by Greg Chapman
Nero chuckled to himself, checked the street again to make sure no one was near and clambered out of the manhole to walk up to the picture theatre.
There was a dull thud, like a body hitting the floor, then a shadow in the room.
Seconds later, something grabbed Thomas and threw him against the bedroom wall.
Fuelled by fear, Thomas squat on his haunches ready to defend himself from the intruder, the scent of him unmistakable in the dark. The other Flesher had returned for a rematch. Thomas cursed himself for being stupid enough to leave a trail back to his home. Slowly, he stood and sized up his opponent. The intruder’s silhouette resembled an obelisk in the night sky.
“Get out of my house!” Thomas said.
“Your house? That’s funny!”
Thomas’ heart slammed against his chest and the hair on his arms became erect; he wanted to tear this interfering Flesher limb from limb, but now his instinct reminded him of their previous clash; told him to keep his distance. “Who the hell do you think you are coming here!?” Thomas said, taking a step closer in defiance of the urge.
Nero jumped up onto Thomas’ bed, bouncing up and down like a child testing its springs.
“That’s for me to know and you to find out, fancy pants!”
Thomas released a guttural roar from deep in his throat and launched himself at Nero. There was a flurry of bed sheets, but Thomas grabbed nothing substantial and when he looked, he found his tormentor on the other side of the room laughing hysterically.
“You’ve got a lot to learn, buddy!” he told Thomas.
Like a Pamplona bull, Thomas threw himself from the bed, his nails tearing the mattress. Air flew past his face at astonishing speed and he crossed the distance between he and the fiend in seconds, but just as he finally grabbed hold of Nero’s flimsy shirt, a blow caught him on the jaw with the force of a freight train and once again, he was plunged into the abyss of unconsciousness.
4
When Thomas regained power over his faculties, he found his jacket and shirt ripped from his body and freezing cold and blistering pain wavering across his torso.
He forced his eyelids apart and took in the world surrounding him; he saw the openings of concrete tunnels ten feet high, a filthy murk flowing from them in a gentle motion. He could smell shit in the air, so thick he wondered why he couldn’t see it as fog. He turned his head to the left and realized he was chained to the wall. He pulled down on his arms in a bid to escape his bonds, but the resistance cut deeply into the precious skin film on his wrists. His scream echoed back in his face, almost as if it was mocking him. Then he realized the echo was not the only source of degradation, when his captor appeared from the shadows in a fit of laughter.
Nero splashed down before him, his sharpened teeth gleaming in the sewer’s dark pit. For the first time, in the murky light, Thomas was able to get a good look at his opponent. He was thin, not emaciated, but gangly. His narrow face smattered with a grotty excuse for a beard and only a few wisps of hair graced the top of his head.
“How you doing there, fancy pants?” he said, pulling on the chains. “You comfy?”
“Let me go, you bastard!” Thomas cried back.
Nero waggled his finger. “Oh, no—you owe me.”
“Owe you?” Thomas searched the black void of the tunnels for a sign, anything that could save him.
Nero bent towards Thomas—his breath carried the stench of rotting meat.
“You stole my prey,” he said.
Thomas scoffed and twitched as cold sweat trickled down his spine.
“You stole him…from me…and left me…an arm.”
Nero grimaced with indignation. “Bullshit—I saw him first and you know it,” he told him. “You were just too slow off the mark.”
Thomas shook his head in consternation and sniggered, overwhelmed by the childish nature of their squabble.
“What’s your name?”
“Say again?” Nero said, confused.
‘I said—what’s your name? I’d at least like to know the name of my kidnapper.’
Nero took a step back, and Thomas could see he looked dumbfounded, but only for a moment.
“Tell me yours and I’ll tell you mine,” seemingly eager to play Thomas’ game.
Thomas hesitated and then asked himself what he had to lose; he was in the hands of a deranged flesh-eater, but if befriending him meant he could have a chance at freedom—then so be it.
“Thomas,” he replied.
Nero smirked. “Tommy boy, huh,” he said. “Typical.”
Thomas glanced up at him. “What’s typical?”
