Apocalyptic Fears II: Select Bestsellers: A Multi-Author Box Set

by Greg Dragon

  “Right, see you soon.”

  Edsel got back into the Suzuki and headed once more for the city.

  SLAUGHTER

  Edsel watched from across the street; it was quiet. It was still only early afternoon so the church should be relatively empty. He didn’t kid himself, he was no idiot either, he hoped anyway — if the church was full then there was no way he would win; they would kill him for sure.

  He knew that dealing with all of The Eventuals was also impossible, and besides, this was a tiny Ward, there were more of them all over the country. But if he could just get those that gave him The Ink, and Bishop, that would be something right? A stab at the red heart of their sacred institution. Their corruption of all that still held meaning in the world.

  I must be bloody mad doing this.

  He stayed still for ten minutes and nobody came or went. They didn’t think they needed protecting: they were all there was. Nobody fought them; nobody had the will or the inclination. Surviving was all that mattered for most people.

  So he walked across the street and went up the concrete steps to the front door.

  I definitely am mad. I feel like they are all inside waiting for me, laughing at the idiot coming back for more.

  The door squealed loudly as he tentatively pushed it open.

  Empty.

  He could hear chatter in the back, and buzzing. The sounds turned him cold even as sweat pricked his skin just like the needles had.

  Edsel turned to a man of ice. He didn’t think or feel, he just walked. He picked up a long machete from the weapons table and walked down the center of the once holy room — now corrupted, making God weep for the acts of his children.

  The chatter was interrupted with laughing, and the buzzing stopped for a moment. Edsel stood at the entrance to the room and took in the scene before him.

  A man was strapped down to the gurney, but unlike when Edsel was in the same position this man actually looked happy. He was shaved and naked just as he had been, and bent over him were the two tattooists. The man’s feet were bright red and The Ink was already up to his shins. One tattooist was refilling his machine and the other was dabbing at the new Ink with a cloth to blot the blood. The man on the table was half mad with euphoria and pain, babbling about how he was humbled to finally become an Eventual and couldn’t wait to enter The Void.

  Well, maybe I can help with that.

  Edsel became vengeance.

  The room went silent as the man on the gurney turned his head — no head straps for him, noted Edsel morbidly — and the other men slowly became aware that something was not quite right.

  “What the hell?” managed the man on the left, his machine clattering to the table, red Ink spilling, running down a metal leg, pooling on the gleaming tiles.

  For you Kathy. For everyone.

  With a cry, Edsel charged into the room, all fear gone, thinking nothing, feeling nothing, acting on instinct. The rage and sorrow of days brimming over, vengeance reigning down death on those that would corrupt the souls of men.

  Edsel watched as if in a dream as he ran across the room, the machete descending as he moved. He hacked hard and went clean through the arm of the man closest to him, his hand dropping to the floor, splashing in the spilled Ink. The man clutched at his stump as it squirted out his life-force, lost in a confusion of Ink and blood. It was impossible to tell which was which any longer, as the spray spouted a fine mist over them all.

  Edsel pulled his arm up over his left shoulder and sliced down to the right, a horrible sucking sound as he slashed clean through the throat of the injured man. His esophagus opened up, blood bubbling in his throat, as he keeled over and stared at his own severed hand bathing in Ink while he died.

  The man on the gurney screamed and squirmed, but his restraints held him tight — there for his own safety during the procedure. The other tattooist was up and almost across the room, heading for a rare handgun that was on one of the tables. Edsel sprang for him, slicing out as he did so, but just catching the man’s shoulder the lightest of touches with the edge of his blade. The man lunged for the table, grabbed the gun and turned.

  Acting fast, Edsel hacked again and moved to his left as the man raised the gun, catching a glancing blow on the man’s knuckles that sprouted a line of blood immediately, hard to see on the Ink-red skin. He howled but didn’t let go of the weapon, and Edsel understood on an instinctive level that he would be dead in a second if he didn’t act fast. His mind was empty, there were no thoughts, only actions — revenge. Blood.

