated her way to the cold cellar. The temperature, maintained at a brisk 10°C, offered a stark contrast to the balmy layers that clung to her skin. The cellar, bifurcated by a series of shelves into two informal sections, was modestly illuminated by the soft glow of a solitary hanging bulb in each area. Its packed dirt floor and the low-hanging ceiling, supported by rough-hewn beams, created an ambiance of rustic practicality. While Brenda could stand upright, Hardy had to contort himself significantly to navigate the space, a fact that kept his visits infrequent.
Venturing into the deeper section, Brenda found herself surrounded by the preserved fruits of autumn's labor. Mason jars filled with tomatoes, potatoes, parsnips, and mushrooms lined the shelves, alongside packets of dried herbs, each a testament to their efforts to harness the bounty of the past season. Laden with these ingredients, she retraced her steps back to the kitchen, the glass jars cold and reassuring against her arms.
Once in the warmth of the kitchen, Brenda unburdened herself of both the physical weight of the preserves and the stifling layers of clothing that had turned oppressive. Relief washed over her as she peeled off the sheepskin coat and auxiliary layers, liberating her from the thermal embrace that had become almost unbearable. The stark shift from the chill of the cellar to the kitchen's warmth mirrored the oscillation of her thoughts as she prepared for the intricate dance of cooking. Each movement was precise, a step in her meticulously choreographed plan, with the kitchen serving as her stage for one final performance.
A few months prior, their group had expanded to include Fränziska, a girl with mousy dark hair and a solemn demeanor who appeared a bit older than her 12 years due to her initial overweight stature. She insisted on being called Zed, adamantly rejecting the nickname Franny. As time passed within the confines of their harsh environment, Zed gradually lost weight and gained muscle tone, a transformation reflective of the group's stringent lifestyle.
Amidst these changes within their microcosm, Brenda found herself in an intricate psychological dance with Hardy. To ensure Hardy's attentions remained fixated on her, thus safeguarding Zed from his advances, Brenda began to simulate a sense of enjoyment during Hardy's nightly incursions. This act of self-sacrifice was a calculated strategy, born from a deeply embedded instinct to protect the younger and more vulnerable members of their group.
However, the complexity of human physiology meant that occasionally, Brenda's body responded involuntarily to the stimuli, crossing the blurred lines between coerced obligation and physical sensation. These moments of unintentional pleasure brought with them a wave of self-reproach, tainting Brenda's sense of agency with feelings of guilt and contamination. This internal conflict was a burden she bore in solitude, concealing her turmoil behind a carefully constructed facade. The dichotomy of her experiences—finding herself trapped between the mechanics of her body and her mental repulsion—added another layer of distress to her already fraught existence.
As the shadows of the high alps began to stretch across the landscape, heralding the swift arrival of dusk, Brenda enlisted Zed's help with a task that seemed mundane but was pivotal to her meticulously crafted plan. "Zed, would you put four jugs of water in the outdoor pot and start the fire under it?" Her voice carried the casual tone of routine, disguising the gravity of what she was about to undertake. The alps to the west, higher but less sheer than the obstacles to the east she had resolved to conquer this night, cast an early twilight across their surroundings, a daily reminder of the formidable barrier between them and the outside world.
Zed, always eager to contribute, quickly donned the solar-powered flashlight helmet—which hung like a beacon of their ingenuity outside the door—and trotted down the porch steps to gather firewood. This left Brenda in a rare moment of solitude, a precious interval in which she could enact the darker aspects of her escape strategy.
Seizing the opportunity, Brenda retrieved the ethylene glycol, a substance whose innocuous appearance belied its lethal nature, from its hidden nook under the sink. She worked swiftly, blending the poison with mashed frozen grapes to form a paste, their natural sweetness a cover for the glycol's deadly effect. The grapes, she hoped, would lend a familiar flavor to the concoction, masking the poison's foreign sweetness. With a practical hand, she then poured the remnants of a bottle of cider vinegar into the mix, lending it the requisite tartness of the 'sweet and sour' facade she aimed to create. Random herbs were tossed in for appearance's sake, a final touch to the deadly base that simmered ominously on the stove.
To ensure absolute caution, Brenda meticulously refilled the emptied bottles with water and stealthily placed them back under the sink, erasing any immediate evidence of tampering. Her determination was ironclad; she painstakingly attended to every detail, leaving nothing to chance. The stakes were too high for oversight; she was covering all her bases, each action a calculated step towards the ultimate goal of liberation.
