The Human Zoo

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The Human Zoo Page 21

by Kolin Wood


  Tanner slapped away a final futile punch as easily as an adult might stop an attack from a child. He reached in, taking hold of the big man’s thick neck in a vice-like grip, slammed him back into the wall, and accompanied it with a knee into his unprotected groin. The blow brought an oooompf from the crowd. Krane doubled over, wheezing heavily through his broken and sagging mouth.

  “Fuuuuch… yoou,” he managed as a thin stream of blood crept up Tanner’s arm and soaked into the cuff of his shirt.

  Tanner held him easily and looked up into to the stands, surveying the crowd as they egged him on as one, chanting for the end of the man that, only a few minutes ago, they had been cheering as their crowning champion.

  “FINISH HIM! FINISH HIM! FINISH HIM!”

  To one side, he glimpsed the porta-cabin, the roof of which had been erected as a viewing platform. Upon it, one shape stood out more than the others, jumping up and down like a maniac behind supporting railings. There was no mistaking him; it was the impeccably dressed form of Teddy Braydon.

  Without turning his face away from Teddy, Tanner squeezed his hand as hard as he could. The bones in Krane’s neck popped and crunched as his windpipe was crushed. His heavy body sagged and a dark patch spread out from his crotch and ran down both legs. A gurgled, outflowing, last breath blew bubbles of dark blood from both corners of his down-turned mouth. Krane was dead.

  “FINISH HIM! FINISH HIM! FINISH HIM!”

  The crowd chanted, banging in time, their cries gradually changing, until each and every one of them was calling out for their new champion.

  “TANNER! TANNER! TANNER!”

  He roared, high on victory. As much as he hated to admit it, a small part of him had enjoyed it.

  “You’re next…” he said to Teddy, knowing that the words would be heard by nobody but himself. He dropped the body at his feet and wiped his fist on his shirt. Then, without looking back, Tanner turned and strode over to the other side of the pit, shouting up for a ladder.

  ***

  Above, Teddy fell back on his chair and tore off his tie, his face wet with sweat. Farringdon and his wife had already gone, along with most of the others from his private party, their chairs –and their pockets– now empty. With a smile, he lit a Cuban cigar he had been saving for a special occasion and blew the amber smoke up into the clear night sky. This was perhaps the best night of his life so far. He watched as a ladder was lowered and Tanner strode towards the gate, flanked on all sides by guards. Sal, for once, had been right. The man was a killer. He flicked his ash and raised his glass, toasting Tanner’s back as walked away.

  The ladder to his new tree house was finally ready.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  The wails from Mr. Marshall had finally stopped. It had pleased him greatly when he heard them, knowing that the composure the big man had shown throughout the operation on his boy had all been for show. He was scared, just like all the others had been.

  Harold held his breath, concentrating hard to maintain a seal on his face, lest the fetid liquid might penetrate and invade his mouth or nose. He blew small bubbles that popped around his ears; the sound of his outward breathing was loud and almost comforting under the blanket of water. The voices that plagued his brain were quiet under here, drowned out by the high-pitched chime sounding constantly in the closeness.

  When he could take no more, he pulled back, shivering as the coldness of the room slapped him smartly in the face. On the wall, smashed and sharp at the edges, sat the best half of a mirror. Personal appearance was not something heralded in the prison, and this was one of the few useable versions to be found anywhere.

  Reaching for his wire-rimmed glasses, he set them on his long thin nose. His own form came into view before him. The blood was mostly gone. A red line ran along the contour of his hair line, dripping in parts like bad Halloween hair dye. Harold wrinkled his nose, wiggled his eyebrows, and puckered his mouth, opening it wide and then closing it again, repeating this process several times. Now clear of restricting dried blood and brain matter, his face felt strangely free and flexible. It was important that he at least look partly human. If the General had called on him at this time of night, the reason for the summons could not be a good one. Harold was fully aware that his master and chief was not overly impressed with the more recent goings on in his surgery, even if he had as yet to say anything to him personally. Walking in there like one of the undead would perhaps not have been the shrewdest thing he could have done. He smiled as he looked at this clean version of himself.

