by Wearmouth
“Is that all he said?”
He held his hands toward Gregor as if they were in invisible cuffs. “Would I lie to you, old friend? The things we’ve been through to get here. Seriously?”
Gregor grunted. “If I didn’t need you, Igor … Lead the way back to the bikes. I’ll take your revolver.”
“Have it your way,” he said and started walking away.
Marek picked up his revolver and handed it to Gregor. He whispered, “Are you just going to let him go? He’s up to something. I know it.”
“We need him for the moment with the new targets. I can’t afford to be a man down on the farm.”
“You’re the boss. But don’t say I didn’t warn you,” Marek said.
Gregor smiled and patted his shoulder. “Trust me; he won’t live to see next winter. Until then, he can work with the livestock and meat-processing.”
Igor turned and waited by forest edge. Gregor longed for the good old days when things were less complicated.
Chapter Twenty
Ben cursed the others and then the aliens and then the whole damned world. A twig snapped against his face as he passed through the dense forest. He pressed his fingers against his cheek and felt the dampness of a stinging cut.
Every sound had him on edge. He held the alien pistol in front of him, aiming at any movement or hint of shadow. The compass kept him on track, and occasionally, he’d come to old trails, buildings, and even some automobiles.
There were a number of them, rusted hulks, their windows and doors sans glass and consumed by weeds and vines and other creeping, green foliage. One thing that struck him was just how quiet it was walking out here on his own. Very few birds or other animals. Certainly, nothing that screeched like the animal that had kept him awake all night.
Tiredness mired his progress and weighed down his legs. The pistol felt heavy in his arms, and the backpack filled with supplies was like an anchor, its hard edge wearing a sore groove into his lower back.
Fuck this, he thought, slumping down on a log. Hefting the pack off, he rubbed his back and looked out ahead of him. There was a clearing maybe only thirty feet away. A few streams of golden light cut through the green gloom, highlighting the dust particles and small, buzzing insects as they looked for their next meal.
Splitting the light every few minutes, the solid shadows of the shuttles descended from the mother ship, whose shadow bled through the dark clouds above. He realized he wasn’t very far off at that point. The weird, pink lights of the shuttles bathed the tops of the trees and then disappeared beyond the cover.
The sound of a voice came to him then. Different accent to the others. Harsher. Foreign for this land. Not wanting to be caught flat-footed and in the open, Ben slipped behind the trunk, pulling the pack with him.
The voices died off, but he could still hear the snapping of twigs getting louder, closer. Perhaps a single person given the regularity of the noise. The trunk made a good rest for the pistol. Ben braced his shoulder against the tree as he looked down the grooved channel that made up the sights.
Dull black, heavy, but accurate and deadly, Ben remembered how lethal the pistol was in Denver’s hands. There’s no way Ben’s aim would be that good, but he knew if this threat came close enough, he’d have more than a good chance of hitting it.
His pulse quickened; his breath became shallow.
Twigs continued to snap, getting closer to the edge of the clearing that Ben focused on through a pair of tree trunks. He could see right across the clearing to where the tree line started again.
A figure stepped out.
Ben, although expecting it, still found it startling in his heightened state and pulled the trigger too quickly, sending his shot firing high above the figure’s head. The person ducked and rolled. At the end of the roll, the person rose to a knee and held out a gun, sighting across the tree line, tracing where the shot had come from.
What is he doing? Ben thought as the figure seemed to sniff the air and then smile before rising to his feet.
“It’s just me, Igor. That you out there, our little croatoan friends? Firing on your allies now? I’m not sure Augustus would be so happy with that.”
The man spun around, his weapon by his side. “Come on then, show yourself. I’ll get you back to the farm.”
The farm! Igor … Ben pulled his pistol away and took his finger off the trigger. He remembered Denver and Charlie talking about an Igor, along with a Marek, Alex, and of course Gregor. All the people who worked on the farm.
Grabbing his pack, Ben vaulted the trunk and ran out to the tree line, making sure he kept the pistol in hand but pointing down to the ground. He didn’t want to accidentally threaten Igor and get shot himself for the effort.
Excitement and relief built within him as he rushed forward into the clearing, holding his free hand up. “Igor? Please, can you help me?” He didn’t really know how else to start.
Igor, with his shaved head, droopy moustache, and deep scowl, aimed his pistol with both arms out in front of him. “Stop where you are and drop that damned weapon,” he said. “Who the fuck are you? And more importantly, what the hell are you doing shooting at me?”
Making a wet thudding noise, the alien pistol struck the loamy soil as Ben did as he was told. He held both arms up, having seen people do it in Western films. “I’m Ben. I’m from the ship … vI mean harvester. I escaped from Charlie. I was trying to find my way back.”
“Oh really?” Igor said, cocking his head to one side. He looked over Ben, watching the edge of the forest, probably suspecting some kind of trap. “And is he chasing you?”
Ben shook his head. “No, I slipped away in the night. No one knows I’m here. He killed the rest of my crew shortly after he damaged the harvester. Please, you’ve got to help me. I can’t stay out here.”
“Why’d you fire on me?” Igor asked, stalking closer, his pistol solid and unwavering, the barrel pointing right at Ben’s head.