“That you should have such a common human name,” he said, emphasising the word “human” with his fingers.
“That’s the name I chose for myself—after Thomas Jefferson.”
His captor frowned and paraded around the tunnel, kicking at the foul water.
“What do you mean “chose for myself?” Every Flesher is given a name by the King.”
“The King?” Thomas said.
Nero’s face contorted between confusion and frustration. “Yes, the King; the ruler—the fucking King!” he said. “You have been living under a rock!”
Thomas conjured a king in his mind—the King of the Fleshers. He hoped he fit his title—his skin—more than the fool standing before him did.
“This is all new to me,” Thomas said. “I didn’t know there were others like me…until I met you.”
Thomas watched him to see if he caught the mistruth. Nero granted him a stare of slight scepticism, but then said:
“You’re not lying, are you? I can always smell a liar.”
Thomas smiled again. “Yeah, well I can smell a cheat a mile away—whoever you are.”
Nero splashed over and clamped his hand around Thomas’ head and squeezed. Thomas thought his skull would crack.
“I’m no cheat!” Nero said.
“Okay!” Thomas said, gasping. “Okay—you’re not a cheat! But still I don’t know your name.”
He let Thomas go and turned back to the dark.
“Come on,” Thomas urged him. “I told you my name—it’s only fair that I should know the name of the Flesher whose meal I stole.”
Nero faced him again and Thomas saw he was nervously biting his fingernails, the pencil point teeth splitting the ends effortlessly.
“Nero,” he said. “My name’s Nero.”
“Like the Roman emperor?”
Nero winced. “Yeah, like the fucking Roman emperor!”
“What—you don’t like the name you were given?” Thomas said, probing.
There was a long pause as they considered one another. Thomas could see Nero was struggling with his conscience; pondering whether Thomas could be trusted.
“Let’s just say that I’ve lived up to my namesake’s reputation,” he said.
“How so?” Thomas asked, secretly testing his bonds while keeping his eyes locked on Nero.
Nero paced again and turned to the tunnel behind him, as if he was looking down into the darkness to make sure no one was watching. “I’m what you might call…an outcast.”
“Who kicked you out? Where were you cast out from?”
Nero spat into the sewage. “My people; I guess I didn’t want to follow their rules and they didn’t like that.” He spat again. “The King has so many fucking rules!”
Thomas waited for Nero to turn his back and, biting down pain, slipped his wrist free of the rusting shackle. A sheet of bloody flesh dangled, and Thomas turned his gaze from it and bit down on the burning agony cascading up his arm. Quickly, he gripped the shackle, giving the impression he was still in chains. Much to Thomas’ relief, Nero seemed not to notice his sleight of hand.
“Do they…live here—in the sewers?” Thomas said.
“Here? Shit no! They’re too regal. They prefer to live deep underground in caves—dark places humans don’t normally go to—shit like that.”
Nero stopped in his tracks and consi
dered Thomas, and, for a moment, Thomas feared his escape attempt was about to be thwarted.
“Why am I spilling my guts to you anyway?”
Unable to maintain the ruse, Thomas tugged his other hand free of its shackle; the flesh tore and blood flowed. Yet Thomas had no time for pain as Nero—enraged at Thomas’ ruse—came running at him.
Thomas jumped to his feet. Nero gave chase. Thomas landed feet first into the sewage flow, bile instantly rising in his throat. He tried to focus, scanning the shadows in the tunnels, desperate to know which tunnel provided the route back to the city.
Before he could gather his thoughts however, Nero tackled him from behind. The pair was lost under the surface, the filth seeping into Thomas’ mouth and nose. Nero latched onto Thomas’ arm, the force almost snapping the bones into a dozen pieces. Thomas pulled himself out of the wastewater only to receive a blow across the jaw.
“Where the fuck do you think you’re going?” Nero said.
Thomas fended off Nero’s second jab and responded with his own, catching the other Flesher on the chin. Nero staggered, but his rage was unquenchable, he reached for Thomas, his razor-sharp claws set to shred his precious skin to strips.
