This Strange Hell

by C. J. Sutton

  Gabe exited the car and opened the door. The driver wore no emotion, a face that did not move with care and wind. Deep lines were etched into his bronze skin as though scarred by talons of a great bird. Mason offered a hand, but the burned man shook his head. He would not show weakness here, despite the searing heat in his arms and on his chest. Eyes were always on him.

  The burned man lifted and entered the warehouse, flanked by the larger Mason and the older Gabe. A group of thirty males and females in their early twenties, some younger, huddled in front of the countless clothing pallets. The burned man assessed his workers.

  The decision had been to recruit straight out of high school. Bring in these eager minds, no matter the sex or background, and provide the opportunity to make money. They needed to be hungry for coin, blessed with street smarts and not intelligent enough to plan a claim to the kingdom should they become confident with his contacts and business. They needed to have a squeaky-clean record. Lure them with opportunity. Inject them with a dose of fear and loyalty early, and the city was a hole waiting to be plugged. Smart enough to perform, but not wise enough to rise out of his bosom.

  Ren, a twenty-three-year-old female who had been with the burned man’s business for three years, stepped out of the huddle and spoke to her boss.

  “We’ve got it covered, boss. Shipments have been coming in on schedule, not a single container has been intercepted and not a single hiccup with the pigs. I—”

  The burned man held his hand in the air, covered in a white bandage, halting the report from Ren. He gazed at her, black hair to her rear but shaved on either side. Was she capable of running this warehouse and all that was attached to its existence?

  “Thank you, Ren. I trust you have all continued business as usual, and I know there would be no need to check the reserves or the profits. We have a bigger issue right now.”

  “Brady Lockhart,” said someone from within the huddle. The burned man flared, but then allowed himself to relax. At least they watched the news.

  “Yes, Brady Lockhart. He burned down Barron Tower.”

  Murmurs rumbled through the huddle. They knew people who called Barron Tower home. Two of their own had lived there, on floors five and twelve. Neither person was here now.

  “We gunna cut him?” asked another voice. Anger.

  “Shut up,” said Ren.

  The burned man walked. The motion helped ease the pain in his arms and lessened the weight in his head. From first analysis the warehouse was filled with designer clothing, a business registered under a distant cousin’s name that served as a front. Pallets upon pallets of tightly packed t-shirts, shirts, dresses, jeans, tops, scarfs, shoes and socks of a hundred types and colours were the backdrop to the scene. But the real bounty was behind the curtain.

  “Brady Lockhart killed my wife.”

  They gasped collectively. Such a personal blight on their boss caused a shudder of fear. Everyone knew Brady was in trouble. Now they knew he was on borrowed time.

  “Brady Lockhart killed my boy.”

  Stunned silence. Nobody could comprehend how to react. Feet shuffled awkwardly, one of the females who had served as a babysitter sobbed softly. Mutters of curse blended as one, as they pondered how their boss was so calm.

  “As you can imagine, I want to find him. I took the opportunity to have him posted all over the news. But I don’t want others to find him. I just want them to keep him on his toes until we catch him. He has my money. One million dollars. That’s simply unacceptable. To kill my family and steal my money is personal. This couldn’t possibly be any more personal. So, what do we know about him?”

  The burned man tossed the question to his crowd. Mason and Gabe were used to this ploy, a test seen often in a classroom. All were eager to satisfy their boss, and one above all else.

  “His sister lives in Melbourne,” said Ren, chewing loudly on a piece of gum. Her black leather jacket and dark jeans were tightly fitted, and her boots clacked against the cement as she tried to remain in the burned man’s field of vision.

  “Correct,” he said. “What else?”

  “He owns that restaurant down on Swanston. Bun Ahoy,” she continued, sticking her finger up at another female who had her tongue out. “With all that is going on, I can’t imagine business would be booming.”

  The burned man liked Ren. She assumed an air of confidence that removed others from the room. When she spoke, the words were chosen carefully to reflect how true they were. A flicker in her eye told the burned man that this too was personal. A killed boyfriend? Girlfriend? Maybe just a friend, for she did not weep or let her anger overcome her. Then again, perhaps she was capable of removing baggage to focus on the end goal. Others waited for their boss to speak, waiting to be scorned for foul play. One of the men to the side coughed.

