Carry the Flame

by James Jaros

  Hunt slammed the cage door and stepped away from the bike, staring at the bent-over boy. He whipped him around and jammed his face against the metal bars. Then he forced the kid’s arms up and cinched his wrists to the cage with tightly wound wire. When he wailed, Hunt grabbed his silky hair and jerked his head back. “Dead or alive, your soul is asunder,” he whispered, though no one but Esau and the youth could have heard him. The sun had silenced the land and almost all its trespassers.

  The Harley’s engine cooled and ticked—the only sound before Hunt tore off Jaya’s shirt. Esau stared at the bite wounds on the boy’s back. A beast had attacked him. Ragged cuts, barely scabbed.

  Hunt slid the tip of his knife under a crusty red pane on the kid’s shoulder blade, prying open an inch of dried wound—till it broke off and the bite bled.

  “Damocles. Remember him?” Hunt said, still whispering.

  The slave now understood the damage and his master’s cruelty, but could not stanch his own accord. Helplessly, his hand fell and he squeezed himself when Hunt placed the blade back between his teeth and kissed Jaya all the way down to the base of his spine. A trail of red cuts appeared, each as precise as the next. Small drapes of blood hung from all of them.

  Hunt opened his mouth and dropped the moist knife into his hand. With great care, he sliced off the boy’s pants and knelt behind him, gripping his pale buttocks. Esau stiffened. He felt like steel reaching for the sky.

  His master spoke loudly to him: “I’m a spy in the world of sin. We find the blight and destroy it.”

  Hunt rose and shed his boots and pants, leaving only his shirt to shield him from the sun. Esau, cued by his master’s desire—and fired by his own burgeoning needs—stripped off all his clothes. He wanted the full pleasure of skin on skin, and though the kid’s back bore those wretched wounds and fresh blood, they didn’t unman the slave. They made him seethe.

  The three of them stood naked, or nearly so. Nothing remained of mystery. Only completion. Esau’s hands moved purposely as he watched his master return to his knees, lavishing his lips on the boy’s softest skin. A worshipper, an acolyte at an altar.

  Hunt scooped up fine white sand and with sacramental care spilled it carefully over an exposed cheek, as if aware, in the midst of his mesmerizing display, of the pain of a single displaced grain. Sand clung to the damp spots, sparkly in the bright light.

  This unexpectedly consuming vision dropped Esau to the ground. His legs had never stopped shaking, nor his hand moving, but the white flow on the boy’s perfect bottom keeled the slave forward till his brow smacked the sand and his semen left gummy gray dashes.

  Hunt told him to sit up. Esau steadied himself with a breath before settling back on his heels.

  “You’ve nothing left for the boy,” his master said dismissively. “Nothing to test his needs, his sickness and sin.”

  Hunt turned back to Jaya. The slave felt his master’s judgment keenly. But with his seed now squandered, a swift unwelcome clarity made him see that Hunt’s disdain did not arise from a need to test Jaya further. It arose from his own inability to immediately gratify his master with the same voyeuristic thrills that had driven his face to the sand.

  Although numerous men in the Alliance, including His Piety, had forced themselves on Esau, he himself had never committed rape. As he rested on his heels, drained of desire, he sickened at what he now saw plainly: a boy—not a man, no matter how dearly he had wished otherwise only minutes ago—was brutally bound to a cage and about to be assaulted even more savagely. Hunt wasn’t a spy in the world of sin. He was a spy in a pitiless world of his own making, ducking in and out of desire under the clumsy cover of faith.

  The slave stared at a distant mirage, wishing it could wash away his treacherous understanding—and all it might portend.

  Hunt rose to his feet and pressed against the boy, who cried out. Esau had never known for certain what his master did when he journeyed from the base and left him in the coarse hands of other men. But now the evidence was as indisputable as the slave’s irrepressible jealousy, which fueled his revulsion and sparked his only hope.

  He walked to Hunt and took hold of his master’s hardness, as he had many times. Hunt gave him a smile of forgiveness, and said, “Yes, do it for me.” Hunt then used both of his hands to spread the kid open.

