This Strange Hell

by C. J. Sutton

  He nodded and drank, appreciating the ale and not having to fear capture. Three tradesmen were drinking alongside the pool table and one man was whacking the side of the betting machine, but otherwise the place was morbid. Jerry hurried to the table with three more pints and the paper bag.

  “You see, I like this guy,” said Harvard, handing the bag to Wolfgang for a count. “Knows how to keep out of trouble. No point resisting. It’s like when them aliens take you into their chambers and do experiments. Don’t resist, just let it happen. You might like it.”

  He punched the man in the arm, and he forced a smile in response. With the removal of teeth his breath now constantly stunk, so he tried to keep his mouth closed unless speaking. No dentists here. The gaps made chewing food difficult, and drinking water brought great pain if too cold. Not having a bun atop his head felt foreign, and without painkillers his wounds seared.

  “I’ve been wondering,” said Harvard, starting his second pint. “Why’d you stay? Nobody ever stays.”

  “Everyone keeps asking me this. I want coin. I was a piece of shit in my old life and I wanted to make something of myself before I’m old, poor and useless.”

  “I’ll drink to that,” said Wolfgang, and they clinked glasses. The betting machine rang, and the attendee pumped the air. Harvard flicked his head at Wolfgang, who approached with his hands in his overalls. He waited until the money stopped shooting out and then started filling his deep pockets.

  “Hey!” yelled the man. Wolfgang pinned him against the wall by the throat, smashing a hole through the plaster. With his free hand the gang member put every dollar in his pocket, and then released. The attendee made no more complaints, leaving with a frightful look upon his face. Wolfgang handed some notes to Jerry.

  “For the wall,” he said. “C’mon boys.”

  The man walked out of The Ginger Bastard with a slight buzz of alcohol that requested another. Wolfgang was whistling a tune unknown, his thumbs linked through the overalls. Harvard’s gaze was transfixed on the horizon between shops.

  “Well look who it is,” said Harvard, a hand falling on the man’s shoulder. The police squad car drove at 20km per hour down the main street of Sulley Ridge, sunglasses protecting the line of the driver’s sight. Morris was performing his daily ritual, scanning the area and making it known that there was an ounce of police presence in a self-proclaimed lawless town. When he saw Siphon’s men, the car braked, jolting Morris forward.

  “Drive on, pig,” said Wolfgang, loud enough for only his crew to hear. They stopped before crossing the road, waiting for the car to pass. It didn’t. Morris opened the car door, his mouth in a tight line, and walked over to the trio.

  “Afternoon lads,” he said, both hands resting on his belt. “Fine day for a walk, no?”

  “Fine day,” smiled Harvard, squeezing the man’s shoulder. “What can we do for you, officer?”

  “I was just wanting a talk with your new friend. Greg, was it? We could take a quick drive around the block.”

  “Maybe another time, we’re busy,” said Harvard, aware Wolfgang was itching to punch something.

  Morris, still shrouded by his aviator sunglasses and cap, handed the man a business card.

  “Call me when you get a chance. We need to talk.”

  And then he left, the squad car quickly rising to 80km per hour and straight out of town. Wolfgang and Harvard were eyeing one another, squeezing the man from either side.

  “What does he want with you?” asked Wolfgang, his face red. The man knew this looked bad. Perhaps that’s why Morris did it, just to cull one from the herd before the herd grew. He placed a palm on Wolfgang’s chest and pushed.

  “The fuck would I know? Coppers always have it in for me, everywhere I go. Must be my good looks.”

  “Yeah,” he said, unconvinced. “Must be.”

  They continued walking towards Mick’s Hardware Store, the mood now darkened. The man wondered if Morris had figured it all out, and that after their conversation the other day a news report brought up a familiar looking face. On the other hand, it could just be that ‘don’t be getting in with that crowd’ chatter that all forms of authority love to preach. Either way, he knew he needed to prove himself before they re-convened with Siphon. His last chance was at Mick’s. The front of the store was pristine, freshly hosed down from the swirling dust kicked up by the harsh night winds. Harvard cupped his hands around his face and peered within. He turned to the man.