  “Come here, William.”

  The teenager, wide-eyed, pointed to himself. The burned man nodded. William approached cautiously, a toddler to a lion’s cage. He waited for further instruction.

  “Closer,” he said, and Mason pushed the teen to within an inch of the burned man’s face. He resisted at first, but then accepted the force. He could smell the foul breath of the burned man, who may not have brushed his teeth since the attack. Yellow and red blotches covered the skin on his face, deep lines like a river on a map surrounded the pupil in his eyeballs, and a thick goo was leaking from multiple cuts on his forehead.

  “Do you fear me, boy?” he asked, tilting his head, gazing into the eyes of a street hustler. He smiled.

  “Yes. But to be honest, it’s not the burns.”

  Mason squeezed William tighter, but the burned man waved the gesture away. He wanted to know more.

  “Continue.”

  “Well boss, Brady killed your family. If someone killed my family, I’d be scared of me.”

  The burned man nodded and could see Gabe nodding also. His driver, arms crossed, guarded the door as if expecting a mass charge at any moment. Yet the huddle was focused on this conversation, hanging on every word. Rain began to pelt against the corrugated iron roof, a sound of a thousand gunshots holding these workers at bay.

  “I’d be scared of me,” said the burned man to himself. “I like that. But do you think Brady fears me?”

  William no longer wanted to be the man who answered the important questions, but with Mason still commanding his body he had no choice.

  “He’s hiding. Of course he does.”

  “Wrong,” said the burned man, now addressing the room. “If Brady feared me, he wouldn’t have escaped with my money. Family is one thing, but to mess with our business is another. Brady fears capture. He’s not scared of us. And that’s where this needs to change. We are going to send him messages through the news. We are going to force the rabbit out of the hole by threatening all he holds dear. I’m not going to stop until he’s learned his lesson. But,” he said, forcing a smile, “I want Ren and William to join me, as well as Gabe and Mason. So, all the street deals, all the shipments, everything we’ve lined up; I need you all to pull your weight. I won’t be picking a leader. The leader will rise. But when I’ve found Brady – and believe me, I will – this all goes back to how it was before that rat cunt burned down Barron Tower. You got that?”

  The huddle responded with a well-rehearsed “yes boss!” and scurried off to their tasks. William, sheepish with his hands in his pockets, and Ren who click-clacked over to the rest of the team, waited for further instruction.

  “We are going to dig into his world. We are going to hurt people. But I promise the two of you this: when we find him, you can have a share of the million. How does that sound?” said the burned man in a whisper, to not alert the other workers. They nodded, trying to hide excitement.

  “Where to first, boss?” asked Mason, ready for action.

  “Bun Ahoy, you say? Let’s see how the public have responded to his establishment.”

  These Lawless Grounds

  The hood was lifted off the man’s face ho
urs after being applied. His surroundings were shadowed and bleak, turning to see bales of hay lined against the wall; he was in a barn. In front of him were bars. He knew this was a cage. Had Morris the cop followed him and locked him up in another town? This didn’t look official. The smell of horse and cow shit lingered like smoke in a room without windows, hovering and teasing. The man’s arms were cuffed behind his back, but not with metal. A figure was sitting just outside the cage, and a large dog rested by his feet in slumber. When the man moved slightly to scratch an itch, the Rottweiler jolted awake.

  “Easy, Killer,” said a man wearing an Akubra, the rest of his features shrouded.

  “Where am I?” asked the man, wondering which side of the law had captured him, and unsure of his preference.

  “During the day, I’d tell you it was Billy’s barn. But because the sun has gone down, you’re in Siphon’s world now. Animals have been replaced by a different breed that care only for gambling, drugs and sex. Welcome to the real world, chum.”

  The man tried to shake free of his constraints as Killer snarled and attempted to squeeze through the gap in the bars.

  “I’m Hayes by the way, I don’t think we’ve been introduced.”

  He stuck a hairy hand into the cage.

