Darkroom Saga Omnibus 1

by Poppet

  John steps away from the trussed up teenager, swaying unsteadily, mumbling the creed, “In spite of this you will have desire for your husband, yet you will be subject to him, he will have dominion over you.” [Gen3:16]

  What the hell is wrong with him? I have a bad feeling this guy has poisoned the only dude I have half a prayer of convincing to let me go.

  'God' looks at me, aggression in every nuance, muttering to me, “You know what husbandry is?”

  Fuck, hasn't it got something to do with rearing animals?

  Afraid to say the wrong thing I shake my head, deferring unwilling respect by keeping my eyes on the floor, my peripheral vision going berserk to give me a head's up in case he decks me while standing this close.

  “It's to farm. They're just a field for you to plow. Ya hearin' me? Men become husbands because when you have a wife you have a field to plow and sew your seed into.”

  “Yes sir … uhm … God, sir.”

  Nodding as if satisfied, he steps back toward John, standing still as if weighing options.

  In the pregnant silence after John's profound statement and my education by the leader of this satanic sanitarium, Major Maniac preaches more of his bullshit.

  Dang, he sure does like the sound of his sanctimonious whine.

  “... And we may take as many wives as we see fit.” Looking to me he loudly sermons, “Nazarines only choose wives who have proved they are fertile. We fuck them first, we only marry the ones who conceive. We don't adopt barren land, that's just a waste of your fertile right to go forth and multiply. I don't do it and neither will my chosen disciples. Take your pick Sixty-six, my offspring can take as many wives as Solomon and David.”

  The chick's eyes look like they're under a UV light, glistening and glowing, running a river of horror to burnish her wan cheeks. They shine in flawless perfection; ethereal as marble carved and polished by Michaelangelo himself.

  She's doomed. We both know it.

  I was raised to respect Ma and Pa, but this crew are radicals, it's their legacy to plunder and ravage, it's their god-given right. It's so demented I don't even know how to respond to their ingrained indoctrination.

  It's hella loud when 'god' unzips, the sound as abrasive as claws scratching at a keyhole.

  In the sacred silence of this derelict prison he struts up to the prone teen, looking my way again with smug body language. The impression of slits for eyes and mouth in a skintight leather sheath with horns on his head, is like having a hallucination. This is a scene you expect to witness in the comfort of an armchair, one you can walk away from when you switch the TV off, but for us there's no escape. He's as deathly black inside as the mask he wears. If I was superstitious I'd believe inside that masquerade costume is the devil in disguise.

  “Sixty-six, pay attention boy. If you are to be elevated to my priesthood I expect you to punish sinners. Women caused all sin – only men are accepted as disciples, saints, and angels, and even then only a limited number will cross the holy threshold and bathe in the glory of my throne. Nothing unclean shall enter it.” [Rev 21:27 / Rev 14:1]

  I give him my fake 'show me the way buddy' grin, trying to look enthusiastic, fighting the clench in my gut and the rage burning under my skin.

  “The body is the temple,” he continues preaching, using this reprehensible act to deliver a lesson, “...For you to worship me you must enter the temple, and enter it with confidence and conviction. You don't go meekly into the temple, you stride in and declare it your rightful inheritance. Claim it!”

  My momma would give you such a big can of whoop ass that your knees would be permanently shattered. She'd cripple you so you can kneel and look up at the woman who bore you into this world.

  This is fucked up man; fucked up!

  John pitches, falling like a javelin, rigid and stiff, not crumpling in the easy slump of a faint.

  Shit, I'm alone with the lunatic. What I wouldn't give for a gun and three bullets.

  Her eyes are bulging, her body thrashing against the bindings, the screams caught in her throat enough to splice my conscience. I can't just stand here. I can't do this!

  He's not careful, he's banging balls to the wall and gunning into her like he's at war.

  He is. Fuck, this is a war for him. They're his enemy. Innocents are slaughtered as collateral damage and he relishes owning the power of the dude who shot it down, who left it broken and violated.

