Purge of Babylon (Short Story): Mason's War

by Sam Sisavath

  Finally, the woman stepped away from the window and a moment later her light went out.

  “See?” the voice said. “Even she knows it’s none of her business. Just like it’s none of yours. Now go back to sleep. Tomorrow we can start figuring out how to exploit the town and its new leadership. Do what we do best.”

  Right. Tomorrow.

  “That’s right. Tomorrow’s another day. The first of many back to the top. You want that, don’t you?”

  Of course.

  “So forget about the girl. She’s not important.”

  She’s not Ange…

  “Not even close.”

  One step at a time…

  “One step at a time,” the voice repeated. “One step at a time…”

  Mason pushed the window down and walked back to bed, then slipped under the covers.

  She wasn’t his problem. What did she think would happen when she signed up for Mercer’s little war? When she pulled the trigger on Lyle and Rummy? Christ, she’d shot them down like dogs, and would have done the same to him if he hadn’t gotten the better of her.

  “One step at a time,” the voice said.

  One step at a time, he repeated, and closed his eyes.

  The girl wasn’t his problem. He didn’t even know her name, for God’s sake.

  With the window closed, he could barely hear her screaming.

  Barely…

  HE DIDN’T HAVE to ask anyone where Max was based—all he had to do was follow the screaming.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” the voice asked.

  I just want to see.

  “See what? There’s nothing to see. Go back to sleep.”

  I just want to see for myself.

  The voice sighed. “You’re fucking it all up, like you always do.”

  You worry too much.

  He only ran across two guards patrolling the streets, once when he was leaving the apartment and the second time about halfway to his eventual destination. The first one made small talk, but the other one only gave him a mild nod before continuing on with his patrol. The guy looked bored and half-asleep anyway.

  The building he was looking for had been a donut shop at one time. He knew that from the faded mural of two interlocking glazed donuts on the storefront windows. The front door was unlocked and Mason pushed his way in (“Go back,” the voice said. “Go back now; it’s not too late. This isn’t your business. What are you doing?”) and was startled when the bell above the door chimed.

  He immediately expected guards to rush out and tackle him, but no one did.

  “Whatever happened to keeping your head down and waiting for your opportunity?” the voice asked. “One step at a time, remember? This isn’t one of those steps you should be taking. Turn back now.”

  He ignored the voice and looked around. The interior of the shop would have been completely dark if not for the sheets of moonlight flooding through the front windows.

  Mason checked his watch.

  An hour, give or take, before sunup.

  “What does the time matter?” the voice asked. “What are you planning to do?”

  Nothing. I’m not going to do anything.

  “So why are you here?”

  He didn’t answer the voice and finished looking around. There were stacks of tables and chairs in one corner, leaving a mostly wide-open lobby. The counter in the back hadn’t been used in a long time, though for some reason its cash register was missing. The display case was empty, as were the shelves behind where a smiling cashier would have stood. A place like this would have been a family-run business, with maybe one or two extra helpers during the busy times. He had worked in plenty of places like it as a kid.

  Mason was halfway through the lobby when she screamed again. He unwittingly flinched because she’d been so quiet while he made his way here.

  It was coming from a door at the end of a back hallway, along with what might have been a second (male) voice.

  “Why are you here?” the voice asked again. “She’s not Ange. She’ll never be Ange.”

  I know that. Don’t you think I know that?

  “So why are you here?”

  He went to the hallway, passing a men and women’s bathroom, and finally reached a door marked MANAGER. He tried the doorknob and it turned easily for him, though Mason didn’t let it go all the way. Instead, he pulled his hand back.

  The voice was right. What was he doing here?

  He should be in bed sleeping away the pain in his shoulder. Then there was the nagging ache in his leg, a reminder of that run-in with the Ranger and the girl.

  “So turn around and go back to the B&B,” the voice said. “There’s nothing for you here. There’s no one for you here.”

  You’re right…

  “Of course I’m right. This girl isn’t worth it. You don’t even know her. You don’t even know her name. Do you realize that? She’s nothing to you. She’d kill you if she could. Remember?”

  I remember.

  “So turn around!” the voice screamed inside his head.

  And he did—started to turn around, when she screamed again.

  “Oh, goddammit, goddammit,” the voice groaned when Mason reached back for the doorknob and turned it all the way.

  EIGHT

  THE SMELL HIT HIM FIRST.

  It clung to the walls and floor, even the ceiling. It was old and new, decay and fresh. It was thick in the air that he breathed, like a physical thing trying to strangle him. The lack of ventilation and the closed window with the black paint over the glass only added to the misery, trapping the stink from escaping into the outside world beyond.

  The room wasn’t all that big, but there was plenty of space for a stained yellow couch (Mason only assumed it was stained, given the stench coming from its shredded upholstery) to his right, with a broken swivel chair in two pieces and a large oak desk piled haphazardly on top of it. The whole thing looked like it could topple at any second.

  There was a single ugly metal chair in the center with a body strapped to it.

  It was Freckles.

  “You don’t even know her name,” the voice said. “Do you realize that? You don’t even know her name, and you’re going to throw everything away for her.”

