by D W Bell
“Quite. The great man was known for shrewdness of thought, generosity to his friends, and ruthlessness to his enemies. After he put down the revolt, Crassus crucified 6000 of the surviving rebels all along the Appian Way. He was a man who understood the importance of appearances.”
“Crucifixion. I daresay that makes a powerful statement, those pagans were brutal bastards, but none suffered as much as our Lord.” The preacher was starting to slur and ramble so Boudreaux made a motion for the decanter to be cleared from the tray. He was reminded of the old joke that if you take two Baptists fishing they won’t drink a drop, but take one and he’ll empty your beer cooler. He would have to work to bring the man back to focus.
With a slight grimace as he looked closer at the men and women training below them, then a glance over his shoulder to take census of the technicians in the room, the pastor leaned close with the sloppy surreptitiousness of a drunk with an impolite secret, “Speaking of appearances, ain’t your teams awfully… ‘integrated’ for our purposes?”
“Right…” Boudreaux decided to slip the preachers clumsy jab and move on, “Crassus was also one known not to suffer fools or failure. In an engagement prior to his victory over Spartacus, he suffered an embarrassing defeat due to command and control issues.”
“Not wishing to be misunderstood in his convictions, he resurrected the ancient punishment of decimation for 500 of his troops. That’s where every tenth man is beaten to death by his nine fellows in full view of the rest of the army. Suffice it to say, discipline was restored, if not morale.” He set his snifter aside and steepled his fingers in thought, hoping the extra carnage in the story would sober the pastor a bit.
“Lord Jesus! Is that what we’re watching here?” The suddenly pale preacher cocked forward in his chair to gawp down at the arena as John, with a nod from Charlie, strode into the center ring. Nine operators simulating training for the observers above turned from their static drills to look on.
Boudreaux, genuinely perplexed, stood to investigate and leaning on the railing at the window quietly let slip, “I don’t know…”
Jaws agape, even the inebriated pastor felt the barometric change in the carefully controlled atmosphere, all eyes turned to Boudreaux in disbelief as the spell was broken.
Feeling the blank, confused stares of those he normally held in thrall weigh heavily on the tailored shoulders of his jacket, Boudreaux pushed off sharply from his perch on the banister, regained his composure by fastening the top button of his jacket and slicking back his hair, summoned his aide, Lilith, who seemed to materialize from a pool of darkness in a heretofore empty corner of the command center, and began giving orders in his customary, faux-affable baritone.
Cranking his charm to eleven, he pulled the pastor to his feet with an iron-hard handshake and made to usher him out, free arm wrapped around the confused man’s shoulders, and chuckled, “Thanks for coming, Reverend. I am afraid our little exhibition has concluded. My how the time flies, as the man said. Our boys and girls down there are transitioning to the more advanced evolutions of our training schedule, and we can’t have you learning all our secrets. I am sure you can understand.” He slapped the pastor’s expansive back in camaraderie while aping a mischievous, knowing grin.
“But…” The larger man tried to use his weight to slow Boudreaux’s genteel but hurried march to the door.
“Pastor, it’s been a pleasure. I am truly excited by the possibilities we have discussed today. Lilith will go over the next steps with you while you await transport,” He deftly slipped control of the preacher into the crook of Lilith’s arm, knowing the old gentleman would be loath to offend her.
“Lilith, see that the reverend is upgraded to our Platinum-level transport. I foresee a beautiful future together. Make sure to give him a tour of the barracks so he can get a feel for the rest of our stable.” Boudreaux waved with a beaming smile as the softly sputtering pastor was led across the threshold with Lilith striding so close that the poor man’s nostrils flared with her intoxicating perfume, “Good day, reverend.”
The door sealed with a hissing shriek, mimicking the eerie sound of steam escaping from a caustic pool of molten fury, and the technicians, now trapped alone with Boudreaux, quaked involuntarily as the room filled with pure malevolence and unspeakable dread.
His slight, impeccably dressed frame looming impossibly large as his minions cowered at their workstations Boudreaux quietly snarled, “Get that motherfucker on the phone.”
