by Kolin Wood
He turned to the bench behind him, to a thick medical practitioner’s book that he had found in the prison library. It was propped open on a page explaining in detail the layout of the human stomach. The edges were stained with bloody thumb and finger prints. With the torch beam hovered over it, he leaned closer.
The book, for all its faults, had been relatively accurate. All the organs shown in the diagrams had been approximately where they had said they would be, and it had not taken too long for him to fish inside and find something that resembled what he had been looking for. What the book had failed to explain, however, was the amount of blood and bile that would flood out and murk his way—especially as he had started to cut deeper. In a proper surgery, a nurse would have been present, a white mask covering her professionally puckered mouth, dainty fingernails holding a long tube to suck up the filth and help him see. Harold however, was not subject to such practical advantages. All the organs, coated in film and slick with blood, had looked the same, and none had quite gone back in the same way that he had pulled them out. Come sewing time, it had been like trying to repack an over-full suitcase. He’d pushed and stuffed the various fleshy bits back in, using a towel to hold back stomach contents. It was a wonder he had got it sown shut at all.
Harold walked to the head of the gurney and gently stroked the man’s face. The brow was furrowed with deep lines and felt as hot as a water bottle. The man flinched at the touch, turning his head to the side as a small trickle of blood made its way like a meal worm from the corner of his mouth.
Harold smiled again; he truly was alive!
With a hand resting on the man’s stomach, Harold relished the feeling of the lumps and bumps underneath the taught skin. He could feel each thread of the incision, evenly-spaced like a track, marching its way across a soft desert of pallid skin.
Under the pale light, the blood on his fingertips looked fresh. It felt wet and warm, and he rubbed it, allowing it go a little tacky under the duress of his abrasion. He brought the finger to his lips, rubbing it along the dry and parched soft skin, and then sucked it in. The iron taste caused a stirring in his groin and for his neck hairs to prickle. He reached back down and this time, he ran the finger higher, up past the top of the incision, moving it in small circles and stopping as he came to the sternum. He tapped three times on the hard bone.
He turned the page. A picture of the heart, spread out in complete detail, presented itself before him and he patted the man’s cheek, offering a mumbled condolence which fell on deaf ears. Behind, an oval bone saw sat on the shelf, its teeth dull and congested with dried flesh. He took it down, enjoying its weight in his hands, then he carefully rested it against the natural body armour of his victim’s chest cavity.
It was then that the voices came again.
Life ith on the inthide, Harold.
***
The dim light from the single strip of window did little to penetrate the blackness as Harold moved down the blood-red steps, his hard leather heels clanking loudly in the silence around him. These were the sub wards, the dungeons, home to the ‘numbers’ and a place that, until recently, he rarely had cause to visit. The deeper he went, the darker it got, until he arrived at a heavy metal cage door propped open using an old fire extinguisher. Beyond, the pungent stench of rotting bodies and human excrement hung thick in the air.
From his pocket, Harold removed a small, half-melted candle. He dug his fingers into the soft end to retrieve the wick and then lit it using an old plastic lighter. The small glow subtly permeated the gloom. Before him lay a thin corridor with five closed doors on one side. A thin and rickety wooden chair with the remnants of bloodied and frayed rope hanging limply from the arms sat blocking the route.
The chair felt light as he walked with it towards the farthest of the five doors. Above the door, on a corroded steel plaque, some plastic, yellowing numbers read ONE SIX FOUR.
I hope you are hungry, boy, he thought as he gently eased the dripping bag from his shoulders and set it at his feet. This far down the passage, the stench was almost too much, and Harold breathed through his mouth while he searched his pocket for the cell door key. It helped, but he dared not swallow, least he should taste the foulness that gathered at the back of his throat.
Careful to avoid the bloody, grabbing hand prints that smeared the frame, he inserted the key into the lock and turned it as quietly as he could. The heavy steel door inched open just a fraction. An even stronger waft of decaying meat escaped through the gap and made him feel sick, but he knew he couldn’t look away, not even for a second, not with what lived in this room.
Its dinner time, he thought, wincing at the dry cry of the worn hinges. The contents of the satchel made a squishing sound as he picked up the bag by the strap and slid it inside the door.
From the darkness came a low hiss, like the sound of a car tire slowly deflating. Something moved deep in the shadows, just out of sight. Harold froze; a small, wry smile on his lips. He knew who this was… what it was. He understood that one wrong move would mean the end of his life, and the thrill excited him. But nothing was going to happen, not when he held the keys to the doors. Without him, the monsters within these cells would shrivel and die. Nobody else cared. His experiments in the surgery had meaning and served purpose. These visits were simply another part of his closed loop economy.
“Eat up, big boy,” he whispered, and began to pull on the door.
It moved quickly, bounding across the room towards him, crouched and panting like a rabid dog. Barely visible in the dark, its skin looked black and slick; its two bright and murderous eyes stood out in contrast. Harold yanked as hard as he could as his heart caught in his throat. All of the confidence and omnipotence that he had just felt faded as quickly as it had arrived as a body slammed against the door on the other side. Panicked, he set his weight back, using one thin leg on the wall beside the frame to hold the door shut as he struggled to turn the key.
