by Bryan Smith
He’d found the tearful exchange … amusing.
Entertaining.
What a sick motherfucker!
Dream felt a surge of anger.
But—
She frowned and chewed her lower lip.
Maybe she was misreading him.
She wanted that to be the case.
King’s expression changed, became solemn. “I’m afraid there’s no question of where you’ll be staying tonight. Our phones are out.” He shrugged in apology. “I don’t know what the problem is, but I assume the phone company is working to correct it. You are, of course, welcome to spend the night here.”
He smiled. “It’s really for the best. All will seem better …” He paused, glanced at Karen, and appeared to reconsider his words.”… or at least more manageable in the morning. A good night’s rest can do wonders for the disposition.”
Alicia grunted. “Look, what we’d really like is a ride into town.”
Dream frowned, chewed her lips.
Was that what she really wanted?
She jiggled her foot and tried not to look at King.
Alicia, oblivious, went on. “No offense, but I’d really feel a lot better about everything if we could let the police know what’s going on.”
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“Chad’s still out there,” Karen chimed in. “They ought to be looking for him. He could be in danger.” She grunted, glanced with deliberation at each of her friends. “Don’t forget what it was like out there.” Her voice dropped in pitch. “Strange. Like the motherfucking Twilight Zone.”
“He’s in danger,” Alicia said. “No doubt about it.”
Karen’s red-rimmed eyes flicked toward Dream. “We should never have left the goddamn interstate.”
Dream flinched.
Alicia sighed. “Yeah.”
Dream didn’t want to think about that.
Not anymore.
King sighed. “I’m sorry, ladies. I hesitate to send my employees down the mountain at night even under the best of circumstances. This place is not this ‘twilight zone’ you speak of, although I understand tremendous stress of the sort you’ve endured can cause some misperceptions. I live in a remote area. The going is treacherous at best, as I’m sure you’ve discovered. And the threat of inclement weather erases any possibility of such a trek, I’m afraid.” He smiled thinly. “Your missing friend should be fine as long as he sticks to the road. I suspect he’ll show up here at some point.”
There was another uncomfortable silence.
Dream thought, What threat of inclement weather?
But she didn’t say it.
She looked at King, felt her heart stutter, and she just couldn’t say it.
Alicia sighed, defeated. “Okay. I guess we’re staying here.” Then there was some steel in her voice again. “But you’re getting us out of here first thing in the morning, understand?”
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King smiled. “Of course.”
Then he raised his voice. “Ms. Wickman!”
The severe housekeeper appeared through an archway. “Yes, Master?”
Alicia’s double take was impossible to miss.
She looked at Dream and mouthed the word: Master?
Her face radiated incredulity.
King paid her no mind. “These ladies have endured a long, arduous night. It is time for them to rest. Please be so kind as to show them to their rooms.”
Ms. Wickman nodded stiffly. “Certainly? She arched an eyebrow at the women. “Ladies?”
Alicia and Karen got slowly to their feet, stretching and groaning from exhaustion. Dream shifted in her chair, uncrossed her legs, and listened to the beating of her frantic heart. She was as tired as her friends-perhaps more so, having done the bulk of the driving from Key West-but she didn’t want to leave yet.
She wanted to stay right here.
With King.
Alicia cast an inquisitive gaze at her. “Hey, Dream, aren’t you coming up?”
Dream mustered a big smile, infusing it with as much sincerity as she could summon. “I’m a little restless yet. I think I’ll stay down here and have a drink with Mr. King.”
King smiled.
Alicia smiled. “Okay. Whatever. You’re a grown-up, sweetie.” She bent down to kiss Dream goodnight. “You take care of yourself, you hear?”
Dream met her friend’s gaze. “I will. Don’t worry about me.”
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She tossed her car keys to Alicia, who caught them in midair. “Get our bags out of the car. You can give me the keys tomorrow.”
Alicia sighed. “Okay, Dream.”
Then she and Karen were gone, following Ms. Wickman through the archway.
Dream, at last, was able to turn the whole of her attention to King.
His smile broadened and he uncrossed his legs. “Alone at last.”
Dream drew in a deep breath, counted slowly to ten, and expelled it with a shudder. “Yes,” she breathed. She had to count to ten again. She swallowed hard and somehow managed to say, “I want you.”
King nodded. “I know, Dream.”
He stood up.
Approached her.
Extended his hand.
She stood.
Took his hand.
And followed him out of the room.
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Hell.
Chad wondered about that.
Am I in hell?
Perhaps. If Satan’s domain was a maze of crudely carved tunnels beneath the mountains of East Tennessee, then, yes, he was certainly in hell. What he’d seen of Below so far was comparable in important ways to Western civilization’s most common vision of hell-an oppressively dark, hot, nasty place somewhere well south of heaven, a grim place where evil reigned supreme and soul-scorching terror was a way of life.
Okay, maybe this “Master” person wasn’t the literal Satan of the Bible, but he was clearly some variety of bad-ass supernatural being. He could manipulate minds as easily as other people fold clothes, and he apparently enjoyed mucking about with the fabric of reality a bit. Not nice.
