by T. H. Moore
“The king is offering sacrifices tonight,” one maniac on the balcony cheered, hooting down at the dead man sprawled on the pavement.
Charles quickened his pace, staying close to the edges of the road. He ducked into a nearby building and crouched down in a dark corner, using his hands to gather a pile of dirt. He took a mouthful of the water from his satchel and pushed it around his mouth to alleviate his thirst before releasing a thin, controlled stream onto the dirt pile. After mixing the water and dirt into a dark paste, he covered his pale face until all that remained visible were his green eyes.
As he continued his trek toward the epicenter of the city, Charles heard the faint symphony of suffering. Angry yells of men coming from the east and bloodcurdling screams of women pierced the night to the west. Moments later, he slid past a band of filthy men vying for ownership of a corpse like a pack of wolves.
Another ruckus was followed by another violent assault. Just like the one before him, the beaten man was thrown from the balcony. He screamed the entire way down while the maniacs rejoiced from above. Scavengers sprinted past Charles to the man’s broken body and started ripping him apart.
Kristoff’s acolytes leaned over the balcony railing and waved their arms in the air, chanting, “Kris-toff! Kris-toff! Kris-toff! The king of K-City!”
Charles was fifty yards from the barbed wire courtyard that secured the front entrance to the Apex building. Another scream of fear, followed by another thud, a pitched body, and the scurry of the scavengers. This time, Charles was close enough to hear bones snapping against the pavement. He took cover to avoid the scavengers, and waited while they butchered the latest sacrifice with their homemade weapons.
Charles darted along the side of the building until he spotted four men guarding the back doorway.
“Four offerings so far tonight,” one of the guards warned the other three. “Two more before it’s safe to go up there.”
“You sound like a woman, Manta,” the smallest guard said.
“Fuck you, Hiro!” He laughed. “You look like a woman. Now give me some pussy, you dwarf!”
“Curse me again and I’ll take your tongue,” Hiro seethed, pulling a short knife from his belt.
The other three guards erupted into laughter. “You call that a knife?” said one. “The only thing that piece of shit is good for is picking your rotting teeth.”
“I’ll pick your bones after I cut your throat with it,” Hiro fired back. “I just come from Kristoff’s, and I’m still alive. The new fella, Donato, made moonshine.” He reached behind him and brandished a glass bottle that was about half full of sloshing brown liquid. “Got this for keeping watch tonight. They’re all up there having a go at the Brazilian bitch. She’s one nice piece of ass.” The small man lifted the bottle and took a massive gulp.
Another one of the guards grabbed the bottle out of his hands and started guzzling.
“Hey!” yelped the one named Manta. “Save some for the rest of us.” He jumped at the guard who was still gulping from the bottle.
“Kill him, Juan,” one of the men shouted.
While Manta and Juan tossed each other around, Charles readied his slingshot and placed a metal shard in the pouch. Twenty yards away, hiding in the shadows, he hefted the slingshot and focused his attention on the man egging on the fight. He pulled the rubber sling taut, held his breath, and released the shard. It struck the man in the right side of his throat.
The man grabbed at his throat and instinctively ripped the shard out, removing part of his larynx in the process. He coughed a mouthful of blood onto the two feuding men before falling to his knees. Panic filled his eyes.
“What the hell!” Hiro shouted.
Fueled by moonshine and rage, Manta and Juan continued their battle, unaware of the attack. Hiro squinted to where Charles stood, removed a weapon from his belt, and crept toward the darkness. Just then, Charles released another shard that flew into Hiro’s open mouth, piercing the back of his throat.
Hiro dropped his weapon and shoved his entire hand into his mouth, grasping at the metal shard while Charles looked on with satisfaction.
All that practice paid off, he congratulated himself.
Charles emerged from the darkness with his ax and ended Hiro’s gagging and spitting with a swift and powerful blow before sprinting to the two scuffling men. When Charles’s dark figure appeared behind Juan, Manta’s eyes lit up with alarm.
“Behind you!” Manta grunted.
“Shut up and die,” Juan growled, burying his blade in Manta’s throat.
Manta’s body went rigid, but not before he spewed blood onto Juan’s arms and face.