  Readying to launch, to smash my fist repeatedly into the face of evil until the organism stops twitching and breathing, his words stall me, “Evan, right?”

  He's chatting as if he's not busy raping a young woman, like he's at a bar and just leaning in for a private chat.

  What the fuck man! You're doing my fucking head in!

  I nod, my breathing too labored with duress to trust my voice.

  “You are number sixty-six. Now that John has succumbed to the power of the manna I administered for his atonement, I can speak with you plainly. You are a test for John. He calls you his prophet.”

  Swallowing the thick lump choking me, I watch him, wishing the sight of blood and her eyes rolling back wouldn't keep distracting my focus. Boobs thrash back and forth in motion, in time to the vile sounds of him boning her. Glancing away, fixating on the red bra discarded on the floor, I summon courage.

  “Yeah – um, yes, he records them,” I manage to say with my baritone steady, speaking over her strangled desperation, echoing warbling screams to brand my soul, managing to meet his eye again. I'm pretty sure he can see right through me.

  He stops fucking her to point judgment my way, as if he's checking his sights before pulling the trigger, saying, “Sixty and six, it's the number for the false prophet. You are a false prophet, Evan! And if John is too blind to acknowledge that, I'll be back to slay you both.”

  I would say 'you and what army' but I think he's made that point. In another incarnation I'd have taken him out back and beaten him to death, but right now I'm a hostage with no escape presenting itself.

  Pulling a crimson phallus out of the desecrated virgin, he strolls, slowly, up to her head. It stands rigid and oozing near her eye, and I clear my throat to hide the wince.

  “Women are weak. They're pathetic really.” Looking up at me, wet black eyes staring at me from those slits, he sounds like he's smiling when he says, “I like to reassure them of this fact from time to time. Like this...”

  Planting his thumbs on her nipples, he leans in with all his body weight, sticking rigid thumbs like pins into a voodoo doll. Her breasts cushion and bulge when his thumbs invert little nipples to the bones beneath. They're completely disfigured by his precision torture, now they're boob donuts. She bucks, thrashing against the rough ropes crisscrossing her bruised skin, her warbled anguish shattering my heart, the wail so primeval it ruins me.

  She's a natural blond.

  What the fuck! I can't believe the shit I'm thinking while he's destroying her innocence.

  Chuckling, he shouts over her objection, “When you want to hurt a woman, do it right. No bruises, no proof, but she'll never question your authority again. This leaves a swelling underneath the areola, do it every day and the pain increases exponentially.”

  Tilting his head back, he releases a laugh of euphoria at the joys of molestation, his thumbs never releasing the pressure.

  It's interminable, her wails, forcing sweat to run down to my elbows; I'm trembling. He needs to kill me now because I'm about to show him the meaning of the word savage. But before I can harness my logic to plot a random attack, he moves mamba fast, gripping her chin, holding her shoulder flat with the other hand, delivering a pop so loud it's an explosion, hazing my vision as my lucidity fluctuates.

  I'm losing it. Now I know the meaning of the word god-father. The movie's got nothing on this dude. He's the inspiration for mob mentality and crimes that destroy all that's innocent – this is the shit right here. God-father.

  He snapped her neck like he's done it twice a day since
he was six.

  Fondling his dick, he aims his attention at me, ordering, “Your turn.”

  The haze distorting my vision morphs red, blotting him out of sight when my reason hemorrhages. The thought of that bloodied cock penetrating me annihilates my strength, disabling my body's ability to hold me upright, tendons and muscles collapsing, imploding, losing rigidity. I plummet toward the peeling linoleum, dizziness gyrating the hall of horror into a pinpoint of oblivion.

  ~ Chapter 8 ~

  This is a time of panic, defeat, and confusion

  ~ Isaiah 22:5

  66: Evan:

  Mellow, numb, a disturbance rouses me back to awareness.

  Raised baritones penetrate the vacuum, bombinating against membranes. Weakness has become my malady.

  “He has failed you! He's no warrior John, and he sure as fuck is no prophet. Look at that pathetic excuse for a man! He hasn't got the stomach to do my work, he hasn't got the ability to put the fear of God in the heart of sinners.”

