Feed the Machine

by Mathew Ferguson

  She was about to say something sexy, full of implications and suggestions, when there was a blur of movement next to her and Lucas crashed back into the wall. Someone shoved into her.

  Nola stumbled and fell to the floor, dropping the glasses. They hit the ground and one shattered into pieces, spraying broken glass across the room.

  “Fucking keep away from her you fucking cunts!”

  Danton, another of Fat Man’s thugs, more vicious and violent than Garrick and with a twist of lurking intelligence, leaning over the table.

  Nola jumped up and tried to move away but the thugs had crowded in. The other two bastardos sat there with their beers in hand like nothing had happened. The guard at the door, a lumbering idiot named Parker, was watching idly, not interested in intervening.

  Lucas stood and pulled his chair back into position before sitting. His empty glass was on the floor, tipped over.

  “Another beer,” he said to Nola and picked up his cards.

  “Don’t you fucking talk to her,” Danton said.

  He stepped closer to the table and put his hands on it. Burl used to bolt them down but then they’d just snap off at the base, leaving a sharp spike of wood and metal. Better the table went flying than have someone impaled.

  “Get the fuck out,” Danton hissed at them. He spat on the table.

  There was a blur of movement, a flash of silver and then Danton fell backwards, down to the floor, holding his wrist, his detached hand still sitting on the table. Lucas slipped his knife back into its sheath with practiced ease.

  Danton screamed.

  The pub exploded.

  By the time the guard leaning near the door got it together to realize what was happening the thugs and bastardos were fighting. The table went over, cards scattering across the floor and all Nola could hear was the dull thud of meat, the crunch of bone.

  Someone crashed into her and she fell backwards but managed to roll and get to her feet.

  Burl was shouting but from behind the bar. There was no way he was stepping into the chaos.

  Nola moved back to the bar and slipped behind it. She moved towards the stairs that led to the cellar. If things became worse, she wanted to be as far away as possible. With her heart thudding and breath coming in short gasps she nearly missed the silver glint of Burl’s knife sitting next to a small chunk of goats cheese as she passed it. He kept the knives downstairs and the plan had been to sneak down in a busy moment to steal one for later. Hoping Burl wasn’t watching she stole the knife and slipped it into the band of her skirt, pulling her somewhat skimpy top down to cover it.

  There came an enormous crash from behind her and Nola turned around to see the front door swinging wide, Sheriff Toll striding in.

  “STOP!” he shouted, his deep voice echoing through the pub. The fighting ceased in an instant, the bastardos and thugs pushing away from each other.

  One of the thugs pointed to Danton who was still on the floor clenching his wrist, blood spurting out.

  “Those cunts cut off his hand.”

  The hand in question was sitting on the floor, pale white and bloodless, a playing card resting on it.

  Toll walked over between the men, like they hadn’t been fighting to the death a moment ago, and picked up the hand.

  “Get him up.”

  Two of the thugs complied. Toll gave the hand to a third.

  “Take him to your boss and get him fixed. Anyone else who wants to fight goes with him. Otherwise sit down and have a fucking drink.”

  They took Danton out the door. Four others followed.

  The bastardos picked up the table and their cards and sat down again as though nothing happened. After a moment, they started dealing again.

  The Sheriff walked over to the bar and Burl waved his hand at Nola to serve. She walked past Burl, feeling the cold knife pressed against her skin.

  “Beer please Nola.”

  “Um, sure.”

  She poured the Sheriff a beer and handed it to him. He dropped money on the bar and Nola put it in the antiquated cash register.

  “Fucking bastardos,” the Sheriff muttered, taking a long gulp.

  Chapter 27

  It was as though the gods of chance had smiled upon her. Soon after midnight one of Fat Man’s thugs had come in, had a quiet word with any others in the place and then they’d all left together, leaving just the bastardos and Hefnan, nursing the first of the two beers he could afford. Even sober (which was rarely) he slurred like he was drunk. With only half a beer in him his nose had flushed red and he was getting deeply philosophical while Nola polished glasses. It was now approaching two in the morning and she was getting ready to make her move.

  “You ever look at the stars Nola?”

  “Sometimes,” she said, looking across at Burl standing near the stairs. He was hovering, building himself up to asking her to go home early so he didn’t have to pay her for the night. It was perfect. Her old plan had been steal the knife and then claim illness so she could get out of there.

  “You know they’re suns? They could have planets around them and those planets could have people. There could be another you out there somewhere.”

  “Another me? I hope she’s living somewhere better than Cago.”

  She wiped the final glass and put it in its place before calling down the bar to Burl.

  “We’re slow tonight. How about I go? Save you some money?”

  The look of relief on his face almost made her feel bad about stealing the knife and the tiny fragment of cheese she’d scooped up.

  “Yes, yes, that’s good. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  Nola was out from behind the bar and heading for the door in record time. Eventually Burl would remember his knife and her clothes weren’t thick enough to cover it all night in a near-empty bar.

  Lucas winked at her as she walked out the door.

  “Look at the stars Nola!” Hefnan shouted out.