  Better, much better.

  A scream rang out from the corridor and Harold turned quickly towards the door, catching his breath. It was not a girl, of that much he was pretty sure. The sound was masculine, broken in a way which could only be instigated by something terrifying, something murderous. More screaming, this time closer. The cries were desperate and blood-curdling, like somebody dying in a painful manner. The past few years had taught him many things, one being the experience to know the calibre of pain being instilled upon a person at the exact moment of their death. Whatever this was, it was time to vacate, and quickly.

  His clothes, liberally discarded on the dirty, tiled floor, were within reach, and he pulled the gore-covered smock quickly over his shoulders, welcoming the limited warmth. The fabric had dried stiffly, holding his shape like a second skin. He yanked on his trousers, the gore on one leg rubbing against more of the same on the other, showering the floor with a fine rain of bloody dust.

  The bathroom was at the end of a long, dank corridor with only one way in and one way out. The heavy blanket of shadow along its length was punctuated in a few places by a gloomy moonlight invading through a few windows of dappled glass high on one wall. Harold stepped blindly towards the door.

  One naked toe stubbed against the metal tub that he had just washed in and he stumbled, grabbing out for the sides in a desperate effort to regain his balance. In the darkness, he heard a plopping sound and he slapped his hand against his chest a second too late as his broken spectacles tumbled into the deep and filthy water.

  “SHIT!” he called out, a severe panic immediately setting in as the world around him disappeared.

  In bright light, Harold could just about see without his glasses. Edges would blur and details would be missing, but he could function, at least on a personal level. In the darkness, however, it was a different matter; functionality was severely impaired. For all intents and purposes, the loss of his glasses meant blindness in a room as dark as this one. The sound of the door squeaking open caused him to freeze.

  “H… Hello?” he said, his voice betraying his fear. He coughed, clearing his throat. “Who’s there?” he said, this time steadier, concentrating on settling his breathing and bringing down his rapidly racing pulse.

  Still, nobody answered.

  As the pounding in his ears reduced a little, Harold listened. Yes, he was sure that he could hear it –a low, phlegmy sound; somebody else was breathing in the room.

  “Identify yourself this instant and perhaps I won’t have you killed,” he drawled flatly, feigning confidence.

  Still nothing.

  Harold curled his face into a sneer. “So be it.”

  He turned back to the huge tub and plunged his arm up to the shoulder in the foul-smelling liquid, turning up his nose as his fingers dragged through a layer of sludge coating the bottom. He dredged the far side, retching as his fingers found several squishy, indiscernible lumps. Where the hell are they? His fingers closed around one the slightly bent arms of his spectacles and he straightened quickly, holding the glasses aloft in a triumphant gesture. Ha Ha! From the bottom of the tub, a vile stench arose up out of the water, so strong it made him take a sudden, blind step backwards.

  He shook the spectacles hard to remove the slime and water then set them on his nose. It was a pointless act to attempt to clean them on his filthy clothing; if anything, doing so would only make them worse. He blinked hard as his surroundings came bac
k into focus and his eyes stretched themselves into the shadows.

  His heart, already beating at an abnormal rate, jumped violently into his throat and then free fell heavily back down into the pit of his churning stomach. Standing there, like a living cadaver, coated from head to toe in a shiny skin of blood, was a demon. The demon’s eye sockets were deep and dark, black marbles twinkling from within their yellowing orbs, both staring directly at him.

  Harold took another step backwards.

  How? How was it possible? How in the hell had the monster been released? Against his rising panic he tried to think clearly. Perhaps the demon would remember him. After all, it had been him who had taken it food when everybody else had left it to starve. Surely that would count for something. He clenched his fists and felt the palms slick with sweaty fear.

  Was there even any humanity left inside it?

  Inching forward, Harold held his hand held out passively in front of him. A smell, damp and putrid like rotten dairy and dried spit, swept over him again and this time, he was unsure whether it was from the tub or from the thing in front of him.