  The slave knew the warmth his master desired most. But with Hunt in his firm grip, Esau tried to lead him from the youth, whose wrists bled from the wire, and whose slashed leg and foot spilled a steady red stream onto the sand.

  Jaya, momentarily free from Hunt’s grasp, mule-kicked him, catching his shin. Hunt ignored the boy’s blow and struck Esau across the face, yelling, “Don’t you dare.” He pushed his slave away and turned back to Jaya, reaching through his legs to crush his testicles.

  The kid’s agony tightened Esau’s own groin. His Piety had committed the same violence when he raped the slave in the church office. Esau wondered if the cleric had taught Hunt the same crippling technique, and how the lesson might have been learned.

  Jaya convulsed, howled, and thrashed against the cage, rattling it loudly before all his weight hung from the wires. Hunt grabbed the boy’s hair again, pressed his teeth to his bare neck and bit him hard enough to leave marks.

  Esau glanced at Hunt’s pants on the ground. The butt of one of his guns poked from the pile, which lay right behind his master. The slave gazed at his own clothes, inches from his side. He reached down slowly and felt around his pants and shirt without taking his eyes off Hunt. If his master looked at him, he’d say he wanted to get dressed. But he knew Hunt would never accept the lie—once he held a knife.

  Still reaching blindly, Esau found the handle of the long steel blade his master had given him. The slave straightened. He stood at least five steps from Hunt, whose knees bent to force open the boy’s thighs. Jaya squirmed, tried to resist, and Hunt yanked back his head, shouting threats into his ear.

  Esau closed his eyes. Foolish, but he could move no other way. When he opened them, Hunt started to turn his head. Esau lunged and sank the blade into his master’s back, feeling it glance off a bone.

  Hunt didn’t fall. He stared at Esau. If he was surprised by his slave’s attack, he didn’t show it.

  Esau backpedaled, frantic and stumbling, naked and starkly crazed with fear, shocked beyond measure that his master lived.

  Hunt took one step toward Esau before dropping heavily to his knees.

  He’s dying! Esau thought, nearly hysterical with hope. But Hunt now reached for one of his pistols.

  Esau tried to race away, hitting deeper sand in seconds. Cursing it wildly, he thought of hurling himself to the ground and rolling, but Hunt was an excellent shot. His only hope was distance—or his master’s death.

  In silence punctuated by his own panicky breaths, Esau heard Hunt cock the hammer of a revolver. Then a grunt and a shot. Esau clutched himself, expecting piercing pain. When he wasn’t struck, he looked over his shoulder. His master was pitching forward with two inches of the shiny knife tip sticking out of his chest. The boy was pulling back his bloody foot after mule-kicking Hunt again, this time driving the full length of the blade into the rapist.

  “Help me!” the boy cried.

  Esau stared at his master. So did the youth, twisting as far as he could, shredding his wrists as he tried to wrench them free.

  Both of them froze when Hunt’s head rose.

  “Get that one,” the boy screamed, jabbing his heel at the other handgun. It lay on the sand a couple of feet from Hunt, whose eyes blinked open on Esau.

  The Mayor and his hairless emissary, Linden, walked toward a round pit near the rear of the City of Shade. Late afternoon light spilled across their path, throwing long shadows from the tanker truck and van baking nearby in the sun. The self-styled officials were trailed by two guards.

  The pit was divided into two large cells by a concrete wall. One side imprisoned the girls from the caravan, except for Bliss; the other held
the adults and boys.

  Ananda had spent a long night listening to the Mayor snore—yet hoping he wouldn’t awaken and hurt her. He did sleep till morning, but the new day brought little relief. As guards herded them from his chamber—and she relished the possibility of leaving the Mayor’s side for good—he announced that a few “lucky girls” would sleep with him again that night.

  At least water was plentiful. The city had more of it than anywhere she had ever been.

  Solana stopped finger-combing her black hair as soon as the Mayor and his entourage came within view, then scrambled to her feet, shouting, “How long are you going to keep us here?” Maureen Gibbs simply swore at him, anger sharpening her pointy features, perhaps scaring her nine-year-old son as well; he clung to his mother’s arm. Her two daughters were jailed on the other side of the wall.