  Instinct was still driving him; his body knew what to do even if he didn’t. He grabbed the lip of the small medical table and shoved it hard into the man, needles and unopened blister packs flying in all directions. The man staggered back and Edsel shoved again, harder. Then he lashed out with the machete, slicing his opponents’ arm. Edsel jumped on him and they went crashing to the floor amid the bottles of Ink and the tools of the tattooist.

  Edsel kicked and punched wildly, out of control and frenzied. He was a berserker, mad with hate for the man that had marked him like a leper for the rest of his life. The tattooist smacked him hard in the nose and Edsel was blind with tears as his nose screamed in pain and his body erupted into fire from the contact with his foe. Edsel felt a punch to the ribs and hit back blindly, his knuckles hurting as he made contact with something. His vision cleared enough to let him shuffle back away from the man and he saw that the gun had skidded across the floor, taking a trail of blood and Ink with it as it slid through the red corruption.

  The man was up and hunting for the gun. He saw it and jumped for it, but Edsel was on him, his own weapon lost, hammering on his back and his head with fists lost in pain. They squared on each other, fists held high, and the man punched out hard and precise. Edsel’s head snapped to the side, but he barely felt it; he charged the tattooist. They clattered into the wall, grabbing each other in a frenzy, trying to gain the advantage.

  Snapping his leg up, Edsel kneed him in the groin and stepped back, panting hard. The man bent over and Edsel kicked at his head but he was so tired, the pain shooting along his thigh as he moved suddenly, that it didn’t make the best contact. Still, the man’s head whipped to the side, but he bulldozed forward and caught Edsel in the stomach with his head. The wind was knocked out of him as he staggered back, only to be stopped by the gurney. The strapped-down man was shouting obscenities about how Edsel was ruining what should have been his glorious acceptance to The Eventuals, so Edsel slammed a fist into his face before moving around to the other side of the gurney.

  The tattooist was panting just as heavily as Edsel, but scanned for the gun. Now it was in the corner, kicked away during the scuffle.

  He went for it.

  Don’t let him get it. Go!

  Edsel dove after him, grabbing the tattoo machine off the table as he flew toward the man, wires trailing where they ripped from the power supply.

  The gun rose, time slowed, then Edsel was on him — stabbing out blindly in a panic as the gun centered on him. He caught the man’s arm and the needles went deep. The gun clattered to the tiles and Edsel pulled the machine out and smacked the side of it into the man’s face, the wires whipping about like viscera as he pulled back and did it again.

  The tattooist went down grunting, not up to the ferocity of Edsel’s mindless onslaught.

  The man was a mess, his face swelling as Edsel hit him again. Blood was pouring out of the man’s nose as Edsel leapt on him and raised his arm high overhead.

  “You missed a spot,” hissed Edsel, and brought the tattoo machine down needles first. The man’s eye popped as the needles went in deep. Edsel left it there, sticking out of the broken face as he pulled his knife from its sheath at his side. Grabbing it with two hands he stabbed down into the man’s chest until the knife was buried up to the hilt.

  He was dead.

  Mindful of the messy floor, Edsel got to his feet carefully, his body on fire, his heart hammering, lungs sucking i
n air like a bellows.

  “You killed them. You killed them!” shouted the man on the gurney. “My Ink, my sacred Ink. They didn’t finish it.”

  “And they never will,” whispered Edsel, as he pulled his knife out of the dead tattooist and walked slowly over to the prone figure.

  “You’ll burn in hell for this,” spat the man.

  “Not before you do,” said Edsel, in a surprisingly calm voice. “Say goodbye.”

  “Wha—“

  Focusing on a mole, Edsel stabbed the man in the side of the neck. Blood spurted in a high arc, hitting the floor and mingling with Ink that would never mark his skin.

  BLOOD

  Blood. Everything was red.