  The door closed behind her. She jumped when a figure moved out of the shadows of the next building. It was Jarrah, one of Toll’s deputies.

  “Hey Nola, want me to walk you home?”

  “Um, no, it’s okay. Thanks though.”

  “Get home safe,” he called out.

  She turned off her path to Garrick, cursing Jarrah, Toll and all law in general. There wasn’t any official curfew but anyone out walking around close to Feed was sure to be stopped and questioned. Some of the deputies weren’t above administering a beating if they had a little power trip.

  Nola hustled away from the pub and Jarrah, passing three streets, feeling his eyes watching her ass as she went. Once she walked into a dark patch between buildings she ducked sideways and crept down a narrow alley, hoping Jarrah hadn’t seen her. She followed the alley behind some houses, keeping to the shadows as she crept along. The lights around Cago were on, blazing out, keeping hazels at bay but they also lit most of the town. The outer ring of buildings was as bright as day. Only the inner was dark enough to move through without being seen.

  She moved across town from shadow to shadow, stopping on corners and looking for deputies hiding in the dark but she was still being hasty. It was almost two and Garrick had a patrol to complete. There was only a small window before he’d have to move on.

  She cut down a street, walking in the light for a good thirty seconds and then moved into the dark again. The sounds of the Gold Door carried through the night air. Any men and women in there had been solidly drinking for hours now. She could hear laughing and loud slurred voices as bragging men tried to talk over one another. She turned again, putting some distance between her and the Gold Door. Apart from law there would be a few drunks wandering their way home and she didn’t want to meet any of them.

  The closer she came to the storeroom the louder her breath seemed, the more her heart thudded. She could feel it pulsing in her neck. Like her plan to get out of work, this scheme to get the key wasn’t fully formed and relied on a lot of luck. Seduce Garrick and steal the k
ey off him? Threaten him with the knife, tie him up, get the key? She preferred the latter to the former but if it came to sucking cock to keep them free and alive then she’d do what she had to.

  She stopped two buildings down and saw Garrick standing in the shadow behind the storeroom. The buildings in this area were close together and back to back with alleys barely two people wide running between them. They were also dark and far enough away from homes and the pub that hopefully no one would hear whatever went down.

  Nola adjusted her clothing and took out the knife she’d stolen from the pub. It had a brown wooden handle and a silver serrated blade. Burl had etched Wire Pub into the handle at some point. The blade still carried the scent of partially ripened goat’s cheese. Nola rubbed her finger on it and then sucked it into her mouth. She hadn’t eaten all day, apart from the earlier stolen fragment and between the bar fight and sneaking through the dark she was riding the thrumming edge of adrenaline, knowing that as soon as this was over she’d probably collapse.

  She slipped the knife back into her skirt, on the side for easier access and then took a deep breath.

  “Get the key, steal the platinum. Tie him up if it gets bad. Be quick. Okay.”

  She slipped out of the darkness and crept down the buildings until she reached Garrick. He was leaning against the wall, just like last time. He still smelled of old cooking oil.

  “Hey Garrick,” she said, putting as much sex into her voice as she could manage.

  Despite trying to calm herself, her heart was still thudding and she felt the chill of the night air against her body. Her sweat was turning cold.

  “Nola,” he mumbled, looking down at the ground.

  She stepped closer to him and wrapped her hands around his waist. The keys were in his pocket, attached to his belt by a thin cord.

  “Aren’t you glad to see me?”

  He looked down at her, frowning and then over her shoulder.

  The fear leapt but it was too late. A body pressed against her from behind, a hand covering her mouth, an arm under her breasts.

  “Don’t scream Nola,” the man holding her whispered in her ear. She smelled alcohol and meat, more old oil. She knew the voice though—Carter, Danton’s dog who followed him everywhere.

  As though summoned by the thought of his name, Danton stepped out of the shadows and came towards them.

  He held up his reattached hand and wriggled his fingers in her face.

  “Take some medicine, it’s good as new.”

  He moved his hand down, stroked it in her cleavage.

  “Garrick tells me that you came here to fuck him. Is that true?”

  Carter took his hand off her mouth and down to her throat. He was big and strong and his hand felt rough against her skin. She knew if she moved too fast he’d close it and crush her throat.

  “I’m just—”

  Her voice cracked with fear. Her mouth was dry. She cleared her throat and tried again, spinning a lie out of nowhere.

  “Hey guys, c’mon. I’m here to see my boyfriend.”

  She looked at Garrick and smiled but it felt more like a grimace. Danton turned on Garrick.

  “Is she your girlfriend? You’re in love with a shit-eater?”

  “She’s not my girlfriend,” Garrick mumbled at the ground.

  “Ah, so the shit-eater is full of shit. What a surprise.”

  Danton stepped closer and thrust his fingers between her legs so hard it hurt. Nola gasped in pain.

  “You gonna get nice and wet for us?”

  “Look, let—”

  “We’re not letting you go. If you scream, we have a gag to put in your mouth.”

  The knife was digging into her side but there was no way she’d be able to use it now. Carter held her from behind, his arm across her chest, his hand clenching her throat. Danton still had his fingers between her legs, digging into her. If this went any further, they’d find the knife for sure.