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Chad had never previously had occasion to give the issue much thought, but he considered it a given that anyone who went around mucking with the fabric of reality was an asshole.
Which was somehow perfect.
Of course the devil was an asshole-what else would he be?
So, Chad decided, let’s say this guy’s the devil. Master. Devil. Same difference. For hypothetical purposes, let’s just go with it. This motherfucker is Beelzebub. The horned one himself. 01’ Scratch. Commander of the forces of darkness. Wielder of malevolent power beyond calculating.
Why, then, did such a being have such an inefficient infrastructure in place for his underworld kingdom?
The guards at the checkpoint, for instance.
An undisciplined joke.
These things were all symptomatic of a system ripe for exploitation. As he rode with Cindy in the transport truck, the part of his mind that made him a success in business went into overdrive, scheming, turning things over in his mind, looking for patterns, weak links, things he might be missing.
The transport truck coughed and sputtered as it rumbled over the rough tunnel terrain. Its shock absorbers were shot, and every time the vehicle bumped over a rock or mound of hardpacked dirt its occupants were jostled. It was a feeling akin to being on a small ship during a major storm on the open sea.
Cindy, who was free of restraints, was handling it okay. She could easily grab one of the curved metal struts that
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supported the green canvas above them. But the slaves-and Chad was a slave-had it bad. They were tossed about like dice in a gambler’s hand. Chad kept pitching to the floor and smacking his head on the bench opposite him. To get back up, he had to roll onto his side, shift around until he could get his butt under him, then propel himself backward onto the bench next to Cindy.
Cindy, of course, didn’t lift a finger to help him.
&nbs
p; She didn’t even look at him.
As a slave, his safety was of only minor importance. He was her property. Extreme emphasis on the word “property.” Dehumanization was obviously a vital component of the master-slave relationship. To the extent that you could even describe such an arrangement as a “relationship,” that is.
He wasn’t really her slave. They’d discussed it in hushed voices prior to the transport truck’s arrival at the checkpoint. She had to maintain at least a facade of the typical bad attitude evinced by newly emancipated slaves. Freed slaves had something to prove, she educated him. They had to show they could be every bit as cruel as their former masters. More so, if possible. Survival of the fittest wasn’t the guiding principle down here. That was surfaceworld rhetoric. Bullshit spewed by clueless assholes who didn’t know the true meaning of adversity.
Survival Below wasn’t about corporate-style maneuvering.
Or the petty backstabbing of reality-show contestants.
Cindy made it clear she meant to put forth a convincing portrayal of the meanest bitch any of these assholes had ever seen. Chad, of course, knew what that meant-assthrashings so severe they’d make even the jocks who’d
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tormented him in high school cringe. She didn’t try to sugarcoat it for him. He was going to have a hard time. He was going to hate her sometimes.
But she told him to keep one thing clear in his mind at all times.
Pain aside, it wasn’t real.
He wasn’t her slave.
He looked at the manacles binding his wrists and thought about the leg irons immobilizing his feet, and he tried to believe that.
But it was hard.
The rumbling and tossing stopped as the truck rolled onto a stretch of tunnel floor that was significantly smoother than the rougher terrain it had just traversed. The excavation was more extensive here-the tunnel walls were farther apart, and the ceiling was higher. Chad could see this through the opening in the green canvas at the rear of the truck. The lighting was better here, too, more revealing-he could see evidence of the tunnel’s long-ago construction, shovel marks in the earthen wall.
Then the walls seemed to fall away altogether, the tunnel opening up behind them like a pair of unfolding hands. Chad slid to his right, leaning into another slave as the truck went down a steep incline. Cindy held on to a strut. Chad leaned harder on the slave. The emaciated man groaned. The descent was so dramatic he could only compare it to a monster roller coaster going down a long, plummeting straightaway. His stomach roiled, and he felt a tickle of nausea in his throat.
Then the descent ended and they were on flat terrain
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again. Chad became aware of noise all around them. Strange sounds. Something like a carnival whistle. Angry shouts. Threats. The primal sound of conflict. Fists on flesh. A crack of a whip. Voices. A multitude of voices, like at a rock concert before the houselights go down. If he needed any further reminding that he was in a savage place, here it was, the sound of the devil’s playground in full bloom.
The truck slowed as it threaded its way through a milling crowd. Jeers were hurled at the truck. Chad’s heart thumped faster when he realized the epithets were directed not at the driver, a servant of The Master, but at the slaves in back. He turned to stare through the rear opening at the faces of the hecklers.
An old man with a long, tangled beard and a corona of stringy, dirty hair around a bald scalp walked behind the truck, leered in at them, and held his middle finger aloft. He wore a loincloth, and Chad saw a glint of silver at his throat.
Chad squinted, but he couldn’t make out what it was.
The man’s leering countenance receded as the truck pulled onto a rutted track along the cavern wall and picked up speed. A few minutes later they were pulling into an open space that served as a parking lot. The truck pulled to a stop alongside another transport vehicle, and its engine shuddered as it shut down. A door creaked open and there was a sound of booted feet slapping the hardpacked floor. Then a guard’s visor-obscured image appeared through the rear opening.
“Any nonslave personnel aboard?”