  There was blood everywhere and Edsel felt no sense of satisfaction. None at all. All he felt was sick, and empty. Like each life he took also carried away a part of him to The Void. If he believed in a soul then it truly was as if the killing took a chunk of it away and now he was left without one, alone in a world that didn’t care about the actions of one broken man.

  Is this enough? Do I finally have my revenge? Is this supposed to be satisfaction?

  He felt ripped open, gutted like a fish; empty of everything.

  Edsel stood in the back of the church, in the very room where his life had begun to be indelibly taken away from him one painful pinprick at a time.

  The room was red, just like him, just like he would always be. Ink and blood mixed on the floor, congealing and staining the tiles. Men lay dead: one with a hand cut off, another with his work tool sticking awkwardly out of his eye.

  And the foul gurney? Home to a dead would-be Eventual, now never going to have his Ink finished.

  Edsel was numb inside, but his body screamed its torment to him.

  Pain was his only companion now. Pain and emptiness.

  Is this what I wanted? Am I like them now? Bishop, what about Bishop?

  Edsel knew himself well enough to know that he didn’t have it in him. This was doing more damage to him — his body, but more importantly his mind — than it was doing to The Eventuals. He’d had his revenge; it was time to go home.

  Home? Where’s home? What’s anything without Kathy?

  Edsel left the room, walking through the silent church, a smile forming on his face.

  I have a new home, a new family. A chance to do something good still. Aiden. And that silly old bugger while he’s still alive.

  He would bring up the boy, protect him from the horrors of a world where once normal people grow into men that kill other men in previously sacred buildings because the world had turned mad and everything was ruined.

  I’ll do something right. I’ll do something good.

  Edsel closed the door behind him, shutting away forever that part of his life, and staggered down the steps into the warmth of a glorious summer’s afternoon. He felt half a man, not only because of the things he had just done, although it certainly stripped him of much, but the pain clouded his mind, making everything feel like a dream.

  Had he really just done that? Him, a man that would balk at having a fist-fight. The day blurred into one of pain and death — a reminder of all that he had lost.

  But maybe he had gained something too? A slight chance at redemption. Aiden.

  His legs roared in anger at being called upon to take one more step. His upper body cried at the punishment it had undergone. The fighting had torn away countless scabs and Edsel could see through his tattered shirt that his body was bleeding profusely in numerous places, mingling with the blood of those he had killed, Ink he had spilled.

  He felt like he was being roasted slowly over an open fire, turned on a spit until every part of his body was crispy and he was cooked to his very core.

  The sun shone down, burning his already battered arms, as Edsel moved fast across the street into the shade. He tried to calm himself but it was no use, he was in a half-panic, expecting an attack at any moment, but none came. He ran even though his body protested violently, forcing him to stop twice to vomit up foul bile, the stress of the day and the thought of what he had done too much for him to take.

  Then he was safe, driving away, back to the quiet country home where an old man slowly faded away and a young boy needed a guardian to help him survive in a world that now had little meaning for Edsel — apart from maybe, just maybe, a shot at salvation now he had taken as much revenge as his body could stomach.

  I can’t let them take everything away from me. This is over.

  ***

  As he drove back toward what he felt of as his family now, Edsel couldn’t help going over the insanity of recent events. From what he had just done, going backward to killing a man and how easy it was, to darker thoughts of the pain of The Ink, of the vision of Kathy in the living room — something he could never forget — to trying to avoid re-capture after escaping, weaving home as fast as he could, always having to hide, then run. Always running.

  Edsel thought of his escape, unable to shake the memory of lying on the gurney after just killing a man in the very same position he himself had been in; the difference being his was less than a voluntary sacrifice to The Ink and the perversion of faith that was The Eventuals.

  They had got up to his lower chest and he still didn’t even consider escaping. Strapped down tight to the gurney it was impossible. There was no way he could get away; he couldn’t even move his eyelids for god’s sake.