  It’s just a dog, remember that. An animal! Perhaps, like an animal, the only way to avoid an attack is to feign bravery, to assert authority, remind him who the boss is!

  The monster watched, the blackness of its eyes like dark pools of blood, sucking him in and calling for his soul. Harold hesitated.

  “Would you like something to eat?” he asked, trying to force a smile.

  Nothing. His heart thumped.

  “If you come back with me… back to the surgery… there is a banquet laid out there on the table… just for you. You… you can have it all. I… prepared it… for you.”

  One Six Four did not move.

  Slowly, and as steadily as he could, Harold lowered his hand and took another step forward.

  “You remember me, don’t you?” he said. “Yes, of course you do. I… I looked after you. Do you remember that? I brought you all the delicious food…”

  Closer still. From where he was now, Harold could see that the demon was snarling, its blood-stained yellow fangs bared aggressively.

  “I was not the person that locked you up, you remember that! I tried to help you…” His voice broke as his fear returned in spades. Adrenaline surged into his legs and made them shake.

  Get a hold of yourself… It’s a DOG!

  “YOU MUST BACK DOWN AT ONCE!” he barked loudly “I ORDER YOU TO STAND ASIDE FROM THAT DOOR… DO YOU HEAR ME? I… AM IN CHARGE HERE!’”

  Harold glanced at the passage behind then back into the gore-covered face, desperately searching for an exit or a sign of recognition. But there was no reasoning with it, and no way past. Harold realised at that point that he would have to either fight it or die.

  Without warning, the thing suddenly lunged at him.

  Always lithe on his feet and now charged with the flood of adrenaline, Harold dodged to the side and then dove in the direction of the door. A swish sounded in the air, as a dark hand narrowly avoided his face. The demon flew past in the darkness.

  Sliding along on his front, it took a moment for Harold to realise what had happened. It had missed. He was still alive! And this was his only chance.

  Run… RUN!

  He struggled to find traction on the cold, slippery floor. Shoulder muscles cried as he pulled himself through the doorway and took off down the corridor, pumping his legs as hard as he could, the soles of his feet burning with every jarring step. Ahead of him, the bottom of the staircase loomed.

  Five metres… four.

  Something joined the shadows behind him and now thundered there, rapidly closing the gap. He pushed on harder, the muscles in his skinny, untrained thighs screaming.

  Three metres… two.

  But it was too late. Something slammed into Harold’s back and knocked him flying. He hit the floor with a bang and pain jarred up both of his forearms. His chest pounded as he struggled to draw back the breath that had been knocked from his lungs. Panicked, it was then that he realised; the thing was on his back.

  At this point, he knew what was coming; hell, he’d encouraged it to happen. Harold screamed as teeth clamped down on the sensitive skin on the back of his neck.

  Now frenzied, the monster began to rip its jaw from side to side, tearing at the flesh like a wolf laying siege to fallen prey. Every tug smashed Harold’s nose down into the linoleum, cracking it open with a series of crunches. Shooting pains flashed down through Harold’s spine and he screamed pitifully into the shadows. One Six Four took a further two bites.

  The squelching sounds were replaced by a growl. He was suddenly and very forcefully flipped over onto his back. His skull pounded as it slammed into the floor and he realised that he could no longer move any of his limbs. Helpless and completely at its mercy, Harold looked up.

  Perched on his stomach, sat the demon. Fresh blood coated its entire face and dripped in a steady stream onto its chest. It leaned forward towards him and Harold tried to pull away as a hissing sound escaped from its open mouth. Breath, hot and rancid, condensed in the cold air, coating his nostrils.

  He felt the soft skin at the bottom of his eye split as sharp teeth clamped down on one of his cheeks. The monster pulled back sharply, tearing sinew and taking a huge chunk of Harold’s face with it. The pain was unbearable. Time seemed to stand still. Harold could only watch from below as One Six Four took his time chewing the gristly morsel loudly with his mouth open, savouring before swallowing it down.