“Come on!” he yelled aloud to himself.
But the door was cumbersome, and One Six Four was big; if it came down to a tug of war, Harold knew that he would lose. With a final pull and twist, the key latch slid into the reinforced barrel with a loud clunk. Infuriated, One Six Four banged against the door, each strike louder and angrier than the last. It was not until after a dozen loud attempts that the noise finally stopped. A deep, low growl, emanated from the gap underneath.
As his breathing settled, Harold began to laugh. As it took a hold he laughed louder and louder, leaning on the wall with one shaky hand. Wow. The excitement of being down here never got old, but, hell, if he didn’t need to be more careful next time.
A sound, like a pig snuffling for feed in a trough, came under the door. He enjoyed this bit. Through the panel, he could see a big, naked back, decorated with inked shapes and streaks of dried gore, hunkered down before him on all fours. The wet sounds of eating followed. He smiled.
Plenty more where that came from, he thought as he picked up the candle. Plenty more left overs for the junkyard dogs. Because that is all they were—nothing but dogs, and even dangerous dogs could be trained.
Satisfied, he made his way slowly back down the corridor towards the stairs. The bottom of the now-empty, wet bag dripped a bloody trail as he walked. From each of the other four doors he could hear noises coming from within. The corridor rang with an angry chattering in some incoherent, strange dialogue. He could feel them; their eyes on him, their desperation and their anger as realisation of another hungry day set in. Sometimes he would feed the other numbers, other times not not—today being a case of the latter. Their powerlessness hung in the air alongside the stench, and he relished it.
That’s it, look at me. Look at me and feel my power! Worship your master.
The babbling grew louder and louder, rising in volume until it struck an almost unbearable din, and Harold sped up as the candle burned dangerously low in his hand. For all his acting and bravado, he didn’t want to be down here alone in the dark
, with them.
A loud barking command split the commotion and the corridor fell silent, save for an echo which bounced off the far wall and dissipated up the staircase before him like a ghost. Their leader had spoken. The thought that these crazies were actually communicating with each other both excited and scared him at the same time. One Six Four held some control; over what and how, he was not sure. Teeth chattered in the blackness and Harold imagined that this is what it would sound like to be trapped in a scene from a zombie apocalypse.
He blew out the candle and made his way up the steep blood-red staircase, back towards the general population and his surgery.
At the top of the staircase he heard it, a low howl from the far cell; Prisoner One Six Four.
He smiled. Good boy.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Bennet Marshall pulled the wet balaclava from his head, tossing it onto the moth-eaten sofa and then stooped to grab a towel from a pile by his feet. The cool air felt amazing on his clammy face as he mopped up the itchy sweat that burned his brow, breathing in the familiar, half-laundered smell.
“What are we gonna do with them, love?” he asked, already knowing the answer.
Kelly, his wife, was knelt down on the floor in front of him. Without looking up, she took a match from a dog-eared book and struck it, setting light to the corner of some paper squashed under a neatly stacked pile of kindling.
Bennet reached down, resting his hand gently on her shoulder. “It might be too early,” he said, watching the small fire as it began to glow and bloom in the black, sooty hearth. Smoke twisted softly before slipping into obscurity up the well-used chimney in the small room.
Kelly did not answer. Instead, she took a piece of card and gently fanned the flames, silent and focused on the task at hand.
“Kelly?” he said, more insistently.
Kelly turned to look up at her husband. She looked tired and fed up, almost as though she had finally lost faith in what they were doing. The apathy was understandable, and he did not hold it against her. What they had managed thus far was tough, way tougher than he had hoped for them to ever have to endure. But now, the rules of the game had changed. Living was tough—no, surviving was tough. So much more so now that the intruders had shattered their illusion of peace.
He smiled down at her. The dry and pitted skin of her face was furrowed with lines that told the story of their hardships, but Bennet could still see the same girl he had fallen in love with hidden somewhere deep behind the horror-worn features.
“I want to give the kids a hot meal tonight Ben, we owe them that,” she said, looking back at the fire while she continued to fan the flames. “We owe ourselves that.”
Bennet nodded; he set a hand on her cheek and held it there, feeling the soft skin. It was futile to argue with her at that point. He had known Kelly most of his adult life, and experience had made him well versed in her ways and mannerisms. He knew when she had reached her limit, and this was one such time.
“And if there are more? What if this is just a scouting party?” he offered anyway.
She snapped her head back to face him, and her mouth curled into a snarl. “Then they'll find themselves hanging from a meat hook in the scullery,” she spat, without hesitation.
Her skin looked gaunt and pale from the constant darkness of the house. It made him sad to see her this way. The one-time nursery teacher had become a hardened warrior, acutely conditioned and trained to fight, to survive; as ready to commit to her purpose as any soldier in any army on the planet. The difference, however, was that Kelly Marshall didn't fight for honour or a sense of allegiance; she fought for the immediate future of her family. His children too, were well-versed in combat and survival, having been drilled and trained constantly in the years since their adoption of Osterley House. He had grown proud of them all, and how they had pulled together in the face of adversity. They had overcome a hugely superior foe, even if their attackers’ weapons had been rudimentary. He opened his mouth to reply, but then thought better of it. There were stores—plenty of them, in fact—but he was always careful about what they used and how they used them. It was this discipline that had kept them all alive this long. However, sometimes people needed to be rewarded; his days in the army had taught him that much. Anyway, deep down his body craved some hot food and he was too tired to argue.
