by Line, Al K.
So he ran.
~~~
Edsel was lost. He didn't know this part of the city so well — away from the commercial center and heading out into the suburbs. Row after row of houses, mostly now unoccupied or home to those slowly fading to nothing or hiding from the madness, waiting for everything to be alright again, trying not to admit to themselves what they knew to be true: it never would be.
He was free of his pursuers though, yet again. Spurred on by the water and the loaded drink he'd found himself running hard, setting a good pace. Maybe it was the new clothes — the looser fit meant he wasn't getting such bad chafing, although it still felt like every nerve was stripped bare. Or the boots, they were a good fit, sturdy yet comfortable. He wondered about the person that had worn the old Converse he'd taken not long after his escape.
Stupid. To be thinking about such things when his world just came crashing down around him, but what was the alternative?
To think of Kathy?
I will have my revenge, and I'm sorry Kathy, sorry I couldn't be there for you, sorry that I can't, won't, do what you would have wanted me to.
Landmarks began to become familiar; he must have skirted around a different way, but he had been heading in a certain direction there was no doubt about it. It may not have been a conscious decision but he was heading right back to where it had all started, back to where he had been held captive and given The Ink.
He was running right back into the arms of The Church Of The Eventuals.
This time it would be different though, this time it would be him that was the hunter.
A crunch underfoot caused Edsel to look down and stop. A large apple tree, left unpruned for years, had spilled over the top of a fence and its unripe fruit was hanging low. A few apples had dropped to the ground. He jumped up and grabbed one, pain searing up his legs as he landed.
Biting into the sour flesh was like being in the dentist's chair, the assistant using one of those suction tubes to remove the moisture from your mouth.
He spat out the tough, bitter fruit.
Useless. Move.
Where was he going though? He couldn't just run full steam right back into their lair; they'd be on him and it would be over in a second. He needed to formulate a real plan, come up with something that had some kind of a chance of success, not just run blindly at them and hope he would come out a winner — he wouldn't.
Night was drawing in, the late summer evening finally admitting defeat and moving over to make way for the nocturnal creatures that now made the city their home in ever-increasing numbers.
The dogs.
It wasn't safe to be out at night, not any more. The day held risk enough, and the dogs were a real danger during daylight hours, but at night? That was when they really came out to hunt.
With little in the way of food readily available, the now wild animals came out mostly after dark to hunt and feast on other creatures of the night. The howls and screams of cats, dogs, foxes, even the occasional boar and deer, all rose to a crescendo during the dark hours, never giving you a minutes peace, a chance to enjoy the silence of an almost human-free city.
There were no more sirens blaring, no cars speeding through the streets, no fumes, no fire engines, police cars or ambulances any longer, all that was left were the animals, and him.
Time to rest. Sleep, recover. But where?
His feet pounded the street, a never ending nightmare of pain with each footfall. On and on and on, a punishment for crimes not even committed, yet paying a horrendous price. Again, again and again and again, body aching, mind dulled, nerves on fire, chest tight and lungs ready to explode — Edsel knew he was going to simply collapse in the street at any second.
There was nothing for it — Edsel picked a house at random and hoped he would strike gold.
COMPANY
Edsel jogged quickly but quietly to the side of the semi-detached house, a Victorian two-story, all red brick and bay windows. There was a gate at the side, which was good, but it was just on a latch, no lock — not so good. He reached over and lifted the latch before creeping around the back, keeping low just in case. He moved as silently and as cautiously as he possibly could, even though it was using up time he knew was very precious.
Still, it had to be done.
He'd had a few close encounters with people over the years — mostly not friendly ones. The worse things got, the more it brought out the worst in a lot of people. In the end he'd given up trying to seek out like-minded people — those that would group together and help you out, watch your back if you watched theirs. For a while he'd stayed with a group of strangers, but it was already falling apart before he joined them.
There were two women and seven men, and the minute he stepped into the room after getting an invitation by one of the men he knew it was a bad idea. He could literally feel the tension in the air, and although they all had the best of intentions it simply wasn't a good mix of people — there would be major problems, he had no doubt about it. Within a few weeks he left. Fights broke out on a regular basis as one of the women constantly flirted to get her own way; the other obviously resented it. Some of the men were all for it, others less than happy with the situation, and the inevitable quarrel broke out that led to a full scale fight. Once the noses started breaking Edsel knew it was time to leave.
Other encounters over the years had been downright hostile, and it wasn't until he met Kathy that he finally felt like there was still good in the world. Ever since the first day that they met they were inseparable. Something just clicked, and he knew she was as happy as he was. Company, the warmth of each other through the long dark nights, and a reminder that not everything in the world was bad.
All gone now.
Edsel's body was screaming again as he crept around to the back of the house. He wondered when the scabbing over of the tattoos would reach its peak. Although pain was still blinding in its intensity, it was beginning to itch more and more now as the skin tightened and scabs really began to form in earnest.