  Harold made a weak noise like an asthmatic, wheezing desperately as his attacker came again. His head was forced from the floor as the thicker, lip skin around his mouth refused to break. Blood flooded his mouth and throat. Above him, the demon continued to eat.

  By the time prisoner One Six Four had finished with his head, Harold was barely breathing. What limited air he was taking in bubbled through a hole in his torn cheek. The one remaining eye rolled blindly in its bloody socket. His skinny body bucked and twisted as strong hands and sharp nails tore his stomach open, delving inside with animalistic fervour and bloody desire.

  But Harold was no longer registering pain. Dull pulling and prodding was all that he felt as the rest of his body slipped away from the sharpness and into a warm cocoon. The voices in his head came again, the same dark voices, the ones that had tormented him in the nights and teased him during the day, whispering in his ears, now blowing a soothing cold breeze over his hot and clammy face.

  Life ith on the inthide, Harold… Life ith on the inthide.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  The General paced the room, angry and restless. Where the hell was Pock? He should have known better than to send him in the first place. For all his brains and wit, there was no fight about the boy. The Doc wasn’t much to look at physically, but what he lacked in size and brawn, he more than made up for in psychotic tendencies. Maybe the crazy bastard had finally snapped. Perhaps Pock was in the surgery now, screaming for his life, strapped to the gurney, slowly having his heart cut out. The thought made his guts feel funny.

  At that exact moment, a scream filled the hallway outside his room. He moved swiftly to the door, pushing on it to make sure it was closed properly and turning the key in the lock as he did so. He was used to screams of pain, anguish, or horseplay. In truth, most of the time the prison was an almost unbearable din of sound, a by-product of his plan he had yet to become accustom to. But this particular scream had sounded different. It was the way it had cut out sharply, almost as if it had been ripped from somebody’s lungs. It sounded violent. Slowly, he lifted the thin canvas blind that covered the pane. The corridor outside was dark. Beyond the lay the dorm room of his twelve captains. But everything, as far as he could see, looked to be still.

  The dirty glass was cold and he leaned against it with his forehead, groaning with relief as it immediately soothed some of the unbearable heat from his face. He exhaled slowly and closed his eyes.

  Maybe there are proper doctors in t
he New Capital; people with training and clean rooms, antiseptic and painkillers, he thought to himself. Perhaps, only a few miles from where I am stood now, there is a functioning society lying in wait to help; normal people living normal lives. Soon this might all be over.

  For now he just had to keep it all together.

  Breathe, he told himself. Breathe and relax. Slowly, he opened his eyes.

  As the image before him came into focus, his brain was slow to compute. There, not an inch from his own, a pair of dark and bloody eyes stared back at him.

  With his head resting heavily on the panel, the General could not move; his forehead had never felt so heavy. The glass, a reinforced and toughened plate, misted with his quickening breaths, clouding his vision. He sucked in, trying not to breathe. The fog slowly dissipated in front of him. There was nothing there.

  His hand snapped with force across the bolt at the top of the door, and he pushed away from it quickly.

  Had he really just seen a face? Or was his tired and feverish mind playing tricks again?

  The glass was dark with no light illuminating it from behind. There was a lit candle behind him on the desk and he reached for it and brought it up, its modest flame casting a fragile glow on the pane. There, on the other side, barely noticeable, the faint imprints of a nose and forehead, tinged in red from what he assumed must be blood. Someone had definitely been watching him.

  Anger, not fear, built from inside. Whoever it was; if they wanted to test him, then he would show them what he was capable of.

  “Come and get it,” he said.

  With his eyes fixed on the door, he moved sideways towards the gun cabinet. Inside, the racking held a long-barrelled shotgun and shells, plus three pistols, each with a few boxes of rounds. He reached for the shotgun, breaking it open with precise movement. The bottom of two brass shells sat snugly in place. He grabbed an additional box of shotgun shells, a pistol and ammunition and then lay it all on the desk behind him.

 

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