Chapter 21
In short, it was a beating for the ages. Brutalized and bloody, it was back to the good ol’ days of pain and slaughter on the killing floor, meaty fluids staining the tiles pink and red, accented with the frothy bubbles of ejected aspiration.
The recklessly lopsided encounter had resolved in the only way it could have, with John; bruised, bloody, but uninjured, stepping out of and over a circle of nine bodies that lay either groaning and writhing or silent and still. Taking his position just behind and to the right of Charlie, who had locked his one eye with blatant contempt on Boudreaux for the duration of the controlled chaos, John smartly snapped into the position of attention, fists still dripping gore with thumbs along the seams, thereby gruesomely blood-striping his pant legs in caricature of his bygone Marine Corps dress blues.
Although it had been urgently clanging throughout the massacre, the alarm bells of the old wall phone seemed only now to ring loud enough to defeat the enveloping quiet of combat, demanding that it be heard despite its diminished control. Known to never smile, the corner of Charlie’s stern mouth may have lifted a fraction of a millimeter, but nobody saw it as he quietly gave the command, “Rest.”
Rather than fully relax and stand down, John snapped to a formal parade rest, flecks of blood flying as his hands came together at the small of his back, the light, aerosol mist painting delicate crimson wings on the now unsterile white wall behind him, the splatter pattern forming the bloody apices and outer margins of a terribly angelic butterfly. The old phone stopped ringing, unheeded.
The fight had been cinematic in scope. Bigger than life and twice as ugly. The captive audience must have felt as if they had been transported back to the time of martial wonder that was the kung fu explosion of the early 70’s, when Bruce Lee’s first forays into American cinemas dazzled crowds with scenes in which a single combatant triumphed over impossible odds with only his bloodied, bare hands, but this was real life.
The savage, lurid beauty of the vicious, calculated dance drew involuntary oofs and gasps from the onlookers mystified by the magic of the melee. Only this was no precision choreography. Bones broke and flesh tore. The only thing on cue was the blood and it hit its marks flawlessly with every take, in glorious Technicolor.
Seizing the moment of distraction to regain control, Boudreaux resumed his seat in the cushy antique chair and took on an attitude of bored distraction, pretending to examine the cuticles of his immaculately manicured nails. Feigning mild surprise when the show was over, as if the epic battle held no interest for him at all, he spoke languidly to no one in particular, “Ah, I see they have completed the testing. Bravo.”
With a slight, disinterested yawn, he arose and resumed his position at the window, silently, slowly clapping as his cold, black eyes locked with the single burning orb staring up at him from below.
“Well, don’t that beat all.” Never taking his eyes off Charlie’s single orb, Boudreaux turned his head slightly to address the still trembling technicians behind him in his most pleasant tone, “Ya’ll get somebody to clean that up down there, won’t you?”
As the flurry of phones being picked up and urgent, frantic whispers swelled behind him, he favored the statuesque John with an amused glance and then once again fixed his now diabolically smiling countenance on the defiant Charlie. Giggling softly as if sharing a private joke, Boudreaux pointed down at Charlie where he stood leaning against his customary bo staff alongside the ring of bodies and blood with his protégé, the hard,
talon-like fingernail of his clawing hand clinking on the armored glass three times.
―
The attack came out of nowhere, and Smith barely sensed it in time to duck and evade the powerful roundhouse kick hurtling towards his head and save himself. Quickly recovering from the awkward sidestep and resuming his fighting stance to address this new threat, John was taken aback by the source.
Charlie. Not only was he taken aback psychologically by the confusion of this unforeseen betrayal, but soon would be physically as the cagey old cripple was already moving to circle around his guard and exploit his vulnerabilities, staff in hand. Charlie’s vulnerable disability had disappeared. He moved powerfully without a trace of his customary limp, his staff no longer a crutch but a living, whirring weapon.