A month prior, she had shifted her culinary efforts to the outdoor cooking pit, a communal space that usually saw around ten members gather for meals. It wasn't unusual for a few additional members to stop by, lured by the aromas and the chance to taste Brenda's preparations. This routine had helped establish a sense of normalcy and expectation among the group, serving as a cover for her final act.
Securing the pot’s lid and setting the flame to a very low simmer, Brenda ensured that her concoction would not attract undue attention before its intended moment. Each deliberate step, each carefully chosen ingredient, was part of her escape plan, fuelled by a mix of desperation and ingenious strategy. The flames beneath the pot and within Brenda herself mirrored each other, both fueled by a yearning for freedom and a resolve to escape the chains of her captivity. The meal simmering on the stove symbolized more than sustenance; it was a final act of defiance, a cleverly disguised weapon in her fight for autonomy.
The decision to use ethylene glycol, a chemical known for its use in antifreeze, brought with it a tidal wave of uncertainty. Brenda was not medically trained and could only speculate on the exact effects of the substance when ingested in undiluted form. She understood the severe gastrointestinal distress it could cause, along with potential catastrophic damage to the kidneys. The unknown potency of her doses added a dark layer of ambiguity to her plans. While her primary aim was to incapacitate her captors long enough to make her escape, a deeper, more conflicted part of her harbored a desire for Hardy to never rise again.
This moral quandary underscored the complexity of her situation. For Brenda, the line between survival and vengeance had blurred, the weight of her experiences pushing her towards decisions she might have once found unthinkable. The path to freedom she carved was laced with risks, ethical dilemmas, and the haunting acceptance that in her fight for liberation, the cost might be higher than she ever anticipated.
Back when Zed first joined their precarious family, she carried extra weight on her frame—a fact Brenda had taken advantage of in a heart-wrenching act of calculated cruelty. Publicly, she chastised Zed for purportedly eating too much, decreeing that the girl could only eat after everyone else had finished, and only if there were leftovers after setting aside Hardy’s lunch. The words were harsh, a deliberate verbal onslaught, and the hurt that flared in Zed's eyes was a silent dagger to Brenda’s heart. However, Brenda weathered this self-inflicted wound with a grim sense of purpose. If her plan unfolded as intended, the symptoms of poisoning would manifest in everyone else before Zed even had the chance to eat, sparing the young girl from the dangerous concoction Brenda had prepared.
This led Brenda to confront her own challenge: how to convincingly avoid consuming the poisoned meal herself. Some of the men in their group were astute, their observant gazes likely to notice anything amiss with her eating habits. Skipping the meal outright or merely pretending to eat could raise suspicions that Brenda couldn’t afford. Her solution required a performance of deception, a balancing act of feigned normalcy amidst the internal turmoil and moral complexities of her situation.
Brenda’s plan to navigate this perilous dinner involved preparing a small portion of untainted food in advance for herself, disguising it among the poisoned servings. She would have to eat with convincing enjoyment, ensuring her actions under the scrutinous eyes of her companions betrayed no hint of her underlying intentions. The act would demand all her resolve and acting prowess, further entangling Brenda in the web of survival strategies she had been forced to weave.
As the mutton and vegetables stewed for a couple of hours, the encroaching darkness of the evening signaled the men to cease their laborious tasks for the day. They congregated around the fire, where the cooking pot dangled from a tripod, settling into foldable framed cloth camping chairs that dotted the perimeter. The camaraderie of the group was palpable, characterized by hearty laughter, shared ale, and the collective relief of unwinding after another day's toil.
Brenda, amidst this lively scene, executed her plan with a chilling calmness. She moved with deliberate normalcy, ladling a generous portion of the stew into her personal blue ceramic bowl—a bowl from which she always ate. Her actions were methodical, each one carefully calculated to maintain the facade of routine. However, what followed was a performance honed by necessity. Tasting the stew, she feigned a moment of sudden realization, embodying the role of a cook who had momentarily forgotten a crucial ingredient. With an exaggerated slap to her forehead and a shake of her head, she set her bowl down and excused herself with an air of forgetfulness.
