And books and magazines full of photos of guns and knives. They knew about weapons. Their world was full of them. But not beautiful shiny ones like these. The guns they were familiar with, the weapons carried by all clan adults with enough clout to own one, were dark and unpolished, nicked and dented and scratched, but nevertheless lethal and ominous.
Then Stevie found the books with naked women in them. Lots of women showing all their parts to the boys. Modesty was not a virtue in the clans and the boys had seen everyone naked, children and adults, and had often observed couples having sex. The unclothed female form was not unfamiliar to Stevie and Eric.
But these women, these beautiful magazine models, were not like the women the boys had seen. They weren’t pale and dirty. There were no sores or red blotches on their skin. Their breasts didn’t sag. Their bellies didn’t protrude and they didn’t have bruises and scars and scabs like the women of the clan. Even their teeth were beautiful, not stained and rotting like some of the clan women’s. And they were all so clean. They were beautiful.
It was Eric who came up with the idea that cost him his life. Stevie has always been grateful that it wasn’t he who first proposed the plan.
“Do you know what the older boys would pay to look at these women?” Eric asked, a curious smile on his innocent face. “We could take some of these magazines and sell ‘em. They’re always tryin’ to see the girls naked. Why not sell some to ‘em, Stevie?”
Why not indeed, thought Stevie. He had a secret stash of canned food and could envision in his little mind adding to his larder. Maybe he could even get a knife to carry to impress the other kids with.
“Eric,” Stevie replied, now beginning to understand why his friend was grinning, “we may never go hungry again.”
And so back at the Messenger compound, they became young entrepreneurs and for two or three days became rich in their own, little boy way. When the older boys heard that the pictures were available, they sought out Stevie and Eric, bringing clothing and foodstuffs and army toys to the boys to trade for the magazines.
Oblivious to the attention they were attracting from parties other than the horny teenage boys, Stevie and Eric basked in the sweetness of their new found popularity.
CHAPTER EIGHT
REMEMBRANCES OF STEVIE B.
AGE NINE SUMMER 2050
SATAN’S MESSENGERS’ CAMP
Stevie B. and Eric were familiar with The Babe’s leadership style. They had both witnessed one of the despot’s answers to a challenge of his authority a month or two before their great adventure at the mall. The Babe had been talking to a thirteen-year-old girl in the yard area of the clan’s apartment complex, pulling her close, touching her hips, stroking her back while he whispered in her ear. The girl did not appear pleased by his overtures. The girl’s father witnessed the scene and, familiar with The Babe’s proclivities when it came to young girls, in a rare display of fatherly concern, pulled her away from his boss and sent her home.
Stevie and Eric watched from their vantage point in a second story apartment which they pretended was their command post. The Babe stalked away. The man walked back toward his daughter. “I think there’s gonna be big trouble,” said Eric.
Stevie agreed. They both watched from the window, waiting for The Babe’s response.
Five minutes later he reappeared, walking slowly and deliberately across the compound toward the girl’s apartment, the Louisville Slugger firmly gripped in his huge right hand. The Babe called out the girl’s father and, without and preliminary conversation, dispatched the offender with one swing, splattering nearby spectators with bits of brain tissue and fragments of bone. He retrieved the stunned girl from inside the building and walked her back to his apartment, gently guiding her with his arm around her shoulders, smiling solicitously and murmuring in her ear, dragging the gore smeared bat behind him, its business end a muddy mess of dirt, blood, bone and brain tissue.
The young girl’s screams, emanating from his third floor apartment, lasted fifteen minutes. Ten years later, in the safety of our compound, Stevie told the three of us that he can hear the sound of the bat impacting the father’s head as clearly as the day it happened.
“Sounded like a cantaloupe dropped from a second story window,” he told us.
• • • •
At the zenith of the boys’ first success in life, The Babe learned of Eric and Stevie’s magazine sales operation. They were too young and inexperienced in the ways of the clan world to plan for subterfuge in their venture. They didn’t know free enterprise was not encouraged by The Babe. Control was one of the main ingredients of his successful leadership. Dominance was perpetuated by maintaining a tight stranglehold over all activities within his organization. When he learned of the boys’ venture, The Babe moved immediately to terminate their burgeoning enterprise.