Cursing himself for trusting even for a moment in this nest of vipers, John gathered his strength to face his erstwhile benefactor. Truly, the only kindness the one-eyed bastard had shown him was hard training, but it had felt like comfort compared to all the other nightmares he had engaged in and endured. Now John hoped that the resulting martial prowess bestowed by that perceived kindness was enough to overcome the old master, even though his unexpected opponent was more experienced, armed, and fresh, having not just exhausted himself in a nine-on-one battle royale. Game on, old man. Fate deals the cards.
―
As expected, John was in real trouble. Completely overmatched by the grizzled veteran whose staff licked out like lighting and struck with resounding thunder, bruising to the bone and sending John’s system into shock.
There was no defense against Charlie’s cyclopean onslaught, only frantic attempts to minimize damage and stay alive. John fought valiantly, but the question would soon be moot. He was out of gas. A missed block allowed the whirring tip of Charlie’s hardwood staff to crash into John’s forward leg sending the exhausted fighter to his knees. John raised his head to spit blood at his opponent out of sheer spite. It was time. Thank God, it was finally the end. He smiled at his executioner and favored him with a silent fuck you as the staff raised for the final stroke.
“Sorry, Charlie. I decide who gets to die and when.” Standing at the window, Boudreaux turned his head slightly to address the underlings cowering behind him, “Gas, if you please, Mr. Technician.”
The rustling commotion of instant obedience was punctuated by the metallic snick of an arming key being turned and an overzealous thud of an oversized red button being plunged down. With an explosive hiss the killing floor began to fill from the floor vents up, quickly burying John and leaving Charlie floating comically in the heavy, opaque cloud, looking all the world like a fisherman wading in a river, his staff a fishing pole frozen in mid-cast. With a hateful scowl directed at the sneering Boudreaux, Charlie held his breath and frantically probed the rising cloud hoping to finish the job before the gas took him.
The unexpected crash of breaking glass drew all eyes to the skylights as shattered windows fell sparkling into the clouds below like shooting stars. Truly angry now Boudreaux snarled, “What fresh hell is this?”
―
She descended from the heavens with righteous fury and terminal velocity. An avenging angel streaking down through the clouds of poisonous gas now escaping the no longer pressurized space, hospital gown trailing in absurd mimicry of angel wings. A Valkyrie riding the noxious winds of battle to collect her warrior dead and escort him to Valhalla. But first.
Freya crash-landed directly on top of the gawking Charlie and tumbled into a ball, using his body to break her fall. Then she was on him. Straddling the stunned man, she pinned both his arms with her knees and set to work. She did not stop striking until well after the body had stopped twitching. Charlie was no more. Now merely more meat on the killing room floor.
Blood rage sated, with an anguished sob she looked for and found the still comatose form of John laying not far from Charlie’s lost staff. Without regard for Boudreaux looking down from the control room, or the gas-masked security forces now rushing into the room, she crawled to and cradled the critically wounded John, like a psych-ward Pietà in her backless frock, at the same time passionate, motherly, and insane.
The security team spread out and advanced slowly upon the living sculpture, a bizarre artist’s impression of crazed love/lust, waiting for the word from above on how to finish it. The crunch of boots on broken glass caused the cradled head to jerk and the eyes to flutter. John felt the arms closing around him and reacted instinctively. With the speed and precision born of repetitive training he circled around the one that held him, snaked his own arm around the perceived threat’s throat, and broke its neck.
“Fuck!” The watching technician could not help the outburst, “Did ya’ll see that shit?!?” A wave of excited expletives made its way through the control room, only to be quieted by Boudreaux clearing his throat.
“Indeed. I suppose that was pretty epic as you kids like to say. I wonder.” He looked thoughtfully down at the strange scene. Freya’s lifeless body slumped from John’s embrace and he fell back once again into the foggy oblivion of the killing floor.
With an amused sigh, Boudreaux chuckled to himself, “Fucking John,” then turned to give commands, “Get him into the trauma center immediately. Let the doctors know that if they lose him they will answer to me, personally. And burn the rest. Assholes and elbows, boys. Chop chop.” With a final grin at the whirlwind of activity down below, terrified minions rushing about to do his bidding and divert his wrath, Boudreaux took his leave, “Summon Lilith to my office to take some dictation.”