  “Off you go then. I ain’t holding your hand.”

  The man entered the store and immediately saw Mick standing at the counter with his thick arms crossed. Deep bags were present under his eyes, brow furrowed, top few buttons of his shirt undone.

  “What do you want?” he asked, tense.

  “I’m…” the man cleared his throat. “I’m here for the rent, double.”

  Mick blinked, one side of his mouth twitching upward beneath his moustache.

  “I’ve given you a beat down once before. I’m sure I don’t need to do that again for you to get the point. Fuck off.”

  Weapons were all around them. Hammers, steel rods, garden tools, rope, nail guns and sharp equipment capable of removing limbs. But Mick remained with his arms crossed, scars on show, unmoving.

  “C’mon Mick, look outside. If I don’t get payment off you, they will.”

  He didn’t bother looking.

  “Send them in. I’d rather give it straight to one of those bastards than to you. The fuck you playing at?”

  The man felt rage growing, his own fire burning, all decency leaping out of the gaps to not be caught in heat. He withdrew his pistol.

  “Oh, you’re going to shoot me now, tough guy?”

  “I don’t want to Mick, I just want to grab the cash and go. You’re making this difficult.”

  He slammed his hands on the counter.

  “You just stood there with them while they strung up an innocent boy.”

  “So did you Mick, remember? I stood there for one act, but how many have you just stood there for?”

  This angered Mick, and he leapt over his counter with a screwdriver in hand. He raised the tool above his head, ready to strike, and the man aimed at pistol at Mick’s chest.

  “Go on, hero. Shoot me!” he yelled, alerting Wolfgang and Harvard. But they did not enter, watching through the glass. The man accepted this moment as defining, a full report to be received by Siphon from his unlikely pair outside. Mick was shaking. Not in fear of the man but of something else, for his eyes did not see what was presented before him.

  “Mick put the screwdriver down,” he said, evenly. “Just put it down, hand me the cash and I’m out of here.”

  “Why,” he breathed. “Why join them?”

  “One day soon you’ll see.”

  Mick lost a part of his rebellion, and the man used the opportunity to smash him across the face with his pistol. It cut a gash above his eyebrow, caused him to stumble, but Mick did not go down. They stared at one another, and Mick saw the audience over the man’s shoulder. The man pressed the pistol into Mick’s neck, the bigger man now dropping to his knees. The nozzle was still warm, for the man had spent the morning shooting bullets into bales of hay.

  “They’ll kill you at some point. I’ve seen it before. They are a tight knit little fucking family, and once you’re of no use they’ll put you in the barn and take bets on which fighter will rip out your heart.”

  “Just give me the cash.”

  Minutes later the man walked out of Mick’s Hardware Store with a paper bag full of notes, his final collect for the day. He tossed it to Wolfgang, who counted, and then holstered his pistol.

  “It’s all there,” said Wolfgang, a hint of surprise in his voice. Harvard went to ask a question, probably alien related, but instead started up the car.

  “Good work, Greg,” he said instead, using the wipers to rid of dead bugs. “See you tonight for another show.”

  And off they went, leaving the man to s
tand outside Mick’s store. Unable to help himself, he looked within to see Mick with his head in his hands. These people were broken. These people were slaves. They were prisoners to fear. They worked their hides off to pay a crew that would just as easily kill them all. At any moment they were doomed. Each day, each night, each minute could be their last. But here they remained.

  The gunshot from the night before proved that they were capable, and a plan began to formulate in the man’s mind.

  The Wake

  They waited for the sun to fall. The reporters from a dozen different news stations remained at the gates, eager for a sign to turn on their equipment and push one another to be at the front of the crowd. A police car was stationed thirty metres down the road, prepared for any angered citizen to demonstrate their feelings on sister Lockhart by tossing a flaming bottle of alcohol at her window. There were no pitchforks, but the microphones appeared much worse. As darkness took reign they began to disperse, their rumbling stomachs and slumber taking importance over the only sibling of the most sought-after man in the country. Nobody thought he was in there. But nobody had any other leads.