  My head throbs. I must have brained myself when I connected with the floor. Smelling the reek this close to the ground, I resist the urge to wipe my face. Unsanitary shithole. It's rank.

  “Alpha, he is not weak. He's drugged within an inch of his life. You know what stress does to an abused nervous system. He stood docile, passive, not once raising his voice or his heart against your divinity. He saw your commands were good. He's got the potential of an Omega. He's tall and strong, he's able to do your work.”

  So John is pleading my case to the judge and jury, clearly back from his trip down psychedelic avenue. He's got a soft spot for me and I'm going to exploit that to the nth degree.

  “He has to prove himself to me, boy. If he is rightfully sent to join our legion then he's going to have to show me he's got the mettle to chastise and discipline the dirty angels fouling the earth and tempting my offspring to sin. They wear short skirts, tight shirts, then think they are innocent of wrongdoing when they get what's coming to them. They shame the perfection of my creation. If my men decide to use those temples to worship me how dare they force my loyal tribe before a court, how dare they revoke my laws by accusing the innocent of being guilty of human rights violation when they are doing my will. I gave every last one of them permission to rape any woman not of the tribe. They aren't fucking equals; they have no rights. My sons are assaulted daily with temptation by Hittites and Philistines, they can go nowhere without being subjected to this plague of sin.”

  “She is ready for him. If he notices she has sinned by dressing like a man then you will know Sixty-six obeys your word. He will take her life for this abomination after using her to worship your glorious presence. You have honored us with your unwavering guardianship and I know he will not disappoint you, Alpha. He will be your Ezekiel, and when he disappears I know it is because you have taken him home to reside eternally in your holiness.”

  Thank you John, for handing me my free pass. They think I'm still out of it, they don't know I'm lying here eavesdropping. I need to start reading that fucking book so I know how to react to these insane tests of devotion.

  'When I disappear'. Nice one.

  His delusions have paved a way out for me. When I fuck off out of hell he'll think I've been 'seized by God'.

  I wish I could laugh but fear still squeezes my skin; adrenaline surges purely because I've woken to find I'm still inside the nightmare.

  Cold bites into my face, saturating my hair, a spasm hacking out of me when water goes up my nose. Jolting upright in reflex, I am faced by the two crazies in their black getup. God's gang.

  “We have no time for your weakness. Prove yourself or be put to death. The cancer in my body will be cut out and cauterized. Are you cancer, boy?”

  'God' has spoken.

  I hate being called boy. It makes me want to take a nine inch nail to his tongue and peg it to the rafters. I've not acted a day in my life but this had better be convincing, worthy of a star on Hollywood Boulevard type shit. I either force myself on her or they're going to kill me.

  Between a rock and a hard place doesn't begin to cut it.

  Swiping a trembling hand down my face, wiping the brisk water out of my eyes, I nod, swallowing the bile burning up my gullet like chaw gone down the wrong way.

  “It's time to count your blessings, Sixty-six,” says John, his tone severe, his tension pretty fucking evident.

  How do I get him to stand with me against the whacko?

  Heaving, forcing dread-weak legs to support my weight, I stand, sizing up the difference between me and 'god'. He's one staunch motherfucker.

  That's when I notice the setup. The altar is standing in a substantial puddle of water and god's holding what looks to be a live wire in his left hand. One false move and he'll either stick that to my eyeball, or he'll end me by frying my skin off in vitro if I don't follow through and 'do' the babe.

  He who hesitates is lost.

  Now I know why they dumped a bucket of water on me to snap me out of my blissful sojourn down the river Styx.

  'God' eyes me, noticing my surveillance, “I burned Aaron's sons when they displeased me. Do not displease me, boy.”

  Copying the shit I've seen on TV, I nod, trying me damnedest to look subservient, “Praise be to you.”