―
“Welcome back.” John started awake as if from the midst of a terrible dream, fighting and struggling to overcome the sleep paralysis, only to find what dreams may come immobilized by the steely restraints of reality. He must be strapped to a gurney or smothered in a straightjacket.
That haunting voice with plainspoken words of greeting had summoned him from the darkness before. Boudreaux. Those hated eyes were like smoldering beacons as the rest of the room came slowly into focus.
First a gleaming, toothy smile below the black lights of his eyes, then a smartly dressed body with a book in its lap seated in a leather club chair, and finally the cold, harsh brightness of a modern surgical suite filled with the cacophony of exhausts, bleeps, and hums that sustain life.
“Don’t get up, son. No need to stand on ceremony between us. We’re family.” Boudreaux gave a droll little chuckle as he marked his place with a suspiciously fleshy bookmark, carefully closed the obviously old tome, and placed it gingerly into the valise on the floor next to his chair. As John’s head began to clear he ascertained that he was not so much restrained as bodily encased.
“Yep, old Charles did quite a job on you. Damn fine beating. Truly inspired.” Boudreaux rapped his wretched knuckles on one of the rigid, interconnected casts that held John together to heal. “Damn shame to lose him really. If it weren’t for your little lovesick Valkyrie I’d be rid of your incompetence and working with him to audition a proper candidate for the next phase instead of making due with you.” Chuckling again the baleful Boudreaux relaxed back into his seat, “But, it seems there truly is many a slip ‘twixt the cup and the lip.”
“Freya…” the nickname croaked from John’s lips as the realities of past events became clear. He could almost feel her warmth against him as he had wrung out her life.
“Who? Oh, how cute. You had a little pet name for her. No need to worry, you put that troublesome little minx down yourself. Truly, boy, I didn’t think you had it in you. But, I was moved by your final display, which is why we are patching you up to be put out to pasture instead of chopping you up for steaks. You made it, son. Bravo.” Boudreaux gestured to the hovering orderly to bring him his drink before turning back to John’s recumbent form.
“Thank you, doctor. One must stay properly medicated.” With an almost fatherly sigh Boudreaux reached out with his claw-like hand to grasp the portion of John’s palm that was not encased in
plaster. “May I give you a little advice, John? Man to man. Maybe lay off the ladies for a while. That makes two paramours you have killed, and that does not look good on a dating profile.” The claw squeezed hard as he laughed hard, leaving John wincing but immobile.
“Oh, lighten up, sport! You’re gonna get plenty where I’m sending you. Despite your repeated failures and pitiful insubordination, I feel the conformation of your genetic predispositions still adhere to our exacting ideals.”
“Which means, since you are too burnt up ugly for face work and too physically broken and diminished for wet work, the only value left in that decrepit husk of yours is in your genes, zipped up in your jeans, actually.” Boudreaux shared a strained laugh with the orderly over the silly wordplay, “We’re going to breed you, son. With the hopes your progeny will erase your disgrace. Imagine, full teams of your little whelps raised properly in my warm embrace. You will be bred to carefully selected hosts with their own beneficial genetics depending on the role desired. No silly environmental factors mucking up the mix. The mere thought of it warms my heart. The joys of the pitter patter of little feet and so on.”
A soft, soul-tortured groan slipped out of the gauze and padding where John’s mouth would be, followed by a doomed sob forcibly cut short.
“Still in a little pain, are we? Doc here says you are functionally healed for our purposes, if not showroom ready, so he’ll start cutting you out of that cocoon so we can get on the road. We have quite a journey ahead of us, you and I, and, although you have slipped the noose where I am concerned, you will still find the end of your path uncertain.” Boudreaux rose to his feet, collected his valise, and downed the last of his cocktail.
With a thoughtful sigh he continued, “Regardless of your transgressions, or perhaps because of them, I am quite fond of you, boy. And, not being an unkind man, I have directed our young doctor here to juice you up to ease the transition back from the dead. Not only will it help with the pain, but you will be comatose as your body weans off our nightly knockout gas.”