The two boys were blissfully ignorant of the forces that were about to shatter their lives. On the morning that two of The Babe’s men came to escort them to their chief, Eric and Stevie were taking inventory of their treasure trove and planning another excursion to the bookstore. Huddled in a corner of their second story command post in the Messenger camp, a five building apartment complex in a town once called Naperville, they were shocked when two lieutenants burst in and dragged them across the compound to their leader’s third floor residence. They were dumped into the living room of a corner apartment, the door closed behind them.
Not a word had been spoken to them on their short journey. Nor had they spoken to each other. As they surveyed their surroundings, they remained silent, struck dumb by the abrupt change in their situation and the alien nature of the room they occupied.
A kitchen filled with filthy dishes and silverware was to their left. To their right, a wall dominated by dirt smeared windows overlooked the complex. Straight ahead, across the large living room, was a hallway with three doors, one on each side, one at the end, all of which were shut tight. From the door at the end of the hallway came voices and laughter, men and women’s voices.
The living room was furnished with couches, cushions and coffee tables. Glasses and mugs covered the tables, some empty, some half-filled, some lying on their side. Candles and kerosene lamps were scattered throughout, ready for nightfall. Pipes and bongs and syringes and pills were abundant. A few little plastic bags with white powder in them were evident among the debris on the table, probably Slammer or Fuck-U-Up, maybe some new concoction from the Messenger’s chems. The boys knew what they were. The room reeked with the odor of spilled homemade beer and wine, and the stench of urine filtered into the area, emanating from the hallway bathroom. The sweet, stale stink of hundreds of exhalations of marijuana smoke mingled with the other noxious odors that assaulted their noses.
Glittered, long-haired rock stars, poised and strutting, swinging microphones and wielding guitars like battle axes, looked down upon the boys from framed pictures on the walls. Joining the musicians were strange and terrible monsters and aliens and fantasy warriors, who battled dragons and defended women whose breasts were bigger than watermelons.
The Babe had found a poster store.
Stevie and Eric knew they were in trouble. They waited in silence, listening to the sounds from the room at end of the hall, surrounded by monsters with blood soaked fangs and razor sharp claws, each realizing that behind the door at the end of the hall lurked the real monster. For thirty minutes they were terrorized by their own imaginations. They spoke not a word.
Finally, the door opened and three women and one man exited the room. When they saw the boys, they laughed. The man pushed Stevie and Eric down the hall to meet The Babe. The boys were nearly in a state of fear-induced paralysis.
The soldier pushed them into the room, slamming the door behind them, leaving them alone with the biggest, ugliest, smelliest, most repulsive individual they had ever encountered.
The Babe reposed in a recliner, the kind that kicks out a leg rest when its occupant leans back far enough. Decked out in
a brand new red and black Chicago Bulls warm up suit that strained against his protuberant belly and black Reebok high tops, he glared at them for a full minute. Then he spoke. His voice, deep and menacing, flowed from a mouth ringed by a raggedy beard, and highlighted by large, red, greasy lips. He licked his fingers and tossed a chicken bone in the corner.
“I understand that you boys like art. Did you like the living room? Pretty good shit, huh?” He leaned forward, his arm extended in a sweeping gesture. “Recognize any of the stuff in here? I keep my best pictures in here. The real art.”
The terror stricken boys, who fifty years earlier would have been scrutinizing lions and elephants on the wall of Mrs. Wilson’s third grade classroom, gazed at the walls that closed them in. They were surrounded by nude women, walls and ceiling. Breasts were thrust forward, languidly presented to the camera. Labia were spread by long elegant fingers with painted nails and offered willingly to onlookers. Smiles and pouts and pursed lips spoke silent invitations. Erect nipples were displayed, squeezed between thumbs and forefingers. Buttocks were presented and spread, revealed to the camera’s inquisitive eye. There were no secrets.