Cindy answered immediately.
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“Yes.”
The guard scrutinized her. “You bear the mark of a slave. Are you emancipated?”
Cindy nodded. She held her chin high, proudly. “I am.”
“Step forward, please.”
Cindy got up, strode purposefully toward the rear of the truck, and jumped to the ground. She opened her pouch and produced her paperwork. The guard took the folded papers from her hand, opened them, and studied the words printed on them. The guard stared at the papers long enough to make Chad uncomfortable.
At last, though, the guard folded the papers and returned them to her. “I see you’re newly emancipated. Congratulations.”
“Thank you.”
“Do you have a slave on board?”
She nodded, pointed at Chad. “That one.”
“The fresh meat?”
“Yes.”
The guard motioned to Chad. “Step forward.”
Chad got to his feet and shuffled to the rear of the truck. He looked down at the ground, hesitating, wondering whether he was expected to jump with the leg irons still in place. He was still considering this when Cindy grabbed the chain linking the manacles around his hands and feet and yanked him out of the truck. He screamed, struck the ground at an awkward angle, and pitched forward. His open mouth tasted dirt, and he gagged. He groaned, rolled onto his side, and stared through blurry eyes at Cindy, who looked to be reaching out to help him.
Wrong.
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Her foot, encased in one of his new Reeboks, drove hard into his stomach, punching the air out of him and sending an explosion of pain through his midsection. She kicked him again, harder, and he curled up, a pathetic attempt to deflect any further blows. She kicked him one more time anyway, the tip of the athletic shoe punishing the hands clasped protectively about his stomach.
Chad cursed her in his head, but he cried out for mercy. Something awful occurred to him. Wasn’t it possible Cindy was fucking with his head? She’d been down here a long time-long enough, perhaps, to have every remaining drop of humanity wrung out of her. Maybe she was a sadist and this was how she caught her kicks-by concocting a carefully wrought illusion of friendship and conspiracy, an illusion she was even now in the process of cruelly destroying.
He couldn’t see her, but he imagined a smirk creasing her lovely face.
The thrashing ceased with a jarring abruptness. Through his tears, he saw Cindy whirl away from him and face the guard.
The guard smirked. “Nice. You have to break them in right.” He cast a sidelong glance at Chad. “Some people just have a knack for this life. I think you’re one of ‘em.”
Cindy only said, “We’ll be going now.”
The guard nodded. “You’ll need to register with Slave Control. There’ll be some more paperwork.” He grinned. “And your letter.”
Cindy’s eyes gleamed. “The mark of emancipation.”
“Yep.” The guard lifted his visor. Chad saw that the man had a prominent brow and a bulbous nose. There was a
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hulking quality about him. “Will you be at The Gathering tomorrow?”
Shit, Chad thought, the thug’s hitting on her.
Cindy shrugged. “Maybe. We’ll see.”
The guard’s smile faded. “Yeah, sure.” He sneered. “Don’t go getting the big head, bitch. You may be emancipated, but I’m still a swingin’ dick with a big gun.”
Cindy sighed. “Jesus …”
Pitiless laughter trilled out of the guard’s mouth. “Just keep it in mind, whore.”
Cindy parted ways with the guard without another word, came to Chad, and pulled him to his feet by the chain. Chad staggered, his head swimming. A hand snapped across his face, stinging his flesh and clearing his vision.
“Be still,” Cindy hissed.
> She knelt before him, extracted a key from her pouch, and unlocked his leg irons. She pulled them free and handed them to him. Then she stalked away from him, and he shuffled after her.
“Hey, hold up.” His breathing was labored. “Christ, this is heavy”
She didn’t say anything.
“Can’t I just drop it?”
She whirled around, and Chad drew up short. Her green eyes flashed with real anger. Seeing it made his knees shake. She twisted a handful of his shirt and pulled him to his tiptoes. Christ, she was strong. He’d forgotten how easily she’d handled him at the holding facility. His chest swelled with pain as panic jolted his heart with the force of a defibrillator. Her face, vibrant with newfound power, was inches from his own.
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“You’re letting me down, Chad.”
A helpless sob escaped him. “I…”
“Shush.” Her lips brushed his ear. “Remember everything I told you. This isn’t real. I know it sounds crazy, but you have to let me hurt you to help you. No matter what I do, remember that I… shit…”
Chad wiped his eyes and studied her expression. “What, Cindy?”
Cindy averted his gaze, frowned at some middle-distance point. “Nothing.”
Chad was puzzled. She seemed almost… embarrassed.
But why?
She turned away from him, yanked on his chain. “Come along.” She talked to him over her shoulder. “And remember what’s real. Remember.”
Chad shuffled along after her. He still felt weary, battered, exhausted almost beyond the breaking point, but Cindy’s reassurances made things bearable. They soon passed through the parking lot’s security gate. The lot adjoined a squat, one-level building with the letters SCD crudely painted next to the entrance. Chad assumed, correctly, that this was the “Slave Control” building the guard had mentioned. Cindy shackled him to a rail outside the building and went inside. The rail was made of wood and stretched from one end of the building to the other. It made Chad think of the hitching posts cowboys tied their horses to in Western movies.