  I’m not doing anything of the kind.

  “Then what are you doing here?”

  I just want to see.

  “You saw; now leave.”

  Not yet…

  “You’re going to ruin it. Whatever happened to one step at a time? Remember?”

  The room was lit by a single candle on a second metal chair nearby, and was almost at the end of its wax. He couldn’t see how badly Freckles was hurt because most of her body, including her face, was hidden from him by a man’s back. He could glimpse just enough around the figure to know that her arms were bent behind the chair and her ankles were bound with duct tape. There was a faded blue plastic tarp spread out over nearly half the room, and the fabric squeaked every time the man in the apron moved.

  A silver tray sat on top of a rickety-looking metal table nearby, the candlelight glistening off a bloody scalpel. The smooth steel instrument lay next to a bundled linen rag that had clearly been put to good use throughout the night.

  Mason’s stomach, already queasy from the stench, turned at the sight.

  “What did you think was happening here?” the voice asked. “What did you think happened to all those people you sent to your very own ‘Max?’”

  He didn’t answer the voice. One of the benefits of leadership was that you could order people to do things and not have to actually be present while it was being done. He doubted if Jocelyn knew what Max did with the people she gave him; she just cared about the results.

  “Speaking of Jocelyn, what do you think she’ll do when she finds out you came here?” the voice asked. “I don’t think she’ll be very pleased.”

  So I won’t tell her.

  “You don’t think she’ll find out?”

&nbs
p; Maybe…

  The man turned around, and when he exhaled, Mason smelled a strong odor of breath mints. He had a pockmarked face and a sharp nose, and when he squinted it reminded Mason of a rat.

  “It’s almost like looking into a mirror,” the voice laughed. “Only taller.”

  Oh, shut up.

  “The truth hurts.”

  “You’re not supposed to be here,” the man said. His apron was green and lime—or it used to be. It was now mostly pink, but that wasn’t because he had painted over it. The pinkish color was blood that had splattered the fabric and marred the GIVE THE CHEF A SMOOCH letters across the front. Not all the blood was fresh.

  Mason put on his best smile. “Wanted to see how it was going. You Max?”

  “I ain’t the president,” Max said, and scribbled something on the yellow legal notepad he had in his hands. “You wanted to get a look?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Then get a look.”

  “Thanks,” Mason said, and stepped around the taller man, and wished he hadn’t.

  Freckles was still alive, of course; all the screaming she had done before he arrived, and the sobbing he had heard once he entered the room, already told him that. But Mason didn’t know how she was still among the living because she looked pretty bad.

  “Pretty bad?” the voice said. “That’s an understatement. I bet she wishes she hadn’t tried to kill us now.”

  There were multiple small inch-long cuts, each one almost exactly an inch-long from what he could tell, on both her cheeks and forehead. Blood trickled from the wounds, though not nearly as much as there should have been. The rag, of course. Max had been cleaning up Freckles throughout, the better to expose more of her flesh to work on while keeping her from bleeding to death.

  The interrogator had also taken Freckles’s shirt off in order to make identical incisions along her shoulder blades before working his way down to her small breasts. That shirt, along with a sports bra, lay crumpled next to the chair, both stained with blood. Max hadn’t bothered to remove her pants. Or he hadn’t gotten to it yet, anyway.

  “Just remember she brought this on herself,” the voice said. “You’re not responsible for this. She isn’t your problem. She never was.”

  “She’s a pretty tough cookie,” Max was saying behind him. “I had to start off slow, make sure she didn’t bleed out with each cut. Make it as painful as possible while keeping her conscious. That’s the real trick. Anyone can just slice and dice, but it takes real skill to keep them around for as long as possible.”

  Freckles’s head was drooped forward, her chin resting against her chest when he entered, and she lifted it now. Her eyes were swollen from crying as she peered through heavy lids back at him.

  “It’s time to go,” the voice said. “You’ve seen her. Now it’s time to go.”

  But for whatever reason, Mason didn’t turn to go.

  “Goddammit.”

  Freckles blinked against the candlelight at him, like she couldn’t quite decipher his face. When she finally recognized him, he couldn’t tell if that was hope or fear that flickered across her eyes. He was only certain of one thing: the fire of defiance was completely gone now.

  “She’s going to die here, and there’s nothing you can do about it,” the voice said. “How many people have you sentenced to the same fate? This isn’t the time to start developing a conscience.”

  Isn’t that what you are?

  The voice laughed. “Don’t fool yourself. You don’t have one. You never did.”

  “She knows you,” Max was saying behind him. “Or she recognizes you. You the one who brought her in?”

  “Yeah,” Mason nodded.

  “Heard she almost killed you. Got your partners.”

  “You heard right.”

  “She’s a little thing, isn’t she? Are they all like her? Kids?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Mercer’s people.”

  “Not the ones I’ve seen. She’s an exception.” He glanced back at the notepad in Max’s hands, but it was impossible to read the man’s cursive scribbles. He seemed to have filled up more than a few pages, though. “What did she tell you?”