Eric and Stevie were familiar with a few of the photos, ones that they had sold to the older Messenger boys.
“I’m looking to add to my collection,” said The Babe. His voice was kind, solicitous. “This section over here is new. You boys ever seen this kinda art?”
Behind him was a section devoted to another type of photography. Eric and Stevie saw a wall of men. All nude. All offering the same type of things the women did, just with different equipment. Some of the men in the photos wore holsters with pistols in them or carpenter’s belts filled with tools. Always displaying. Always preening. The boys looked away, afraid and repulsed.
“Whatsa matter?” leered The Babe. “You don’t like this stuff? I thought you boys would be interested in this kind of art. Whadda you say you boys pose for some pictures? I don’t have no camera. But we could practice. It could be fun. And I’ll make sure you got some special presents. How about it?”
The boys backed away. The Babe read the disgust and fear on their faces. He took a new approach, falling back on his most successful strategy for dealing with people who had something he wanted.
He heaved his massive bulk from the chair and approached Eric and Stevie. Towering over them, he began to talk, quietly and menacingly at first; then building to a scream and bellow, spittle flying from his mouth.
“You two are selling magazines to the men. They are my magazines. Everything here is mine. Your food is mine. Your clothes are mine. Your mothers are mine. Your mothers suck my cock whenever I want them to. I can fuck them anytime I want. Same with your sisters. Same with you. I own your little asses. I can do anything I want with you. Nobody’s gonna stop me. Nobody’s gonna help you. I want you to tell me where you got them. I’m on top. You’re the bottom. Think about it, you little pieces of shit.”
He stepped back and flopped back down in his recliner, spent by his tirade, his face flushed and shiny with sweat, his beard spattered with spittle.
The boys were silent, struck dumb by the astounding performance of the gross three-hundred-pound creature in front of them.
The Babe waited, glaring at the boys, intimidating them into further silence. Stevie wanted to speak, but the words were locked in his brain. He couldn’t get his mouth to work.
After a minute of stillness in the room, The Babe again extracted himself from the recliner, approached Eric, put a meaty paw behind his neck and guided him to his chair, forcing the boy to kneel between his massive legs as he sat back down.
“Did you like the magazines, Eric?” he asked. “Did the pictures excite you? Are you old enough to get hard yet? Remember what I said about you being mine?”
Hot, sweaty, pale, Eric took one look at the monstrosity before him and immediately lost control of his insides. A jet stream of chunk-filled yellow liquid rocketed from his mouth, splashing The Babe’s ankles and feet. The stench of vomit and stomach acid filled the room. Panicked, terrified, lost, Eric pulled away from the monster’s grasp, screaming, “No! No! No!”
The Babe lurched up from his chair, hastily stepping back. He tripped on the foot rest and fell backward, sprawled like a walrus on his filthy floor. The Babe rolled to his hands and knees and stood. His face was red with rage, fury flashed in his eyes as he picked Eric up by the collar and threw him across the room, screaming, “You puked on my Reeboks, you little shit!”
Eric’s impact against the wall shook the room. His body slid to the floor, still and silent, no sobs, no sounds. The body of Stevie’s friend was motionless. A small stream of blood leaked from the interior of one ear. One eye stared at Stevie. No recognition there. No more fear. The other eye was shut.
The Babe whirled to face Stevie B., who stood stunned and shocked by the violation of his only friend. “Where are my fucking books, you little toad! Tell me now or I’m gonna hurt you real bad.”
Stevie fell to his knees, sobbing uncontrollably. He felt the monstrosity’s footsteps approaching, lifted his head and, between sobs, told the beast where to find the magazines.
The Babe lifted Stevie off the floor and brought him to the level of his face. His feet dangling in the air, Stevie found himself nose to nose with his worst nightmare. He pulled his head back as the fat man’s repugnant breath assailed his nostrils.
The Babe bared his teeth and snarled at Stevie, “You stay here while I find out if you tell the truth. If you’re lying, I’m gonna slice open your little friend and make you eat his guts. If you’re not, I’ll show you how to use your little butt for something besides shitting.”