As they had been giving him The Ink the two tattooists, each beginning on one foot each, had gone through in morbid detail exactly what he could expect from his new markings.
It had sounded worse than the actual pain of having every part of your body covered in Ink — until it started. There was simply no describing the pain involved with having the areas between your toes injected with Ink by a needle. Then they did the soles of his feet and he blacked out. When he came-to they were still working on his feet. He was made to watch, his head strapped to the table, eyes held open with some kind of clamps. Every so often they would put drops in just so they didn't dry out — most considerate.
Then they started on the ankles; he blacked out again. The skin covered bone was by far the worst, until they got up to his groin and peeled back his foreskin and even tattooed the inside. It was explained that every single piece of flesh that could be seen in any way would be red — this was how they gave themselves to the religion completely. He would thank them for it, they had told him, they were doing him a favor.
Some bloody favor.
His ordeal tormented him, and he knew it would for as long as he lived. Some things were best forgotten but they were always the things that stayed with you forever. Not that he could ever get rid of the memory of what had been done to him however hard he tried — it was there, every time he looked at his body. The only question was how long he'd actually have left to live.
At some point, after countless hours so filled with pain he didn't know if it had been half a day or half a lifetime, they flipped him over and he had to watch them start at his lower legs again before moving on up to his backside. A thousand needles penetrating the skin around your anus is not something you ever want to contemplate happening, but it did, and they just kept on going — like two sadistic butchers teasing their meat before they finally put it out of its misery.
Through it all was a constant monologue of what would happen to him. Either the tatto
oists would regale him with morbid tales, or on occasion Bishop would come in to check on progress and give even more detail about what he could expect over the next few days and weeks.
They would keep him tied down — for his own safety, he was assured. The last thing you wanted to do was to disturb the scabs that would form. First there would be a milky substance extruded by his body, a sort of coating called lymph that was the body's first defense. They would apply a special ointment to keep his skin hydrated as this would lessen the scabbing. It was important that The Ink was respected, never allowed to dry out, and under no circumstance was he to be allowed clothes. The material would rub on the scabs that formed by the second day, and if the scabs were ripped off then The Ink would not take as well, meaning the color would be less than perfect. It would be patchy, and that was a mockery of the gift bestowed on him.
He was to remain still, no movement; the skin must heal sufficiently first. The skin was to be hydrated but not too wet, as that way The Ink wouldn't penetrate deep beneath. Sweat would ruin The Ink. Sweat would stop it from sinking through to the lower layers that made sure it was permanent, and even moving around much could cause the scabs to split and his Ink to be ruined.
So he would remain isolated, strapped down, maybe allowed up only if he showed that he understood the great gift bestowed on him, and proved that he respected The Ink and how it must be cared for if it was to be absolutely perfect. It made no sense — who cared if all you wanted was an end to humanity's existence anyway?
Oh, and by the way, don't forget about The Fire.
With the pain and fear mounting, he didn't even bother to ask — he was already so far gone in pain that he didn't think it could get any worse. After a long silence Bishop told him that within The Ink was a special additive, one that would open up his nerves in a way otherwise impossible. As his beautiful gift — their words, definitely not his — worked its way deeper and deeper in, and the accumulative effects of so much tattooing began to build, then so too would the pain. It would build and build to a crescendo over a number of days, finally reaching a peak right around the time that the majority of the scabs formed. Then it would recede as the scabs gradually healed over and dropped off of their own accord.
That would be right about now then.
Edsel wanted to scream, scream louder than he had ever screamed before. His whole body itched like he couldn't believe. He wanted to just take off his clothes and rip off his skin. Better to be flayed alive than this.
He had to get his clothes off soon — the material felt like the fibers were made of barbed wire, the slightest movement sent shockwave after shockwave of pain shooting through nerve endings, hitting his brain while lights flashed before his eyes as his senses threatened to shut down and give him peace.
Not yet, not yet, I need to get inside. Get safe, figure out what to do, how to get them back.
But what could be a suitable punishment for the things they had done to him? He wasn't that kind of a man. He didn't spend his time plotting tortures for other human beings. Death, just death. That would have to do. Give them what they want though? Was that right? Their whole faith was based on bringing about the true end to humanity, searching out Whole people and either turning them or eliminating them.
Edsel shook his head to get some clarity. The pain was building and he knew he would lose it soon. He had to at least get inside and sit down before it happened. He slapped hard at his shaved head, just to touch something that hadn't been violated by their damn Ink.
The back door was unlocked so he walked in, moving carefully past a broom and a mop leaning to the side of the door. He went quietly through the kitchen that actually looked like it might have a few things worth taking, maybe even food. Could he dare hope for that much? He held on to the back of one of two chairs next to a small table, getting his balance, then walked down a hallway and into a living room. The house smelled nice; clean, and had obviously been well looked after. Such things made the stark reality of life outside so much harder to bear. Better that there was nothing nice left any longer, maybe that would make his ordeal easier to cope with?