  “Look at ‘em, vultures,” said William, face pressed against car window.

  “What does that make us?” asked Ren, checking her nails.

  The burned man turned to face his young crew.

  “Vultures hover and wait for death to pick apart a carcass. We are simply waiting for them to fuck off so we can enter without a show.”

  “Cops going to move?” asked Mason, his sole focus on the boys in blue.

  “Probably not. But we’re not going in the front. We just need the hawk-eyed reporters to fuck off.”

  “I hate birds,” said William. “They’ve got it over us.”

  Gabe sat frozen in the driver’s seat, waiting to be issued onward. When the reporters began saying their goodbyes and walked away from the gates, they were replaced by night-duty reporters with brick-sized coffee cups and an eager step.

  “Motherfuckers,” said Mason.

  “C’mon Mason, you really thought they’d leave this place alone? You clearly don’t know people.”

  The burned man pointed forward and they left the front of sister Lockhart’s house. It was a single-storey home surrounded by a lush garden and high fencing, luckily for her. The car veered right, and right again, coming to a stop. Gabe removed the key from the ignition. Ren handed the burned man a Google Maps zoom-in on her Smartphone.

  “If we go down the side of this house, we can leap their fence and enter her backyard. This photo is from a year ago, but it wouldn’t have changed.”

  “Are you sure about that, possum?” asked William.

  “Call me possum one more time and I’ll stick a heel in your neck.”

  They huddled around the Smartphone, the burned man tracing a line on the screen with a scarred finger.

  “Gabe, call us if there’s trouble.”

  They left the car idle by parklands with a driver who reclined the seat and walked towards a row of townhouses. Mason, William, Ren and the burned man moved across the paved driveway and spotted the fence up ahead overgrown with vines. William and Ren were up and above within seconds. Mason looked to his boss.

  “I’ll boost you over,” he said, placing his large hands together and bending at the knee. The burned man brushed away the gesture and climbed, a searing burn in his chest and arms, but as he thought of Brady Lockhart the pain felt useful. As he pictured his wife being led through a carnival with Brady Lockhart, the climb seemed insignificant. The vines were woven through wood that formed footholds, making the ascent easy for anyone with a fair fitness base. As he brushed through thick foliage, the burned man saw William and Ren crouched behind a dog kennel.

  “Any sign of the dog?” asked the burned man, spitting out blood.

  Ren pointed directly at William, and he grinded his teeth. William. The burned man remembered when Mason had dragged him into the compound, bleeding from the nose and holding a handbag that he’d stolen from some old lady ‘round the block. The burned man had sat him down in his office, looked through the bag, opened the old lady’s purse and withdrew all the notes, a grand total of $95. The old lady had punched William square in the face before he’d run off with her belongings. All that effort for under $100. The burned man remembered the look on William’s face when he said he would triple the number if he accompanied Mason to a deal. “Just stand there?” he had said, palms open. But William would rarely just stand there. He wanted his piece of the pie and was prepared to get a bloody nose for it. He was always first to work, and often last to leave. He wanted every cent possible from a hard day’s slog and would just as happily lift boxes of clothing all day as to accompany a deal. His mind was transfixed on the dollar amount handed to him at the end of the shift, and here he was promised more money than he had ever seen. Not an overly strapping lad, but William bore desire. The burned man could work with desire, even if the kid pissed him off most of the time. Ren, on the other hand…

  Mason fell off the top of the fence and slammed into a rose bush. The noise caused William to flatten himself on the muddy ground and Ren to drag the burned man into shadow.

  “Why’d we bring that lug?” she asked. He knew why. Mason was capable of inflicting pain. Intimidation only goes so far. They waited for an outdoor light to flick on, or someone to ask who was there, but the house remained barren.

  “She even home?” asked William, joining them.

  “Home or not home, we’re going in.”