He dropped Stevie and left. The boy crumpled to the floor, curling into the fetal position, eyes closed, his brain replaying over and over the horror he had witnessed.
Time passed. (Stevie has never been able to tell us how long), and Stevie absorbed the nightmare of being imprisoned in the same room with his dead only friend. Stevie was alone again. The knowledge that he would he was about to become dead or worse seeped in. The dead part didn’t feel so bad. But he knew he couldn’t count on dead. Children had value. Alive with Satan’s Messengers was worse than dead.
His options were few and terrifying. Stay, die, become a slave, run, die, survive alone. No way that a kid who had survived the worst the clan world could throw at him was going to wait in an apartment for a deranged, soulless, leviathan.
Stevie slowly stood. Shook his head. Did a slow 360. Assessing. First thing Eric. He walked over and closed his friend’s one open eye. He told him goodbye. Out loud.
Stevie turned and listened. No threat. The Babe had probably taken his crew to find the magazines. The rest of the clan had resumed normal camp life. No one would come to the apartment except one of the Babe’s crew.
He gave himself two minutes. Three water bottles, a pound of jerky, a buck knife and a skinner, a pair of Jordan’s, not The Babe’s, two hockey jerseys, a backpack. No need for the drugs. No guns.
Stevie walked from the back bedroom through the hall and living room and tried the door. It was unlocked. Returning to the bedroom, he slipped the backpack into position. Then he walked out the door. Down three flights of stairs, out of the building, and through a group of clan women who had pulled lunch duty. No eye contact. Steady pace. His brain and heart wanted him to run. Wanted it so bad that Stevie thought others could hear his heart beating like rain on a tin roof. He waited for the shout that never came.
He walked out of the camp, into the street, and disappeared in a residential neighborhood. He had no destination. He had no plan. His brain was not directing his actions. Stevie continued his trek all day, through the night, and into the next day. He munched jerky, drank bottled water and walked until his body gave out. Before dark on the second day, Stevie found a sturdy house, crawled into the basement, and crashed into unconsciousness.
He rarely spoke to another human being for six years, until Sarah and I found him in t
he woods about four miles from the compound, just a few seconds away from learning the ultimate lesson.
CHAPTER NINE
REMEMBRANCES OF STEVIE B.
THE YEARS ALONE 2050 TO 2054
On the edge. Stay on the fringes. Hunt at night. Sleep when the sun was up. Explore. Seek in the dark. Stay out of the light.
Nobody taught him. But when he got hungry enough the first time, two full days and nights after he had fled from the Messenger compound and The Babe’s sadistic interrogation of him and Eric, his mind flashing the flight signal over and over to the exclusion of everything else, Stevie found food while the curtain of night covered his movements.
He located the camp of another clan. The secret soldier games he and Eric had played, their natural inclinations to be furtive and silent, got him in, past the sleeping dogs and snoring clansmen, into the cooking area where dinner scraps and venison bones were his reward. He left the same way he came—silently. His first victory.
During his years alone, the survival lessons were hard and cruel. The brown bear taught him never to leave bones and food scraps open to the wind which could catch their rotting fumes and carry the odor to carnivores and omnivores that shared the night with him. He was awakened at dawn by the sound of 900 pounds of raunchy smelling fur accentuated by razor claws and tenacious teeth ripping its way into his basement shelter, enticed by the rotting meat the boy had discarded. Stevie scrambled out a basement window, all of his food and clothing 80left for the bear.
Never eat where you sleep.
• • • •
The dog packs taught him about back doors. He was twelve then, a boy alone returning to his home in a suburban basement after a night’s foraging: five cans of vegetables—corn, French cut green beans, peas and two others he didn’t recognize—a freshly killed rabbit from a clan cooking area and two kitchen knives with the edges that had lots of curves and indentations. As the sun began to lighten the sky in the east, they caught Stevie in the open, having heard the alien night sound of cans clinking together when the boy adjusted his back pack.
Blood of the Dogs_Book I_Annihilation Page 8