Returning from the kitchen with the pot of poison, Brenda seamlessly blended it into the simmering stew, her movements fluid and unhesitant. She stirred the concoction with feigned attentiveness, taking care to immerse the poisonous addition thoroughly. After a few minutes, she dared to sample the smallest taste—a gesture purely for show—before declaring the meal ready. Offering up the ladle to Hardy with practiced ease, she reclaimed her bowl and began to eat, her heart pounding against the cage of her ribs.
This "bait and switch" maneuver was cloaked in the ordinary, relying on the undisturbed routine and the assumption of trust. Brenda's actions, while underpinned by a terrifying necessity, were a gamble against the observance of her captors. She prayed that the natural distractions of the evening—fatigue, the ale, the warmth of the fire—would shield her deceit from prying eyes. The stakes of her ruse were life and freedom itself, not just for her but for Zed too. Amid the jovial atmosphere of the makeshift dining area, Brenda's internal turmoil contrasted sharply with the outward performance of normalcy she projected. Each spoonful was a step further into the abyss, a meticulous balance between survival and the profound hope that her plan would not unravel before it could come to fruition.
Two hours since the stew had been served, and Brenda's anxiety was mounting. There was a gnawing fear that her calculations were off—that perhaps the act of boiling had altered the ethylene glycol's lethal properties, or the chemical she had procured was not as concentrated as she had presumed. All the meticulous plotting, the high stakes gambit on which she had bet her chance at freedom, seemed perilously close to unraveling into nothingness. Yet, amidst these doubts, she clung to a sliver of hope; her cover remained intact, preserving the possibility of devising a new scheme should this one fail.
As the meal dwindled to what would suffice for Hardy's lunch and Zed's delayed dinner, Brenda's concern escalated. The contingency of causing an 'accident' to prevent Zed from consuming the remnants crossed her mind, a desperate fallback to protect the young girl at all costs.
In a sudden turn of events, one of the men clutched his stomach in apparent distress, hastily making a dash for the makeshift bathroom situated in their neighbor's shack, some 20 meters away. His desperate stride broke into a collapse, his body curling into a fetal position just a few feet from safety. The immediate vicinity was soon permeated with the unmistakable stench of sewage, a grim herald of the poison taking effect.
Many, Brenda included, rushed to the man's aid as he writhed on the ground, a tangible embodiment of their worst fears and her darkest intentions. Amidst the chaos, Brenda found a role for Zed that would not only shield her from the contaminated meal but also distance her from the unfolding emergency, thereby preserving her from the perils of the subsequent escape attempt.
"Zed! Go get the doc," she yelled, sending Zed on an errand that would unwittingly spare her from the effects of the poison. This decision was born of a dual-edged motive: it kept Zed safely removed from the immediate danger and absolved Brenda of the additional concern of Zed complicating the escape plans. Despite the maelstrom of guilt and necessity whirling within her, Brenda reasoned that this course of action, albeit far from ideal, was the most feasible way to ensure Zed's safety without jeopardizing her own precarious bid for freedom.
As the situation deteriorated with a second man succumbing to the same violent symptoms, Brenda seamlessly slipped into a role that masked her inner turmoil. With calculated concern etched into her features, she deftly steered suspicion towards environmental factors rather than the meal itself. "Hardy, was the ice house consistently cold?" she inquired, her tone laced with both worry and a subtle hint of accusation.
Hardy's response was a mixture of defensiveness and discomfort, his words punctuated by a loud belch that betrayed his physical unease. "It's an ice house," he retorted, his assurance faltering in the face of the unfolding medical crisis. Brenda watched him closely, a part of her coldly calculating, waiting for the poison to exert its effect on him as well. 'Fall, damn it,' she thought, her escape plan hanging in the balance, dependent on the incapacitation of her captors. 'That'll be my cue for the next step.'
Brenda couldn't help but reflect on the cruel irony of her situation. Hardy, the man at the center of her torment and the focal point of her meticulously crafted revenge, was proving more resilient than she had anticipated. 'Why did my man have to be so large?' she mused internally, the resilience of Hardy's robust frame complicating her plans. 'Good thing he had two bowls.' There was a morbid sense of satisfaction in knowing that Hardy's appetite, which had likely contributed to his delayed reaction, might ultimately seal his fate.