  With no sign of a dog, they crept through the mud-soaked backyard and stepped onto the veranda. The burned man tilted his head at Ren, his proclaimed locksmith. She withdrew a pin from her heeled boot and inserted it into the lock on the back door. Pot plants covered the wooden floor and ledge, and Mason was ordered to remain on the muddy grass until entry was achieved in case he caused more damage. A click sounded like a stray gunshot. Ren slowly opened the door and one by one they entered the house.

  The kitchen had dirty plates in the sink piled high, a blender half-full of chunky substance and an overflowing bin spilling packets from microwavable meals. A smell was clear, of bin juice and mould. William checked a room to the left and returned with a shrug. Mason remained at the door with thick arms crossed. Ren veered right, which opened up into a hallway with rooms on either side. The burned man joined her and found himself fixated on her rear, which pressed against leather pants. He passed a door without checking within. Ren went into a bathroom, and the burned man went to follow…before something sharp dug into his throat.

  “Get the fuck out of my house,” said a raspy voice, full of fear.

  “Ah, you must be sister Lockhart?” said the burned man, undeterred.

  “What the fuck do you want? He’s not here.”

  “So you’re going to slit my throat, is that it?”

  “Just leave me alone. I’m calling the police.”

  As Cassie reached for her phone, William kicked the back of her knees and she collapsed. The knife sliced the skin on the burned man’s collarbone. The weapon clanged on the floorboards and out of view as Ren pocketed the stray phone.

  “She could’ve cut his throat you fuckwit,” said Ren, pushing William in the chest, but the burned man didn’t care. He lowered to Cassie’s level.

  “We have a few questions for you. Answer and you’ll be fine. William, take out her rubbish and wash her dishes.”

  “I’m no fucking handmaid.”

  A tilt of the head sent him into the kitchen. Mason joined them, lifting Cassie onto a couch in her living room. She peered outside, seeing reporters, and stuck her finger up at them.

  “Fucking scavengers,” she said. Ren rolled her eyes. There were chocolate wrappers scattered across the room to add to a messy abode, and in the far corner was a dog bed.

  “Where’s the mutt?” asked Mason, eyes darting.

  “At a friend’s place. Couldn’t have him here, not now. Not with you fucks out there.”
/>   “We’re not reporters,” said the burned man, wincing as he sat on a leather couch opposite Cassie.

  “Well who the fuck are you?”

  As she asked, the moonlight presented the man before her; a scarred face with burns still healing, hands trembling with deep raw lines, a throat that still bore patches. A fresh cut from a stray knife. Cassie opened her mouth as if to speak, but nothing came out.

  “I was there, that night,” he said, with Mason and Ren standing in the corner of the room with the least light. “I was there when your brother torched Barron Tower.”

  “He didn’t do it,” she said, a whisper. “Why do they think he would do it?”

  “Because he did.”

  Outside they could hear the light chatter of reporters and cops, the slurping of coffee from Styrofoam cups and the occasional laugh.

  “Where is he?” asked Ren, entering the fray. Cassie shot her a devilish look.

  “How the fuck should I know? Last I heard from him was a month ago. He didn’t sound like he was about to burn down a building and kill hundreds of people.”

  “Not even a text message?” asked the burned man.

  “Nothing. Not a peep. I’ve texted him heaps, called him heaps. His phone is dead.”

  The burned man pointed at Cassie, and Mason sat alongside her. He withdrew a knife, wiping at the dried blood on the blade. She made to run but Ren stepped in front of her.

  “I hear you’re his only family, sis. I’m going to need you to do better than that.”

  Mason grabbed her hand and pressed the blade against her little finger. Her mouth tightened, eyes pleading.

  “I don’t fucking know anything, okay? I don’t know where he is!”

  In a swift motion, Mason stuck a cloth in Cassie’s mouth and chopped off her smallest finger. He muffled her screams and used a metal heating rod on his keyring to burn the wound, stopping blood flow. Her eyes were wild, her head thrashing. Blood leaked from her lip where she’d bitten forcefully.

  “Look, I don’t want to hurt you, sis. But your brother is out there, somewhere, and people want his head. Did you watch the news? Did you see those poor women and children leaping from twenty floors up and splattering on the pavement? I did. I saw it all. I saw him do it.”