  “Oh, right. How silly of me.”

  Hayes unlocked the cage and Killer charged within. He moved behind the man and started gnawing at his hands. In seconds, the man was free from the binds. Killer returned to his master’s side and waited for further instruction.

  “He’s well trained. Only bites when I tell him to. That’s how you keep order in the world, chum.”

  The man rose to his feet slowly, eyes on the dog. Cheers erupted from the opposite end of the barn as though a team won a close game of football and the siren sounded. A wry smile appeared on Hayes’ face as he noticed the man peering over the bales.

  “Why did you come here, you silly bastard? You have no idea what you’ve fallen into. You’re already beaten to a pulp; the face, the missing teeth, the hands.”

  “Hayes,” yelled a voice. “Bring him out. We’re ready.”

  The man’s heart thumped like a drum to a slow beat and then quickened, reaching a chorus. Killer moved behind the man and snapped at his heels, urging him forward. The man walked. Hayes patted him on the back. Bales of hay created a winding corridor through the barn, a boxer on his way to the ring. And with one last turn he saw people holding crumpled notes in their hands, sweating, shirts off, chanting and raving and pushing and shoving and baying for blood. When they saw the man, they roared. They beat their chests and pumped the air. They pointed at him as if he was a hero returning from war.

  “The challenger, Greg McDonald!” said a booming voice from a megaphone, and more roars followed. The man was pushed into the circle, which had hay flooring and stains of blood. A light dangled from the ceiling, swaying left and right. It was devastatingly hot. Tight. Airless. And then the man saw another male pushed into the circle. He knew the face.

  “Greg McDonald and Tom Pritchard will fight until one man cannot get up. You have two minutes to place your bets.”

  A man with a wolf tattoo covering the entirety of his back walked around the circle collecting money from the punters, none of whom had been present in The Ginger Bastard. But he knew the teenager before him with a swollen eye and a cut lip. Younger than Kane Pritchard, older than Sammy and Wiggles. Tom glared at the man as if trying to intimidate him, but behind the stare he only found fear. This boy did not want to fight and neither did the man. They were already bleeding from other battles. The wolf bookie was holding so many notes that he was forced to tuck them into his overalls. The screams and shouts were deafening. The man saw no escape, for all eyes were on him; an assessment before the bet. Tom was thin, slightly shorter than the man and well over a decade younger. But he undoubtedly knew this game. Glancing upward, the man saw a short character with thick arms standing at the stair railing, overseeing his domain.

  “All bets are taken. No more bets,” said the announcer. “Fighters, are you ready?”

  Tom raised his hand in the air. The man shook his head, but if he didn’t fight he knew the consequences would be worse. Perhaps he needed to take a hit, remain grounded and wait for the fight to be called. He’d done so before. He raised his hand.

  A ding sounded from an unseen bell. Tom came at him with fists raised, cautious, not having seen the beating at the hands of Mick. The man paced around the circle, eyes locked on Tom. He moved in close and wrapped the boy up in a headlock.

  “Hit me once, I’ll take a dive,” he said into the cut ear. They broke apart.

  “Fight, you pussies!”

  “Hit the cunt!”

  “Take him down!”

  The chants continued, and the man braced for contact. Tom jabbed the man with force into his already broken nose, leaking freely once more. He dropped to his knees and watched as Tom loaded up with a foot. The kick was blocked with the man’s elbows, and a sharp pain reverberated throughout his body. He clawed on all fours to get some distance from his opponent, but the cheering crowd pushed in further to halve the space. The man rose, and a hand pushed him towards Tom, who stuck out a foot and tripped the man to the ground. He leaned down and used a combination of fists to keep the man pinned.

  “The fuck are you doing?” said the man, trying to slap away the bombardment. Tom slipped and connected a knee into the man’s crotch. He saw red. The burning flames of Barron Tower returned. The crying children, the burning bodies, the lifeless sacks pelting the cement and bursting into sodden pulp. The moans and groans of loss, the panicked wails as smoke entered lungs and stole all pockets of air. And of that voice yelling “I will find you Brady Lockhart,” over and over and over and over. The woman…killed. The blame chasing him into this hell.