  I bet they're filming this. This is how you get caught in cults, they get the goods on you, holding it as a sledgehammer over your head, the anvil of blackmail that will eventually bludgeon my soul out of my eyes. My chest reverbs with the uncomfortable thunder of a persecuted heart, it feels like the rattle of a train in a tunnel, endless and diabolical. I've never been subjected to so much pure mind-fucking stress in all my life. Every inhalation is ragged, my lungs aching. I might have a bad fucking attitude but I ain't no law breaker. I bang women, not little girls.

  Stepping in the inch of water, a pond of tears collected from the fallen, my gut twists at the female bound to the contraption. Face down, spine up, her legs are secured to the bottom of the X, bent at the waist, a choker chain on her neck which will strangle her if she resists, if she reacts, if she strains against the violation I'm about to inflict. This is their idea of mercy. She can off herself, killing two birds with one stone. She might asphyxiate herself accidentally in the heat of the drama. We are a mass of neurons and we react when we're assaulted. I'll try be gentle. Don't die on my account. Please don't fucking die on me.

  Ramming fingers into my hair, I'm nose to nose with despair.

  My heart's wormed up to understudy for my Adam's apple; breathing is laborious, and my hands tremble when I grip the table supporting her body, inhaling, staving off the wave of vertigo searing through my torso and into my cranium. Bowing my head, I'm tempted to say a silent prayer for her and me both.

  “Drop them big boy, it's time to penetrate the sinner and make her holy,” orders John. He's as fraught as I am.

  What the hell did this Alpha guy do to him that he doesn't just cap the prick? He acts like 'god's' his handler.

  Coming to stand at my side, he leans in confidentially, placing a long blade next to my hand, leaving it on the table, saying, “Do not feel remorse for this. Animals only learn through the discipline of pain. They are ignorant and need to experience the blessings of the divine.”

  Lifting the handle, testing the weight of the sharp weapon, it's so tempting to go batshit, but I'm standing in a puddle that will electrocute us all, the guilty and the innocent.

  Keeping his voice low, leather creaks when he flexes his gloved hands into fists, his posture still unnaturally stiff and economical, saying privately, “Have you ever had your heart broken, Evan?”

  Tense as all hell, I nod, averting my eyes, knowing we're being watched by the puppet master.

  The zips on his weird uniform jitter when he lifts his arm, patting my shoulder in a patronizing manner, dropping it with a muffled wince, hissing as if in pain, saying to me, “It's because they're evil. They don't know their place because they can't comprehend love. Do your dut
y, Sixty-six. Deliver her from the evil native to her kind. The body is the temple and they were created so you had a temple to enter to worship Alpha. There is no sin in what you are about to do, manmade laws are not the laws of god. We don't recognize or acknowledge them. We are exempt from mankind's prosecution. On judgement day you will stand beside me, in the aisle of the righteous.”

  Whatever dude. You can believe whatever floats your fucking boat, what I don't appreciate is being forced to follow your laws and worship your alpha-omega god when everything he stands for is anathema to me.

  'God' says loudly from the peanut gallery, “They ravished the women in Zion, the virgins in the cities of Judah. Kill every male among the little ones and kill every woman who is not a virgin. But all the young girls who have not known man by lying with him keep alive for yourselves... Make me proud Sixty-six. If you defy my commands you are not one of my people, and I'll end you like I did the guilty.” [Lamentations 5:11 / Numbers 31:9]

  Yeah I know, genocide is biblical. He's clearly Team Hitler.

  There's a damn good reason why I don't go to church buddy, because it produces zealots like you.

  I've run out of grace. It's make it or break it time. Maybe she will manage to forgive me for this one day, but at least she gets to keep her life, unlike her friend. God keeps handing me aces so I can make him a joker. I'll insist she's 'my' virgin when I'm done. That way I can try to protect her from further anguish.

  Employing the knife I get to work on her jeans, slicing open and tearing the material off her body. I'm sweating like a stalker in a strip club and it makes my grip iffy, the handle slipping, forcing me to grab it the way a druggie grips the last hit of coke.

  Dropping the knife, letting it clang against the table leg, splashing up water, I hold the table again, harnessing my courage, clenching my jaw while flexing my arms to expel oppressive tension, disgusted that I'm contemplating doing this. She's just a kid.