  The Mayor ignored Solana’s question, and shook his head at Maureen. “If you insist on cursing me, I will insist on taking your children where you cannot see them, and where I cannot guarantee their comfort, or even their safety. I have been a most gracious and accommodating host. I give you food and water and—”

  “It’s our food,” Maureen yelled, interrupting him, which the Mayor ignored.

  “—and a fine roof over your heads. The finest in the world. I am generous with our shade.” The Mayor’s tone hardened. “But if you insult me, I can enforce the most rigorous discipline.” He stared at Maureen, as if daring the furious woman.

  Her husband, Keffer, stepped to her side and placed a cautionary hand on his wife’s shoulder, which she shrugged off. But Maureen said nothing more, and the Mayor turned his eyes to all of them.

  “There will be a great fight tomorrow night.” Girls all around Ananda tensed-up. Imagi grabbed her arm, and M-girl pulled them both close. The Mayor must have noticed the reaction he caused: “Do not worry, you girls will not be fighting. In the big fight of the night, your leaders, Jessie, and the one called Burned Fingers, will battle my two Komodo dragons.”

  What? The animal that ate that girl? Ananda backed into the wall, dragging Imagi and M-girl along, before she realized she was retreating on her mother’s behalf.

  “I am so sorry, but most of you will not get to see this battle. It is a most special treat for my most special guests, but Ananda, Leisha, and Kaisha will take part in the festivities. Yes, you girls will have most special roles. It is a great honor.”

  “You’re not touching my daughters,” Augustus said, walking within feet of the wall below the Mayor.

  “Stop your fretting, black man. I will not hurt your girls. They are our crown jewels for the Alliance. Come to your senses. If they do not come up tomorrow when I have the ladder for them, I will send my men after them, and you will not like that. Your daughters will be of great interest to my guests. Do not try to deny me this small pleasure.” He turned to the girls’ side of the pit. “Leisha and Kaisha, you will be very busy tomorrow night. It will be most exciting, and I promise it will not hurt too much. I say the same to you, Ananda.”

  Not hurt too much?

  He smiled at her. Perhaps he considered it a “most special” kindness. She just wanted to kill him—before he murdered her mom. That would be most special to her.

  Hunt tried to pull his gun out from under his body, but the barrel caught on the blade sticking out of his chest. Esau stared, hoping his master would collapse, die. But Hunt groaned, straining to push himself higher, offering a chilling view of the blood-streaked steel. Slowly, he began to slide the pistol out from under him.

  Esau thought he might have time to grab the second gun. The weapon lay next to Hunt’s pants. The fully naked slave raced only half a dozen steps before his master started to raise the weapon in his hand. Esau gulped in terror and kicked him in the face, flooding with animal fear even before Hunt’s arm locked around his ankle. The slave slammed to the ground.

  His master’s hold tightened, but Hunt had dropped his gun when he grabbed him. Hunt’s other elbow, supporting his weight, pinned the slave’s right leg. The bone-on-bone pain was excruciating. Esau lunged for the gun by Hunt’s pants, but it lay inches beyond his grasp.

  He looked back, finding Hunt desperately trying to pick up the pistol he’d dropped. But Hunt couldn’t hold his leg and also make the grab. When he maintained his fierce grip, the slave realized his master had made the same calculation as he: if both of them scrambled for a gun, it was he who would win the deadly race.

  Hunt began to claw his way up his leg. Esau tried to drag himself away, breaking fingernails on the hard ground just below the sand. He made no progress.

  Esau lunged again for Hunt’s other gun. He failed. His master tried to force his hand between the slave’s legs. Esau squeezed them together as Hunt’s fingers grazed his testicles. The slave rolled onto his back, prying Hunt’s hand farther from his privates. But his master hauled himself a foot off the ground and slammed his chest down on Esau’s calf, stabbing him with the knife protruding from his blood-soaked shirt. The slave shrieked.

  Hunt pushed himself forward, knifing the younger man’s lower leg as surely as he had the boy’s. His next thrust drove the blade up into Esau’s kneecap. The slave screamed and beat Hunt’s head, to little effect.

  Grunting almost as loudly, Hunt grabbed two fistfuls of the slave’s belly and heaved himself forward, plunging the knife into Esau’s inner thigh. Clawing now at his chest, Hunt plowed the blade up the final length of leg, cleaving the meaty muscle.