  “Everything she knows,” Max said. “Unfortunately, that’s not much. Looks like Mercer just dumped a bunch of teams across the state and let them go to work. She couldn’t tell me where any of the other units are, how many there are, or really anything actionable.”

  “You believe her?”

  Max smirked. “Look at her. She doesn’t have the heart to lie. Not anymore.”

  Mason did look back at her and couldn’t take his eyes away.

  Freckles watched him back from behind her swollen eyes. Tears stained her face, mixing with the tiny trickles of blood oozing out of the incisions across her cheeks. There were two on each side, and they almost looked like tattoos.

  “Yeah, bleeding tattoos,” the voice chuckled.

  That’s not funny.

  “Isn’t it?”

  The kid was breathing hard, as if she was having difficulty getting air into her lungs. Her body was completely slack against the chair, and it was only because of her bound arms and legs that she hadn’t fallen off it yet.

  “You couldn’t sleep?” Max was asking.

  Mason shook his head. “Hard to sleep with all the screaming.”

  “I guess she was making a lot of noise. I probably should find some insulation for the walls. Sorry about that.”

  “Hey, you gotta do what you gotta do.”

  “She’s about done for, though,” Max said, nodding at Freckles. “I don’t think I’m going to get any more out of her.” He flipped the notepad closed and stuffed it into his apron pocket. “At least, nothing that’s going to be worth very much to us.”

  “You always do your, uh, work at night?”

  “Nah. I wasn’t going to start on her until tomorrow, but all the commotion earlier woke me up. I decided to make use of the opportunity. Jocelyn doesn’t like it when the civilians know what I’m doing—apparently it’s bad for morale, or some nonsense—but she’s not here, is she?”

  “No, she’s not.” Then, “You said you were done with her?”

  “Pretty much. Why?”

  “What’s going to happen to her now?”

  Max shrugged. “You’ll have to ask Jocelyn. She’s the boss.”

  “What does Jocelyn usually do with them after you’re done?”

  “We get rid of them.”

  “Rid of them how?”

  Max gave him a curious look. “What’s your name again?”

  “Mason.”

  “You’re new here, right?”

  “Just got in earlier this week.”

  “Right. Sorry, buddy, but you’re going to have to wait until Jocelyn comes back. I just work here.”

  “Come on, you can tell me.” He smiled his best just two of the guys smile. “I told you, I’m the one who brought her in.”

  “Yeah, good job on that, but still doesn’t change anything.”

  “Nothing?”

  “Nope.”

  “Well, shit.”

  “I can tell you one thing, though: You’re not going to have to worry about her sneaking into your room and cutting your balls off.”

  Mason grinned. “Is that a promise?”

  “You can take it to the bank.”

  “Good to hear. After what she did to Lyle and Rummy…”

  “Sniped them, did she?”

  “Uh huh.”

  “She told me all about her training on this place called Black Tide. Supposed to be an island.”

  “An island?”

  “That’s what she said.”

  “Did she tell you where it was?”

  Max shook his head. “She doesn’t know. She’s just a foot soldier when you get right down to it. She wouldn’t know something like nautical coordinates, things like that.” He picked up the bloody rag and wiped down his wet hands. “Anything else on your mind?�
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  “Nice apron, by the way.”

  “Thanks, I found it in Dal—”

  Before he could finish, Mason sank the knife into Max’s gut (“Oh, goddamn you, goddamn you,” the voice said). Then, as the taller man dropped the cloth and reached reflexively down to the point of entry, Mason jerked all five inches of the blade upward while slapping his free hand over Max’s mouth.

  He held tightly onto the knife’s rubber grip, very aware of Max’s bigger size (but then, who wasn’t bigger than him in this place other than the kids and Freckles?), even as they stumbled around for a bit before finally collapsing to the floor. Mason made sure he was on top of Max when he twisted the knife, warm liquid gushing over his tensed knuckles.

  Max attempted to scream, but his voice was lost against Mason’s palm. When that didn’t work, the interrogator kicked out with his legs, but it did no good. Mason held on with a viselike grip. It wasn’t the first time he’d had to take someone down at extremely close range, and he had a feeling it wasn’t going to be the last. They were always bigger and taller and stronger, but in the end, he always came out on top.

  “Relax,” Mason said, looking down at Max’s wide eyes. “Just let go. Let go…”

  It took a few more seconds, but Max finally did just that, and closed his eyes.

  Mason checked the man’s pulse, and only when he was certain Max wasn’t going to get up did he pull the knife out and stagger back to his feet.

  “Why did you do that?” a voice asked from behind him.

  He turned around, wiping the bloody blade on his pants.

  Freckles was staring at him. “Why did you do that?” she asked again.

  “The girl’s asking you a good question,” the voice said. “Why the hell did you do that?”

  NINE

  HE COULD FEEL her eyes on him as he hurried to the door, opened it, and peeked out into the hallway. It was still dark, but it wouldn’t be for very long. He had less than an hour before morning sunlight exposed what he had done.

  “So what now, smart guy?” the voice asked.

  I have no fucking idea.

  “Maybe you should have thought of one before you did what you did.”