Juan didn’t have a chance to lay eyes on Charles before his head was severed from his body. As Juan collapsed on top of Manta, Charles looked over the four dead men he’d just laid waste to. He felt no remorse. He dragged each of the lifeless bodies along the dark wall, stacked them, tossed Juan’s head on top, and covered the pile with a section of scrap metal.
Keeping in the shadows, he reached the entrance of the building. The moonlight penetrated a few feet into the hallway, allowing him light enough to see the foot of the stairs. After the first few steps, he was thrust into complete darkness. He paused his ascent and waited for his vision to adjust.
While his pupils dilated, his sense of smell became acute. He swore he could taste the aroma of urine, feces, and decaying flesh as he breathed through his mouth. It was overwhelming and could not stop himself from vomiting.
He steeled himself and continued his climb up the twenty flights of stairs. Every so often, a hole in the wall or a broken window allowed enough moonlight for him to maintain what floor he was on.
At the twentieth floor, he crept into the dark hallway and kept his back to the wall. Down the corridor, a lone light flickered against the wall. As he inched closer, glass crunched beneath the soles of his boots. He drew his ax. He could feel his pulse in his ears.
“Kristoff, king of K-City!” the men chanted in unison. “Kristoff, king of K-City!”
Charles followed the voices. When he arrived at the doorless entrance, he could see that the torches were as tall as the men outside. He watched as another flailing victim was tossed over the balcony.
When he heard the familiar voice, Charles’s rage redoubled.
“You!” Kristoff commanded someone. “Go to my bedroom and bring us another birdie.”
A laugh of drunken amusement echoed from the balcony. Donato took two large gulps of his drink and shook from the alcoholic rush before stumbling inside the living room from the balcony. From there he pushed his way into Kristoff’s bedroom. There was a yell from inside the room, followed by a thud. Donato soon returned, dragging a man by his long, black, tangled hair.
Charles was surprised to see that it was the Spaniard from the prison bus. He was shaking and clutched at his heart. The group’s newest birdie was shoved onto the balcony, where he lost his balance and fell to his hands and knees. When he raised his head, the Spaniard locked eyes with Charles. He blinked several times.
“Te veo!”23 he shouted. “Te veo, diablo! Eres demasiado tarde!”24
Charles froze and scoured the room for any reaction to the Spaniard’s ramblings. The others paid his words no attention. Instead, the savages treated him like a toy. One bent over and bit a chunk of flesh from the side of the Spaniard’s stomach, chewed, and swallowed. When he stood, the cannibal was trembling beyond control.
The sight triggered Charles’s subconscious aptitude, sending his mind to a text about Kuru disease, an incurable degenerative neurological disorder brought on by consumption of human flesh. He recalled with perfect clarity every page, each footnote, including the symptoms of body tremors and pathological laughter as the afflicted’s mind disintegrated.
While the men were busy with the Spaniard, Charles darted down the hallway to the bedroom where
Donato dragged the Spaniard from. He quietly closed the door behind him and when he turned around he saw Elaina, naked and bound to the soiled bed. A small pool of blood and vomit lay a few inches from her head. Her once-beautiful mane of blond hair was matted, and almost every inch of her petite body was bruised.
As he took in her naked body, her curves, her taut flesh, something awakened in him. He told himself that it was pity, but he knew better. He was aroused by her—something he didn’t understand. Why was his body suddenly reacting to adult women?
Charles watched as she became aware of him, and he could see that she was alarmed. When she opened her mouth to scream, Charles darted toward her to muffle her cry. His weight on the bed jostled a cowbell rigged to the headboard. He bent down to Elaina and placed his cheek on hers.
“Don’t scream,” he whispered. “It’s me, Charles, from the bus.” He sat up and revealed the cryptic tattoo she had noticed during the bus ride. Certain that the bell had alerted the animals on the balcony, Charles stepped back and put his finger to his lips.
“The bell,” Kristoff yelled from the balcony. “Donato, go see what’s got my bitch into a fever.”
Donato whistled his way down the hall and burst through the door. He gazed down at Elaina’s nude form as he walked toward her, fondling himself. With his dirty fingers, he grabbed a fist full of her hair and forced her head into his crotch.