“I was just scared. I thought Charlie and his psycho son were stalking me. I panicked. I’m not used to it out here. I’ve only ever known my ship, my cabin, but all that’s gone now, and my crew …” Ben dropped his head to really sell the ruse. Although not exactly experienced in body language, he gathered this Igor wasn’t the prize wrench in the toolbox.
“Stand up,” Igor said, “and turn around.”
For a moment, Ben hesitated, thinking he was going to be executed. But Igor’s bark made him jump and follow the orders. Then the man’s hands were on his arms, pulling them behind his back. Something plastic locked his wrists in place. Igor’s breath was on his neck as he threatened him.
“You’re coming back to the farm with me, Ben, but if you so much as move or breathe out of place, I’ll put you down like a pig and feed you to the cattle. You understand?”
Ben nodded furiously, wondering what the hell he had got himself into, and if Denver and Charlie had set him up and all the nonsense about the plan was just a way of getting rid of him, to get him killed by these other people.
Not that he could do anything about it now. He thought of showing Igor the bead that he kept in his shirt pocket beneath his zipped jacket but didn’t want to waste his best gambit. He decided to wait until he met this Gregor character.
Still, while Igor placed the alien pistol into the pack and hauled the latter onto his back, Ben said, “I’ve got information about Charlie and Denver. I know things; I can trade.”
Igor kicked him in the lower back, forcing him toward the edge of the clearing. They were moving back from where Igor had come. “I don’t doubt that, son, but you’re mistaking me for someone more generous if you think I’m going to trade anything with you. I’ll get that information in my own special way; don’t you worry about that. Now get moving, and don’t make as much as a squeak unless I tell you; ot
herwise, I’ll put a bullet in your head. Is that clear enough for you?”
Ben was about to speak but chose not to. Instead, he nodded.
“Good, little pig. Good.”
***
Ben stifled a scream as the gaffer tape, as Igor called it, was ripped suddenly away from his mouth, the adhesive tearing away small patches of skin on his lips and cheeks. His eyes filled with tears. Igor placed his clammy hand over Ben’s face. Leaning in, he whispered, “Make a noise, little pig, and you’ll join those.”
The former gangster pointed to a rack of meat hooks upon which hung half a dozen men and women, their hands and feet pointing downwards, their chins resting on their chests, the hook embedded deep into their backs.
Below them, flowing in a channel to somewhere further off in the slaughterhouse, was a tiny river of blood. It dripped from a series of cuts among the people’s bodies, now stained dark brown with dried blood, forming external arteries like dried rivers.
The smell made Ben gag: a heady mix of coppery blood and lung-scorching bleach. Every breath brought with it a stinging sensation, making his guts turn. He fought to keep the bile down as it rose into his throat.
Igor backed away. Beneath the bright white glare of the overhead strip-light, a piece of dark leather material wrapped around Igor’s waist, presumably for protection, shone glossily. Red stains covered the white, ankle-length jacket he wore beneath.
Trying to move, Ben realized his wrists and ankles were shackled to the legs of a steel chair bolted to the floor. A steel desk stood in front of him. Pieces of meat that were once limbs filled a series of containers.
A yellow glow surrounded the edge of a door beyond the hanging bodies.
“No-no,” Igor said, standing in front of him, blocking his view. “There’s no way out unless I say there is. Now, let’s get this party started, shall we? I’m on a schedule.”
Before Ben could say anything, Igor placed his left hand over Ben’s mouth, and with his right brought out a small blade from a front pocket. The blade glinted beneath the strip-light as Igor brought it close to Ben’s face. His eyes hurt as they tried to focus close up, but the image just blurred as he screamed and thrashed against the chair.
Aggravating the wound on his face caused by a twig, Igor’s blade dug deeper into the flesh, widening the wound. The blade scraped across his cheekbone, making him yell out, but Igor’s hand was too tightly clasped over his mouth for it to escape the slaughterhouse and raise an alarm.
Ben sobbed with the agony as Igor cut him three times more on the cheek and once across his forehead. The blood dripped down into his eyes, making him blink as the world became dark and blurred.
“Now we’ve got the introduction out of the way,” Igor said, “I trust you’ll do as I suggest. Nod if you understand me.”
Of course Ben nodded, unable to do anything else as his face felt alive with pain, burning and unyielding.
Through his darkened vision, he saw Igor’s face come closer. He wore a sick smile. Ben realized then that he’d done this kind of work many times before. Just what the hell had Denver and Charlie got him into?
“First of all, tell me everything. If you lie, I will know, and I will continue to cut you. No one knows you’re here. I have the only key to this facility. We could be here for days if need be. I’m sure you understand that the truth is the only way out of this for you now?”
“Anything,” Ben said, spitting the blood from his lips. “I’ll tell you anything.”
“That’s good, Ben, you’re learning. I like that. Okay, let’s start from the beginning. If you leave anything out, or if you lie, I will start with your eyes and work my way down to your testicles. Trust me, there’s no easy to way to do this. It will hurt. A great deal. And what really gets people is that they sometimes think I’m bluffing. They don’t think that for very long.”
