I walked with the fat captain through the lower area of the loading docks where there were girls and women tied to almost every post. ‘Discards,” he called them, “ready for the scrap heap, for Gravelly Point.” He laughed.

At the end of the dark area a large dumptruck had been backed in and as I watched, girls were being led there, turned about and shot in the back of the head. Their bodies thumped into the truck bed.

“Typical end of the line,” said the captain. “Most of these sluts are damaged in some way. You can have as many as you want for ten marks each, three for twenty-five.”

“What’s that group?” I asked pointing at a line of young females who had been roped together.

He chuckled. “Hunting party. Every weekend, if the weather’s decent, they hunt on the island, Analostan, out in the Potomac.”

I nodded.

“Went only once. Saw a lovely little blonde being torn apart by a pack of dogs. Too much for me.” The popping and thumping of girls being shot continued. It was the third year of our occupation of the D.C. area and strange things had become normal.