The drunken Italian staggered from side to side as he thrust his pelvis into her face. “We wagered whose eyes and hair your bastard will have when it’s born,” he said with a laugh. “If it makes it long enough to be born, anyway.”
Elaina scowled at him. “If my bastard has your eyes,” she said before spitting on him, “I’ll be sure to tell it how much I enjoyed watching its father die.”
“Whore—” His words cut off as he seemed to sense Charles’s presence behind him. He jumped back and started to turn just as Charles’s ax whistled through the air and plunged into his neck. The blade failed to decapitate Donato, but it crushed his spine. Blood spewed as he collapsed onto the floor next to the bed. Elaina smiled as he expired just inches from her face.
Charles ransacked Donato’s pockets, collecting a buck knife that he used to cut away Elaina’s restraints. She jumped to her feet, her gaze never leaving Donato’s body as it twitched before becoming motionless again.
“He’s not dead yet,” she insisted. “Give me the knife.”
“He’s in hell by now,” he whispered.
He understood her need to give into the rage, but it was another thing to trust her with the knife. When he flung a handful of her clothing at her, she glared at him but complied, then held out her hand. Charles looked at her for an extra few seconds, reached into his satchel, and handed her a lead pipe. She grabbed it and followed Charles out of the room.
Kristoff and his men were still amusing themselves with the Spaniard. The mob was enjoying tormenting him, and had begun using found objects to beat him.
One of the men tied a scrap of cloth around a thick piece of wood he had been using to beat the Spaniard. “Watch this,” he said as he snatched the moonshine Donato had mixed and poured a healthy amount into his mouth. With his cheeks full, he held the homemade torch in the flame of one of the larger torches until it caught fire. He bent down toward the Spaniard and, holding the smaller torch a foot away from the man’s face, he spewed the liquid through the fire.
The Spaniard’s head was engulfed. The marauders howled as the Spaniard fell to the balcony floor and tried to smother his flaming head. By the time he extinguished the fire, patches of red, burned flesh on his scalp were visible even from where Charles and Elaina stood watching.
Seeing Kristoff and the Irishman reveling in the Spaniard’s suffering flooded Charles with a simultaneous rush of anxiety and fury. He knew they would soon discard the Spaniard over the balcony like the others.
Kristoff paused. “Where’s Donato?” He looked around. “One of you get him off that bitch and bring him here.”
One of the men pulled himself away from the Spaniard, took a long drink from the communal bottle, and lurched off in the direction of the bedroom.
Elaina started past Charles toward the balcony door, but Charles yanked her back. He pressed his index finger up against his lips. The Spaniard’s gaze met Charles once again, and a mutual smile was exchanged. Charles gripped Elaina’s wrist. He could tell the Spaniard had recognized him.
“Be ready to fight our way out of here,” Charles warned her.
“Tengo un secreto!” the Spaniard exclaimed. “I have secret!”
His translated outburst commanded the attention of the entire group. The fire-breather took another drink to burn the Spaniard again, but was fatally interrupted when Kristoff rose from his seat and delivered a powerful kick that launched the overeager fire-breather off the balcony. He screamed, grabbing at the open air around him, until his body crashed onto the broken remains of the others. Everyone else inched away from the edges of the balcony.
“Kristoff! Kristoff! Kristoff!” came the faint chanting from the men circled around the pile of death on the ground below.
“Why waste drink to burn someone?” Kristoff posited. “Fire needs no accomplice.” As he returned to his seat, one of the men retrieved the container of moonshine from the balcony floor and handed it to Kristoff. He snatched it and drank it down, wiping the streams of liquid that escaped out the sides of his mouth with the back of his wrist. “Tell us your secret,” he said to the Spaniard. “Then we’ll teach you how to fly.”
The tortured Spaniard’s smile was delayed as he accepted his end would soon come. His speech was slurred, either from pain or rotgut whiskey, or a combination of both, and his head waved from side to side. His eyes were half-closed. Wincing, he rose from the floor and pressed his two index fingers together against his lips.