“You’re not getting away from me!” Nero wailed.
That was exactly what Thomas had to do. When Nero’s claws fell, Thomas intercepted them, his hands around Nero’s wrists like clamps. His opponent virtually incapacitated, Thomas brought a knee into his gut.
“You can’t hold me!” Thomas said. “I’m free to go where I choose!”
Nero tried to laugh between wheezing breaths.
“You…think so?”
“I’ve been on my own this long—I want it to stay that way!”
Nero writhed in Thomas’ grip, his whole body quivering with unbridled anger; Thomas looked into Nero’s eyes and saw a killer’s instinct out of control. There was so much strength and resolve in Nero—virtues Thomas knew he scarcely possessed. He knew he had a lot to learn, but not from this Flesher. Thomas twisted Nero’s wrist to breaking point.
“You’re going to let me go!” Thomas ordered him.
“Like fuck I am!”
Thomas twisted again and pain, like shards of glass crawling into the meat of his arm, came out of Nero’s mouth in a great shriek. Thomas saw the sweat beading on his brow, yet he wouldn’t relent.
“You can’t be allowed…to roam free!” Nero said.
“But you can?’”
“You forget…I was kicked out!”
“Because you broke the rules!”
“Yes…but I still have to live by them—all Fleshers do!”
Nero inexplicably slipped his left hand free and swiped Thomas’ cheek with his claws. The weakened flesh of Thomas’ face split and blood sprayed into his eyes. Nero let fly upon Thomas with a volley of punches and kicks—to his face, ribs and thighs until he was overwhelmed. Thomas buckled, his skin screaming for nourishment.
“If you want to follow their rules then you’re going to follow mine!” Nero told him.
He bent over Thomas, right fist clenched and raised, ready to deliver another savage blow. Thomas felt fear pounding in his chest, the urge rising in his head like rolling thunder. He saw the slickness of sweat on Nero’s skin, his brow, neck, traces of blood on his knuckles.
His skin looked…irresistible.
Thomas leaped on Nero in a heartbeat and sank his teeth into the flesh of his forearm, tearing out a great chunk of skin and muscle. Thomas couldn’t stop himself; he didn’t even know what he was doing—his actions seemingly separate from his body. Nero let out a cry—more out of disbelief than pain, but almost immediately, Thomas felt revived and keen to defend himself. He thrust Nero back and left him to crawl into the nearest shadow, clutching his blood-drenched arm.
Nero’s eyes went wide. “You fucking fancy freak—you bit me again!”
“You…left me no choice,” Thomas said, unsure of himself.
Nero snarled at this: “I’m going to fucking kill you!”
Nero made to move and start the battle anew when a voice bellowed out from one of the tunnels:
“ENOUGH!”
Nero and Thomas found themselves surrounded by half a dozen figures; men, emanating the heady musk scent of the Flesher. They were half in shadow, but still Thomas felt their raw power. These Fleshers were nothing like Nero, more sublime, dominating.
Thomas glimpsed their features: all of them six feet high or more, broad-shouldered, lithe, adorned in dark woollen tunics. Three of them wore their hair short, two others had no hair at all, but one—the one who most mesmerised Thomas—had shoulder-length hair, black as night; his eyes burning candle flames beneath the fringe. He spoke and his voice chilled Thomas’ blood:
“What depravity is this?”
Thomas was mute, Nero too; the rebellious Flesher appeared torn between daring to flee and needing to stay.
“Malik?” Nero muttered his throat clenched with terror.
Thomas watched as Malik stepped towards them, his eyes never leaving them. Nero quivered and made a step in his direction—the movement met with snarls from Malik’s accomplices.
“Nero,” Malik said, his tone indignant. “I see you’ve crawled out from the filth again?”
Nero nodded and quickly followed it with a shake of no.
“I meant no disrespect…”
Malik grinned. He was taking great pleasure from Nero’s fear.
“I’m sure you didn’t, Nero,” Malik contended. “This is your home after all—I am but a guest. Yet I never expected to receive visions of such…brutality.” At these words, he turned to Thomas, his golden eyes considering his flesh and Nero’s blood on his lips.