  As he lay there, the buzzing of the power source for the tattooists’ machines, their chatter, the humming of the stark white strip-light all conspiring to send him mad, Edsel suddenly decided there was only one thing to do. He clenched his stomach, pushed as hard as he could, and peed in a huge arc, his shriveled penis — which he thought was understandable considering it had just been manhandled by two men that stuck tiny needles into it — was hanging limp between his legs, pointing down toward the tattooists who were busy changing the needles on their machines and reloading with Ink before they continued their sick ritual.

  “Argh.” Edsel couldn’t believe the pain. He was on fire from the waist down, the urine burning even though he assumed it would act as a way to soothe his skin. It worked for jellyfish stings didn’t it?

  “Oi, watch out!” shouted one man, as he got pee all over his stained apron.

  “Stop it, stop it!” shouted the other, moving quickly out of the way, pushing his trolley aside so it didn’t get wet too.

  “I can’t, I can’t,” gasped Edsel. “And I think I’m going to crap too. I need to use the bathroom, quick, this is burning like you wouldn’t believe. Please.”

  The two men busied themselves unstrapping him, arguing about who had let Edsel up last for a break. Neither of them had, and they were supposed to unstrap those that came for The Ink if necessary, and certainly well before now. They hadn’t done it, even though both had taken breaks themselves — not showing the courtesy to Edsel as he wasn’t there of his own free will.

  As they unstrapped him they mopped at his wet skin, muttering that he would ruin their perfect work if he did things like that — a blasphemy against Him, against His Will. The Ink must be perfect; no flaws, no blemishes, no color variation whatsoever.

  They think more of The Ink than they do of people; more worried about their work than what they are doing to me.

  Edsel smiled to himself as they removed the foul contraption that held his eyelids open, then unstrapped his head. He wiggled it from side to side, his bones clicking noisily after the forced immobility.

  “Don’t move suddenly,” said the larger man, “and don’t touch The Ink.”

  “What about, you know?” said Edsel, staring down at his crotch.

  “Not even that, or as little as possible. And after you’ve had a crap make sure you don’t rub your arse hard. You’ll know all about it if you do.” The man walked over to a table while the other kept an eye on him, pointing a gun for extra measure, and then returned with a pack of unscented wet-wipes. “Use these, but sparingly. I’d rather
you stank a little than you messed up our work.”

  Man, these guys are insane. Who cares if The Ink on my bum isn’t perfect?

  They continued to argue about who was supposed to have taken Edsel to the bathroom, finally deciding that the one who’d had a break more recently should go. With a lot of grumbles he finally agreed, and as the one taking him muttered about how they should be using catheters and the like and the other one said they couldn’t as those getting The Ink were supposed to be as pure as when they were born for it to mean anything, Edsel was guided very gently out of the room, through the door, then taken down a corridor, right to the back of the building.

  “There you go,” said the tattooist, pointing at the open door to a sparse but spotlessly clean bathroom. All Edsel wore was a pair of paper disposable slipper-type things, and he couldn’t believe how much more he hurt after such a short walk. “Be quick, and be careful. Try to lift a foot up and then swap to the other while you sit, it will mean The Ink won’t get as damaged.”

  “The Ink,” muttered Edsel.

  “Yeah, The Ink. This is a great honor you know? Once it’s done you will be like us, one of us. Bishop thinks you are going to be a valuable member of the Manchester Ward, so don’t let him down.”

  “I won’t,” said Edsel, shuffling carefully over to the lavatory then turning before he sat.

  “A little privacy?”

  “You have got to be joking. The door stays open, the gun stays pointed.”

  “Not exactly conducive to a man answering a call of nature, is it?” said Edsel, hoping the plan would go his way and the man would relent.

  The man just shrugged. “You either need to go or you don’t, no skin off my nose.”

  “Fine.” Edsel sat on the toilet after lifting the seat, and panicked — now what?

  Then it came to him, and he didn’t like it one little bit.

  Edsel squeezed down hard, trying to will himself to evacuate his bowels even though he didn’t need to.