  She summoned the vamp who worked at the bar and felt a sly smile come across her face.

  “I’d rather you boys put something else in my mouth.”

  “Oh hoo! Fuck me, you are a slut.”

  Danton grinned and pulled his fingers away from her. She arched her back and rubbed her ass against Carter, feeling his cock straining against his pants. She turned her head and let out a quiet moan, moving her ass again.

  “Let me kneel down,” she whispered.

  He let her go and her hand stole down behind her to grab the bulge in his pants. She moved him around to her side as she sunk to the ground.

  Danton was already undoing the laces of his pants and Carter followed. Their eyes were dark, filled with hunger.

  “Over here pussy and get it out,” Danton demanded, briefly turning to Garrick.

  Garrick came over, head down and unlaced his pants, hesitantly pulling out his cock. He was soft, unlike the other two.

  Nola looked up at Danton.

  “You in my mouth, Carter in my hand and Garrick in the other. Then we’ll get to fucking. Come closer.”

  The three men moved closer as Nola opened her mouth. Her right hand stole down to her skirt and under it, taking hold of the knife.

  “Suck it you slut,” Danton said, holding his cock out, inches from her mouth.

  Nola jerked her head forward, headbutting him in the balls. She pulled the knife out and jammed it in Carter’s gut. He let out a soft groan as she ripped it out of him. She stabbed Danton in the same place, the serrated edges of the knife pulling flesh with it as it came back out. Carter fell, unconscious. Danton dropped, gasping in agony.

  Nola leapt up and pointed the knife at Garrick. He stepped back and fell over, landing on his ass.

  “I’m sorry Nola. Someone saw you today and they made me tell. I’m sorry.”

  Danton was groaning, curled in a ball. Carter was silent—unconscious or dead she didn’t know.

  “Give me the storeroom key.”

  She waved the bloody knife in his direction as Garrick got to his feet.

  “I can’t. I’ll get—”

  She lunged forward, holding the knife out. Garrick backed away, thudding against the storeroom.

  “Give me the key right now or I’ll cut off your dick and make you eat it.”

  The rage boiled. She wanted to stab him, spill his guts, kill the rapists but there was no time. Who knew who else they’d told? The longer this took, the less chance she had of success.

  Garrick fumbled at his belt, struggling with the cord tied to his belt. Nola smacked his hand away and cut the cord with the knife, snatching the key from his hand.

  “Now take off your belt,” she commanded.

  She saw him glance over her shoulder—the second time tonight—and she whirled around. Danton was on his feet, the wound in his belly gone.

  “Still had that medicine in me slut,” he hissed and lunged forward.

  She swung the knife in reflex, slicing his throat open, the blade digging to the bone but it didn’t stop him. Danton crashed into her and they went down, a hot wash of blood splashing her face and chest.

  His grip was agony, his fingers iron but somehow he went from on top of her to under her. She was stabbing him with the knife, over and over. His face, his ruined neck, frantic, mindless. She stabbed him in the chest, the knife piercing bone and sticking in his heart. Danton kicked once and then died with a gurgle, blood bubbling on his lips.

  A wave of weakness hit her then. She tried to pull the knife out but it was stuck. No time to waste.

  Garrick.

  He was gone.

  She climbed off Danton and realized she still had the key in her hand. She’d clenched it so hard it had cut into her palm.

  Leaving Carter for dead, she hobbled on shaking legs around to the front of the building. The key wouldn’t go in, couldn’t get it in the hole, hands trembling, covered in slick blood.

  “Fuck,” she whispered, her voice cracking. She took a breath and focused on the lock, sliding the key in and
turning it. She went too far—the key snapped off but the door opened, swinging out.

  She entered, looking for a solar light but there was none. The only light was seeping in through the door. She pushed it wide and turned around. The room was full of barrels stacked across the back wall. On both sides were shelves with piles of bars. On a higher shelf were plastic cylinders.

  She rushed to the shelf.

  “Iron, iron, aluminum, fuck,” she muttered, moving along in the dark.

  Fat Man smelted his finds into neat bars, marking each of them with his symbol and a letter. She needed platinum—it was worth the most.

  Nola moved down to the next shelf and kept moving until she hit a pile of bars etched with PL.

  Platinum. Bars of it.

  She took two—more than enough to keep them away from absolute zero and bolted, the heavy bars pressed against her chest. She wished she could carry more but she was too weak from hunger, from terror—and she had to get away. Garrick had run and was probably returning now with thugs who’d take her in. Then she’d never be seen again. No one who stole from Fat Man was.

  Nola was two streets away rushing in the dark, the weakness of hunger pulling at her, when she felt the wetness of her clothes sticking to her. Danton’s blood cooling in the night.

  Part of her mind was screaming—get to the Machine and put them in!—but the rest was weaving a lie in case she had to face the Sheriff. Garrick her boyfriend. The rapists attacking. Defending herself. I have no idea who took the storeroom key.

  No, that wouldn’t work.

  Garrick promising her money for stolen goat cheese. It was a trap, they were rapists. She fought them off and ran. Garrick is lying that I took the storeroom key.