They took them outside where they would have more space to use the long whip.
The procession was slow, deliberate.
The man with the whip unrolled his weapon, making it whistle in the air. He spent several minutes practicing his swings, building anticipation and fear.
"On your knees," ordered the man with the whip.
With dignity, Reed knelt, keeping his back straight.
The first lash fell cruelly, tearing through the thin fabric of his shirt. Reed clenched his teeth, determined not to give them the satisfaction of hearing him scream.
The second lash. The third. Time seemed to slow, each strike carefully spaced to maximize suffering. By the fifth, his shirt was in tatters, and by the tenth, his back showed red lines beginning to bleed.
The patrollers took their time between strikes, discussing technique and admiring their handiwork.