  Esau, screaming hoarsely, tried to push Hunt away. But he remained pinned by his master’s size, and paralyzed by the grilling pain of the knife.

  Hunt tightened his grip on the slave’s chest, tearing skin. Then he jammed his elbows into Esau’s hips and rose over him. Struggling mightily, Hunt aimed the blade sticking out of his chest right at the slave’s sex organs.

  A gun was fired from inches away, and Hunt collapsed. Esau, ears ringing, twisted violently from the plunging knife. It struck his hipbone with enough force to drive the handle halfway out of his master’s back. The pain from this final assault felt crippling, though even in his misery Esau knew how much worse it could have been.

  Jaya stood over him, revolver shaking in his damaged hand. He’d ripped open the big knuckle at the base of his thumb when he tore himself free from the wire. The exposed bone burned white in the sun. A flap of his bloody skin hung from the cage like a peeled-off glove.

  “Get him off me!” Esau cried.

  Jaya kicked Hunt’s body as ruthlessly as he had the knife handle only minutes ago, forcing the lifeless torso to the side. Esau spied a bullet hole in Hunt’s temple, blood matting the dead man’s hair.

  The slave climbed to his feet, shaking terribly. He stared at his leg wounds. “Did you see what he did?” The savagery astounded him.

  Jaya shook his head no, but eyed the long, deep cuts. “They’re bad.”

  “They hurt. Oh, God,” Esau cried, “they hurt so bad.” He bent to pick up Hunt’s weapon.

  “Don’t touch it.” Jaya raised his gun hand. “You were going to hurt me, too.” He glanced at Esau’s crotch.

  “I saved you.” The slave hugged himself. He couldn’t stop shaking.

  “Get away from the gun.”

  “You’re a kid. You don’t now what you’re doing.”

  “I sure saved you.” Jaya never lowered the barrel.

  Esau stepped aside. The youth grabbed the weapon. He was still bleeding from his own knifing and brutal unfettering.

  “Get dressed,” he told Esau. He sounded older than the weakened slave. “I’m taking his pants.” His own lay shredded on the sand.

  “Mine will fit you better. I can wear his.”

  The boy considered this, and nodded.

  The sun’s edge appeared in the cavern ceiling. Miranda studied it, shading her face with her hand.

  “Do we have to go?” Cassie asked anxiously. More than anything, she wanted to keep walking to the waterfall.

  “Do you think you c
ould run all the way back?” the older girl asked.

  “I guess. Sure.” Cassie tried to hide her disappointment, but it felt heavier than the boulder she leaned against.

  “Then we better go now.”

  But instead of turning around, Miranda grabbed Steph’s hand and darted ahead. Delighted, Cassie hurried after them across narrow chasms and long stretches of unseamed rock, excitement building in her tummy.

  A pounding noise forced its way into her awareness, the ground vibrating. She slowed, uneasy by what she felt but could not see. The water flowed faster by her side, as if it were scared, too. She looked ahead and saw Miranda and Steph stop where the water disappeared over the edge of smooth pale stone. Mist billowed up around them.

  That’s it!

  Cassie rushed closer, exhilarated again, as the sound of the falls grew louder and the ground vibrated even more. But now it seemed to shake the fear from her body, filling her with the sweetest anticipation.

  She looked out over the edge and watched the river whiten where it exploded more than twenty feet below. It surged into a wide, emerald-colored plunge pool. Mist now coated her skin with its soothing velvety touch. She’d never felt that before, only hard rain, and then only rarely. The cool moist air was calming, like she was standing in the middle of a cloud. Her face felt clean and wonderfully alive.

  She stared at the waterfall so intently that she startled when Miranda grabbed her arm.

  “Watch this!” the older girl shouted above the roaring river.

  She jumped, fully clothed, but raised barely a splash in the churning water at the base of the falls.

  Cassie waited nervously for her friend to surface. So did Steph. The mute girl took her hand for the first time, a firm grip that didn’t relax until they saw a head full of dark hair bobbing up. Miranda cleared it from her face, smiling ecstatically.