Nero bowed his head. “It was nothing…simply a misunderstanding.”
Malik turned to Nero, eyebrows raised. “A misunderstanding, you say? Misunderstandings are handled with words—not fists and claws…” he turned to Thomas again. “…and certainly not with teeth.”
Thomas stood silent as Malik proceeded to circle him.
“Phagus don’t generally eat from each other,” he said, addressing Thomas.
“Phagus?” Thomas said, before silencing himself.
Malik stopped and frowned. “Yes—Phagus—the tribe you belong to.”
Phagus? Tribe? The revelations were becoming more nonsensical by the minute. Thomas looked away from Malik, but the Flesher snatched his jaw with a gloved hand and turned his head, so their eyes met. Malik sniffed at him and grimaced.
“Your smell…” he whispered. “So…unnatural.”
“He dwells with the humans!” Nero said.
“You’ll be wise to bite your tongue Nero—lest I cut it out!” Malik told him.
Nero turned his gaze to the ground in submission.
Thomas began to regard Nero as the stereotypical bully—someone who displays the pretence of power, only to become weak in the presence of real strength and status.
“What is your name?” Malik said, his eyes sliding over Thomas’ features.
“Are you the King?” Thomas replied.
One of the Fleshers behind Malik roared a warning, but the prince stayed him with a raised hand.
“Do you not know me?” Malik asked. “I’ll admit that I do not know you—and that is unusual.”
Thomas looked to all the Fleshers surrounding him and then back to Malik; there was nowhere to run to, but even so, Thomas felt inclined to stay because at last he’d met more of his kind; Fleshers more desirable and in a way, they had saved his life.
“I’m sorry, no, I don’t know who you are,” Thomas said.
Malik seemed more curious than offended. “Truly?”
Thomas shook his head. “Should I?”
Malik put a hand to his own chest and sighed. “You should, but no matter—let me introduce myself—I am Malik, the King’s son.”
Thomas stretched out his hand. “Nice to meet you,” he said.
One of Malik’s subordinates came forward wit
h impossible speed and took squeezed Thomas’ wrist, forcing him to his knees.
“So,” Malik said entirely at ease. “Tell me your name and why you see fit to roam unhindered among the humans?”
Thomas stared into the eyes of the Flesher who held him and knew that if he didn’t comply with the request, Malik could simply order his destruction with a glance.
“Thomas…” he wheezed. “My name is Thomas.”
“And why do I not know you?” Malik persisted.
Thomas flinched and the Flesher almost snapped his hand off at the wrist.
“Arrgh—I don’t know—I hardly know myself!”
Malik ran a hand through his hair. “Interesting—I think father will want to meet you. He’s adept at extracting the truth from liars.”
“I’m not lying!” Thomas said.
Malik waved his claim away. “We’ll see.” Then he turned to his men. “Bring him—and the outcast.”
Within seconds, the fetch of Fleshers was upon them, their grips like iron. Nero begged for mercy. Thomas began to pray that he hadn’t made another mistake—a mistake that would end his life just when it was about to begin.
5
Thomas was grateful to leave the sewers, but the path Malik and his minions were taking he and Nero on was much darker and menacing.
Malik’s men dragged them through the tunnels without a word, the only sound the scraping of their shoes. The party marched for what seemed like an hour, down and around, sometimes deeper, other times higher, but all the time leaving Thomas none the wiser.
Thomas wanted to know where they were taking them, but when one of Malik’s Fleshers slashed Nero across the back with his claws for whining, Thomas thought better of it. The fact Nero was so passive and obedient around them served only to unsettle Thomas. He could see Malik was every part the King’s son: the dour demeanour, the fine clothes, right down to the elbow-length leather gloves and the suave stride; he was pompous and imposing in the same step.
As they went around a bend, Thomas heard the familiar rumble of the subway overhead, a violent rattle and creak that reminded him of his earlier days—before Stephanie. He glanced at Malik and wondered if he or his father knew her, but he realized that was hardly a priority now.