  The man used an uppercut to block both fists and break through the attack. Knuckles connected with ribs and slowed Tom’s momentum. The man used this opportunity to get to his feet.

  Tom came at him, but the man dropped his shoulder to swing a left hook into the side of Tom’s face. The splintered cuts seared, but they failed in comparison to the imagery projected by the mind. The man was no longer in a barn. He was in a room within Barron Tower before the building caught flames.

  The crowd were stomping their feet and Tom was dazed. But the man didn’t see Tom, for another face replaced the Pritchard boy. The man charged, slammed Tom into the hay and pummelled with every ounce of energy left. He was sick of being on the wrong side of a beating. Now, a gorilla was hammering a rival as the entire jungle watched. A ding sounded. But that only caused the man to increase his efforts, and soon the boy beneath him had stopped putting out his hands in protection. The man was dragged away, kicking and cursing, and a knife was held to his throat. Tom was lifted to his feet by shirtless men, but he staggered to the crowd. They closed upon him. Punters charged at the man with the wolf tattoo, snatching their winnings and chanting the name Greg. The man felt himself lifted over stairs and shoved into a neat room. The short man with the thick arms sat at his desk, smiling.

  “Greg McDonald, you son of a bitch. When I saw you passed out in The Ginger Bastard after a beating by Mick I took you for a city boy searching for coin. Looks like I’m wrong. I can admit when I’m wrong. I’m Siphon, you may have heard of me.”

  In the left corner, Wiggles Pritchard was chained to a metal rod. His cheeks were streaked with fresh tears, but he pouted with resolve. His clothing was torn and tattered. He did not speak.

  “Ah,” said Siphon, slamming a palm to his forehead. “Where are my manners? Off you go, take your brother to Lilly. He’ll be right.”

  Wiggles dashed out of the room, not looking at the man, but rubbed feeling back into his wrists.

  “The Pritchard clan are funny folk,” said Siphon, sticking out a hand and lifting the man to his feet. “They know they have no choice, but they piss and moan until we shackle one of their own and threaten to cut off more fingers. Y
ou’d think losing their father would be enough, but the filthy bastards just keep thinking they have a say in this town. This is my town.”

  The man noticed that Siphon was much older, shorter and articulate than expected, but his thick arms still bulged like water balloons filled to the point right before explosion. A whimper caused the man to turn away from the crime lord and towards the door, where a female he’d seen in The Ginger Bastard was cuffed to a heating unit.

  “Her…that’s another story,” said Siphon. Her mouth was taped, and her appearance had not been altered by the force of Siphon’s men. Yet, like Wiggles, she wept.

  “What do you want?” asked the man, the trickle of blood onto lip annoying him.

  “Straight to the point, huh? Men come to Sulley Ridge for two things; to make coin, or to hide. Which are you?”

  The man wiped Tom’s innards from his knuckles.

  “Coin. I’m a shearer from the west. I get the feeling our ways of making coin differ. If you’ve got any sheep, I’ll do the job.”

  Siphon raised a finger, which moved left to right.

  “A shearer can work anywhere, and for modest coin. The stakes are higher here. We don’t want shearers. But you won, so you get this one opportunity. Leave today and never come back. Or stay and become involved. Authority doesn’t come here at night. This is both the safest and most dangerous place in the state. For men needing a fresh start, or to hide from their past, there’s no better option. You strike me as both. Did you see that tower burn down, on the news?”

  The man sighed. He couldn’t escape, even in the barn where pain ruled.

  “Yeah, I saw it. So what?”

  “When there’s too many people in one spot you’re asking for trouble. That’s the issue with cities; they just let the rats keep scurrying in until they are leaping over one another causing chaos. It’s uncontrollable. Here is different. I can control this town by sorting the useful from the useless, the money makers from the cowards. You’re smarter than these hicks. As I said though, you get one opportunity. Either you’re a part of this, or you leave. And if you choose neither option, I’ll shear off your skin to sell as goods and put the rest of your body on Jane’s rotisserie. Lunch special, crispy McDonald. Now get the fuck out of my office, Greg.”