He turned and fell heavily into the soft armchair, groaning loudly as his muscles screamed and began the slow unfurling of themselves. The cushions felt soft and sleep was imminent. His mind drifted back to the earlier altercation.
The big fella had gone down like a sack of potatoes following Preston’s strike with the gun. Fair play to his lad; he’d shown his mettle, even if the violence had perhaps been a little overkill on account of the nerves. The eye socket had shattered for sure; he’d heard it crack loudly. Even as the man had fallen, he’d kept smiling that crazy, blood-stained grin; taunting him, almost as if he knew no pain. He probably should have killed him there and then; slit his throat and walked away; he would have done in the old days. He probably should have killed them all—including the wannabe gangster and the other two—but something had kept him from doing it. A nagging conscience, forged on adolescent lessons from deep within his subconscious, had stopped him from crossing that line. It had protected him from becoming something else, something more primitive, although he was sure that, sooner or later, it was a line that would have to be crossed again.
He slipped deeper, and his mind cast all the way back to the beginning. It had been all he could do to keep his family alive. They ran, quickly abandoning the city for the countryside as the first fires began to burn in the street where they had once peacefully lived. Bennet had seen the result of anarchy in other cities and in other countries of the world, and he knew better than to try to ride it out. People are ultimately just animals, and animals fight when threatened. With their family car packed to the roof with all the possessions that they could carry, he had made the decision to hide but not completely abandon the city, just in case things should find a way back to normal. Osterley House had been a by-thought, a split second judgment as he fought to find a safe way out. But it was a by-thought that had served them well for the past few savage years as the country struggled to find its equilibrium.
For all the care and planning, however, it was inevitable that one day their idyllic isle of fortitude would be threatened. In truth, Bennet was amazed at the length of time that the house had remained undetected. The men in the rooms downstairs had long been expected. This had been the first real test of the family under fire and, so far, they had passed with flying colours. Each of them had followed his orders to the letter; as a result, they had survived an assault that could have meant their demise.
He reached over as Kelly passed him a steaming hot mug of tea, cupping his hands and blowing on it, its warmth further accentuating his feeling of pride for his clan. He settled back again into the comfy arm chair and shut his eyes. Tomorrow, he would decide what to do with them; tomorrow was a new day.
***
On the floor below, Mitchel twisted side-to-side, pulling at the frayed bonds which had, until a moment ago, served to hold him captive. Connor, the only other remaining boy in the group, waited patiently, laying perfectly still, his mouth bloody from chewing. Simon, Connor’s best friend, was there in the room too, but he had died in the night following a last minute blow to the head and his stiffening corpse was crunched up next to them. The crying and moaning had gone on for hours before suddenly, with a gargle and a coughing up of blood, he had fallen quiet for good. Mitchel watched him die, offering no assistance or kind words, feeling no remorse or compassion for the boy.
The plastic-fibre rope finally came free, and he tossed it to one side, his hands tenderly feeling out the burns and cuts that now circled his wrists. He rolled on his spine and then stood up, hissing as the pain in his leg reminded him of the knee-capping that he had taken the previous evening. The guy, the big one, hadn’t even tried
to talk with him, hadn’t even looked at him, just banged him with the gun. He’d shown absolutely zero respect, and the only thing Mitchel knew was that before he left this place, the cunt would fucking pay for it.
Mitchel walked over to stand above Connor—still bound in a hog-tie—and roughly yanked him over onto his front. He began working his fingers at the shiny rope which bound the boy, annoyed that there was no blade with which to do the job. It was not compassion that had led him to decide to free the lad. Had he not likely needed him to get the fuck out of this place, he probably would have left him there—even though the boy had just spent half the night using his mouth to cut through Mitchel’s own bonds. Such would have been the way of life. Too fucking bad. But he did need him, and so he was letting him free. The little prick would owe him one, and Mitchel always called in on his debts.
He cursed as his fingers burned. The knot felt tight, like a ball of plastic in his hand. Connor—his gums lacerated and his cheeks raw with plastic burns—did not dare to move or speak as his bigger and more aggressive peer worked at his bindings, swearing and cursing him all the way.
Soon, both of them were standing with their ears pressed firmly to the door. Mitchel’s hand resting on the old, round, brass handle.
“You ready?” he whispered. “Don’t you fucking puss out on me now, you hear? We gotta get outta this shit hole. We hit whoever we meet, and we hit ‘em fuckin’ hard. We ain’t looking to save nobody either, you hear? Everyone else is dead. It’s just you and me. We run. If we see him, I want the big fucker with the gun. Now, grab ya bollocks… let’s smash this fucking place open and get the fuck out of here.” And then, without waiting for an answer, Mitchel pushed open the door.