In these moments, Brenda's ability to juggle genuine concern for the well-being of others with the strategic imperatives of her escape showcased her complex character—her empathy, her survival instinct, and her capacity for deception. Each action, each word, was a step in a dangerous dance, a gambit that could either lead to her liberation or her downfall.
Hardy’s dramatic collapse, his chair creaking under the sudden weight as he clasped his stomach and groaned, marked the turning point Brenda had been waiting for. Whether his actions were an authentic reaction to the poison or a cunning ruse to test her reactions, it was the moment Brenda needed to set her escape into motion. Mimicking the effects of the poison with a persuasive groan, she made her way to the kitchen, her movements a clever blend of feigned pain and quick, deliberate steps.
Once inside, the guise of torment rapidly fell away as she took swift, decisive action. She methodically dressed in all her clothing, layering for the journey ahead. Retrieving her climbing gear and satchels of water, she didn't forget the six sandwiches prepared earlier, a testament to her forward planning. Near the door stood a container of gasoline, ostensibly left there under the pretense of refueling the backup generator—an action seemingly abandoned midway. Now, with purpose, Brenda poured the gasoline throughout the first floor, trailing it past curtains and close to woodwork, laying the groundwork for a destructive cover for her escape.
In a final act of calculated chaos, she hurled a heavy pan onto the tile floor, the sound ringing through the silent house. As the echo faded, Brenda ignited the trail of gasoline, not pausing to watch as flames began to consume the building. She slipped out the back, blending into the shadows and navigating the thickets with practiced stealth, mindful of the guards that roamed the outskirts.
The fire, now catching hold and visible from the outside, served its purpose doubly: as a beacon drawing the guards and as a distraction to facilitate her undetected departure. As predicted, the guards, along with what sounded like the entire community, were drawn to the blaze, their focus on saving what they could, unaware of the greater loss of Brenda’s escape.
Moving methodically, Brenda avoided leaving any tracks in the snow, a silent ghost heading towards her freedom. She was acutely aware of the irony that, after surviving so much, a misstep now could prove fatal. Carefully, she equipped her climbing gear, her muscles aching but resilient, a silent thank you to the enforced physicality of her captivity.
Pulling herself up and away from the edge, Brenda found a measure of safety out of sight. The darkness around her was both a blanket and a barrier—instinct urged her to push forward, to put as much distance as possible between herself and her former captors while the cloak of night could still shield her. Yet, pragmatism held her back; the bone-deep exhaustion from the day's harrowing events weighed heavily on her, and the inherent dangers of navigating the treacherous terrain in darkness were too great to ignore. A misstep in the dark could spell disaster. Reluctantly, she conceded that she would need to wait for daylight to continue her journey. Her mental calculations estimated a daunting 70-80 kilometers back to what she once called home, a journey marked not just by distance but by the physical and emotional mountains she would need to traverse.
Despite the risks, venturing into nearby towns for assistance was off the table. The solitude of her route, though perilous, was her chosen path to safety. Slow and steady, she reassured herself, could see her home in a month or two.
In that moment of solitude on the mountain crest, with the stars as her only company, a profound realization washed over her—she was free. The weight of this freedom was both exultant and heavy, bringing with it a mix of relief, fear, and reflection. She wrapped herself in a foil blanket, an additional shield against the unforgiving elements, and tried to succumb to the sleep her body desperately needed.
But rest was elusive. The actions she had taken that night, born out of desperation and survival, haunted her. Brenda had once killed a man in self-defense—a lifetime ago, it seemed—and now, she might have added ten more to that grim tally. The uncertainty of their fates, and the question of whether Zed would suffer repercussions for Brenda’s escape, churned turbulently in her mind. Such heavy thoughts threatened to overwhelm her, casting shadows on the freedom she had so bravely fought for.
With a concerted effort, Brenda forced down the darkness, compartmentalizing her fears and doubts. She reminded herself of the strength that had carried her this far, the same strength that would see her home. For the first time in too long, Brenda allowed herself to embrace the hope and promise of freedom fully. The fresh mountain air, crisp and cold, filled her lungs, each breath a testament to her perseverance. The sounds of pursuit, the chaos she had left behind, were now distant whispers, drowned out by the overwhelming expanse of her escape and the promise of a new dawn. As she lay there, on the precipice of a life reclaimed, the fires that marked her departure from captivity flickered in her mind, not as beacons of destruction, but as milestones of liberation, guiding her towards a future she had once feared was lost.