With the threat of the blade just inches from his face, Ben answered every question Igor gave him. On it went for what seemed like hours until finally, his voice hoarse and his will truly shattered, Igor left for a smoke.
He returned two minutes later with a small, silver tray containing a needle and thread and a clear bottle of orange liquid.
“You did well, Ben,” Igor said, setting the tray on the table. “Let’s get you fixed up, and then we’ll introduce you to Gregor. You will remember what to say when he questions you, won’t you? I won’t have to visit you in the night and continue where I left off, will I?”
“No,” Ben said firmly. The pain had started to dissipate. The first injection of root compound acted quickly. Any desire to sob and beg had long gone. His will had been broken; his fear had run out. All he felt now was a savage desire to end Igor’s life and that of anyone else who would use him.
Throughout the hours of pain and threats, Ben came to realize the futility of it all. Life to these people meant nothing. It was bad enough what the croatoans were doing to the people, but so far, he’d learned that humans were far worse to their own kind.
He eyeballed Igor as the torturer wiped Ben’s face clean and stitched the wounds. Just a few hours ago, those skilled fingers had brought pain, but now, they sutured his wounds with delicate skill.
That Igor wanted Ben to lie to Gregor told him more than he had told Igor. Despite the pain, he hadn’t given up his friends. For all Igor would ever know, Maria and Ethan were dead, and Charlie and Denver had disappeared into the forest, leaving him behind. Ben would continue with the plan, give Gregor the bead and the location of the decoy shelter, and make sure he dealt with Igor before the bastard had a chance to act on his threat.
There was a clear division on the farm between Igor and Gregor. Ben thought about it as Igor continued treating his wounds. It seemed that Igor wasn’t happy with his status and planned some kind of coup against Gregor.
This gave Ben something to work with. An angle he could exploit. Although Igor was highly skilled in pain, he wasn’t very smart when it came to language and intent. His motivations became obvious during the interrogation. He hadn’t even realized he had shown his hand early.
Even on the ship, Ben was the best poker player, figuring out the other crew members’ plays before they did themselves.
“There,” Igor said, “that’s the last of them. You’ll tell Gregor that Charlie did these. You will tell him about a decoy shelter to get him out of the way and play along, and tomorrow, I’ll go visit the real one. Have Gregor take you at dawn. And if the weapons you promised aren’t there … Well,” Igor turned and indicated with a sweeping gesture his future fate among the meat hooks.
“Don’t worry,” Ben said. “I understand clearly. You will get everything you deserve. Now, shall we go see Gregor? I’m eager to get this over with.”
“Good little pig,” Igor said, smiling, showing his yellow, decaying teeth.
Yes, Ben thought, you will get everything you deserve.
Chapter Twenty-One
Charlie pulled back the camouflaged tarp, revealing a rusted Ford F-150. The once-red paintwork had given way to a colonization of orange rust. Among the conquering march of time and decay, small islands of defiant paint remained.
Leaves and twigs covered the hood, clinging to the surface.
Charlie swept them off and cleared the debris from the cracked windshield.
The noon sun streaked through the surrounding trees and gleamed off the glass, the cracks refracting a rainbow of light in thin slivers.
A solid metal lockbox took up a quarter of the rear bed. It contained a few days’ supplies, water, ammo, a pair of shotguns, and an old Army tent.
Pip jumped up into the extended cab as soon as Denver opened the passenger door, curling up on an old grey blanket between the two front seats.
Ethan stood by the river’s edge with his mouth open as he stared on. They’d hidden
the truck in a tight copse of trees and shrubs the week before as they scouted the harvester’s route.
Charlie waved him and Maria forward from their temporary camp.
“Does it run?” Ethan said, running his hand along the fender as though it were an ancient relic. To Ethan, it probably is, Charlie thought. He’d have only seen them on whatever brainwashing videos the aliens had given to them to watch.
“Yeah,” Charlie said. “Of course it runs.”
“How did you keep it working all through the invasion and the ice age?” Maria asked as she joined them.
“My old Army friend was a mechanical genius,” Charlie said. “Between him and a colleague of mine, we sourced spare parts and kept it running. With so many people dead and so many vehicles abandoned, it’s not difficult to source fuel and parts. Back in New York, there’s a number of Ford dealers and warehouses that we got replacement parts from.”
“So where are we going?” Maria said as Denver loaded up more supplies and the weapons taken from the croatoans.
“Going to take a trip to the East Coast. The Big Apple. Come on, get in; we need to set off if we’re to get there in good time. It’s going to be a long journey. The roads aren’t exactly easy these days,” Charlie said. He held the rear passenger door open and waited for Ethan and Maria to settle in.
Denver jumped into the front passenger seat.
Once inside, Charlie turned the key, and after a few splutters, the old diesel power plant roared to life, belching out a little black smoke before purring like a wild cat. He put it into drive and slowly pulled away from the hiding place, keeping the wheels on the harder parts of the forest floor.
From their shelter in Mohan Run, a small clearing within the forest, Charlie drove the truck out through the trees, only once scraping against a branch, and joined the hard surface of Interstate 219. The plan was to head south to I-80, which would take them all the way into New York.