Taking his backpack off carefully, then slumping gratefully into a soft chair with patterned scatter cushions, Edsel sighed in relief at what must be the most comfortable piece of furniture in existence. He leaned his head back and just as he blacked out a head rose from behind the large sofa and a pair of wide eyes stared at him, full of fear — it was probably the saddest thing he had ever seen.
It was too late, he was past caring. Edsel lost consciousness and fell into a black pit of emptiness where the pain was taken away — just for a while.
EGG
It was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen in his life, and the best was yet to come — it tasted out of this world.
Oh my god. I'm in heaven.
A fried egg! He savored every mouthful, the runny yolk like liquid gold. Once it was finished he ran a red finger around the plate, sure to get every last little morsel of the golden goodness, sucking his finger even though it hurt. He didn't care.
"Thank you, thank you so much. That was divine."
"That's alright, sorry it was only one. Daddy said that I should only ever eat one at a time, just in case Martha gets into trouble."
"Martha?" asked Edsel. "Ugh, argh."
"Are you alright? Do you want me to do something?" The boy began to stand, although obviously unsure exactly why or what he was actually going to do.
"No, its okay, I just hurt is all. Everywhere." Edsel shifted in the chair at the table, pain reaching new heights even though he tried, unsuccessfully, not to show it. He didn't want to scare the child. A young boy, he couldn't be more than twelve if that. "Now, who's Martha?"
"The chicken of course. My dad said that she might not lay every day so I should only ever eat one egg at a time, and no more than four a week; just in case. That way I would at least have something to eat for a few days if she didn't lay or she died or something." The boy shrugged his shoulders, like it had been going on so long it was just the way things were. Normal.
"And Daddy? I thought you said you lived alone here."
There was a silence, the boy's head bowed.
"Sorry, I didn't mean to say anything wrong." It was obvious that the boy's father wasn't around, what was wrong with him? He needed to think straight, this was a definite complication to things.
"It's okay, I just try not to think about it any more. It's just me and Martha now, and she isn't much company."
"Is she out in the garden? I didn't see a coop?"
"Oh no, Daddy always said she was too valuable for that. As soon as he found her we kept her inside. She's upstairs."
"Oh, right." It didn't really come as a surprise. He'd heard of people keeping all sorts of animals, including pigs, in their homes. It was different in the cities to out in the country — everything was up for grabs as food was so scarce. He always wondered why he didn't leave and go to the countryside as soon as things turned sour, god knew the stench of the city should have been enough. Get away from so many reminders of what life once was, but the pull of home was always so strong. It was all he knew, all he had ever known. It would have to change though, he knew that. If he survived.
Kathy would have loved the countryside. She'd never seen it, but even in the city they'd taken walks now and then in the night when the moon gave enough light to see and they felt the risk was worth the reward. She'd loved the open spaces so much.
"Mister? Mister, are you okay?"
"Eh? Oh, sorry, just thinking."
"You looked sad. Did somebody die?"
"Yeah, you could say that. But anyway, thanks for the egg, for looking after me last night. I'm sorry to just barge in, it must have been very scary." Edsel couldn't imagine the sight he must be for a young boy all alone with just a chicken for company. A chicken!
The young boy shifted about uncomfortably, clearing away Edsel's plate and his own — both so clean they didn't even look lik
e they needed washing. "It was scary. I haven't seen anyone in so long, not since my dad. But you just sat down and fell asleep in the chair. And, um..."
"What? It's okay, you can tell me. And I'm Edsel by the way, what's your name?"
"I'm Aiden."
"Haha, that's kind of apt at the moment, it means fiery." Aiden looked at him in confusion. "Never mind, ah, shit. Oops, sorry, excuse the language."
"Is it your hands? What's wrong with them? Did you burn them? Were you in a fire?"
Edsel looked at his hands, the only bit of his body that Aiden could see that was tattooed. "It was The Eventuals. You know about them? Know about what they call The Ink?"
"Those are the bad red men, right?" Aiden brightened at having such knowledge.
"Yeah, that's them. Well, they captured me and I managed to escape, but they are after me—"
What is wrong with you? Eating an egg, sat here like you don't have a care in the world? Idiot!
"Damn, how long have I been here? How long did I sleep?" He couldn't believe he'd not left the minute he'd woken up. Everything had been such a shock, seeing the young boy there, the eggs cooking, the boy obviously scared but trusting in a man that had walked into his house and fallen asleep.
Aiden looked at his watch. "It's six thirty in the morning, why?"
"I have to go, I can't stay here. They'll be after me. I'm amazed they haven't found me already. It's not safe with me here."
"Can I come?" asked Aiden, face lighting up, like Edsel had the answers to his current lonely life.
"Look Aiden, men are after me, horrible men, bad men. If they catch me, or you, then it's curtains, you understand? I'm sorry, it's too dangerous."
"Oh. It's so lonely though, I'm all alone. And I'm hungry and scared and it's just me and Martha."