“Shhhhhhhh, I have secret to speak.” He giggled in broken English. Stealing one last look in Charles’s direction.
Charles tightened his grip on his ax and Elaina’s wrist.
The Spaniard swung his other arm around the room, passing over Charles’s direction until settling on Kristoff. “All you rape pretty girl in bedroom!” he shouted. “All you!” He then returned his attention to Kristoff, saluting and breaking into insane laughter. “She call El Presidente25 Kristoff Pene Pequeño.”26
Kristoff’s heavy brow lowered. He looked around to his men ignorant to what the last two words meant. “What the fuck is he say—” the Spaniard interrupted.
“She say El Presidente has the smallest dick she has ever seen. Pene Pequeño27. Is it in yet, El Presidente? she ask. Me feel nothing, she say!”
Dumbfounded by the Spaniard’s reckless taunt, the marauders on the balcony looked around and shuffled as far away from their king as possible. Kristoff’s initial shock gave way to blind rage. He leapt to his feet to maim the Spaniard, his face scarlet and contorted.
As his tormenter descended upon him, the Spaniard yelled, “La paz es la asimilación en el encubrimiento! Vaya! Vaya ahora, Yäbälay!”28
The grinning man grabbed two handfuls of Kristoff and threw himself from the balcony, pulling the king over with him.
Intoxicated and stunned by the Spaniard’s trick, Kristoff’s men watched with mouths agape as the two men, embracing like lovers, plunged to their death. While the men peered silently over the balcony, Charles and Elaina slid through the open living room and out the door, undetected and unscathed.
As they descended the stairs, Charles couldn’t help but feel intense joy. His rapist, Kristoff the King of K-City, was a thing of the past.
Better yet, he had a prize in tow.
Chapter 14
CHARLES SAT IN A LOPSIDED chair by the door and tried to stay awake. Lack of sleep left him half-delirious, but he knew that even his tucked-away shelter far from K-City’s center offered no guarantee of safety.
Elaina slept on the dirty mattress, hugging her knees to her chest. He watched her breasts rise and fall with each breath. Her braided hair hung over one shoulder, adding a childlike air to the moment.
A crash and clatter broke the peace, and Elaina bolted awake. A metal canister had come through the hideout’s front wall, ricocheted off the opposite wall, and rolled to the middle of the floor.
“Cover your ears!” Charles yelled.
A shock wave rocked the building. Elaina fell. The table of weapons toppled. Charles crouched close to the floor and covered his head. Another explosion followed, and half of the ceiling collapsed as the front wall crumbled.
Five men in full riot gear charged into the room, surrounding Charles and Elaina. Within seconds, the invaders had cuffed their hands and covered their heads with black hoods.
Their ears still ringing, they were pulled to their feet and shoved into a large vehicle. The van shook under the weight of the correctional officers who boarded behind them. Charles and Elaina were shoved onto metal benches that lined the walls of the vehicle and were shackled to a metal bar in front of them.
Once the doors slammed shut, someone said, “Hit ’em’ both just like the warden ordered.”
Darts pierced Charles’s skin at the back of his hand, followed by a debilitating electrical current. He felt his blood boil, a heat made worse by the sound of the men’s sadistic laughter.
~~~
Charles woke, shivering and shackled to a metal chair in the prisoner processing room. Elaina slumped next to him. Warden Johnston crouched down before the two.
“I’m beginning to think you don’t understand the gravity of your situation,” he said. “I have eyes and ears all over this facility, and K-City. Nothing happens here or there without my knowledge or permission. The report I received about your activities last night is very displeasing. Now, any reasonable person would expect a man to desire revenge after having his manhood ripped away from him as Kristoff did to you.” The warden put his hand on Charles’s knee and smiled in exaggerated sympathy. Then his face darkened. “But Kristoff was my savage, and I wouldn’t have cared if he had raped and murdered your entire bloodline. No one does anything in this city unless I authorize it.” He smacked Charles across the face with a hand gloved in black leather. “And I do not recall giving anyone authorization to lay a hand on him.” The warden smacked him again, turning Charles’s face a lurid red. “Did I? Seems to me your first lesson about life in my city wasn’t processed very well. Seems to me another lesson is required.”