Made to Suffer (Journeyman Book 3)

by Golden Czermak

  Some of the club members shot to their feet, cries of ‘holy shit’ and ‘what the fuck’ filling the air with a chaotic mix of shock and anger. Adrenaline was palpable. What in the hell was happening?

  “Mud?” asked a lanky man as he stepped over to the body. Clearing away some of his tangled gray hairs, the man started to kneel. “You okay big guy? That was quite a…”

  His voice trailed off when he realized there was no way he was getting an answer, Mudflap’s neck clearly broken with his head off to the side at a grotesque angle. That was nothing compared to his face, pulp and specks of bone looking like a sick plate of nachos topped with salsa.

  “Fuck!” the man shouted, pitching himself away.

  “What is it, Scoot?” a heavily Southern voice enquired. “The Heat?”

  Scooter was breathing heavy and unable to look away from the carnage. “Nah, M,” he replied between huffs, wiping sweat off his face with a drab green do-rag. “Mud’s definitely a goner though. By the looks of him, something went boom awfully close.” As he continued looking him over, he saw what might have been an eye amongst the scrambled mess of flesh. Shutting his own tightly at the gruesome sight, the sounds of oncoming footsteps drew his attention to the hall. Timidly, he opened an eye and peeked over.

  Red eyes hotter than fire were there to meet his gaze, piercing his very soul as the dim hall lights began to flicker. Twisted shadows were cast on the walls, man-shaped but stretched and moving along as if alive.

  Dajjal stepped casually from the hardwoods onto the matted carpet, noticing Mudflap before anyone else. He admired his effects on him or, at least, on what was left. However, the veneration of his own handiwork ended up being cut short.

  “Who the fuck are you?” cut in a burly man with a shaved head, scars from many a knife fight carved across his face. He scanned Dajjal for any weapons, a pistol in his own hand with finger poised on the trigger. “You do this shit to Mud?”

  Dajjal shot a glance his way, pupils flicking from red back to green in a twisted Christmas light show.

  To his surprise the man didn't avert his eyes, though a furrowed brow let on that there was some unease in him. His confidence brightened a shade when three others joined him at his side.

  That didn’t scare Dajjal; in fact he welcomed it.

  One of those men was Scooter, the others marching from a nearby pool table, slapping cues in their palms as if they were bats. Drab green patches adorned their vests on the left chest, the shaved man’s reading Buzzsaw while the other two went by Hose and Ace.

  “Are you deaf?” another voice croaked, seizing the demon’s attention. “The man asked you a question and you best show some respect, especially in here. You have no idea who you're dealing with, do you son?”

  Dajjal was looking at an older woman, her haggard features worn even rougher by age and lots of cigarettes. Dirty blonde hair flowed down to her shoulders, though it was all fried in a frizzy perm. There was a vest perched atop the stool beside her, the name Ratched stitched on it. Dajjal found himself unimpressed with what he saw, turning away without an answer.

  He studied the rest of the lounge in all of its plain glory before spotting a familiar face, sitting confidently the center of an overstuffed red sofa. It was Merica, a good amount of nose candy cut into neat little lines on the coffee table in front of him.

  Even though the cocky shit hadn’t even bothered to get up with all the commotion, a part of him had certainly risen – an effect of having fine women latched onto his arms. Grease covered jeans were flayed open, fully occupied with their delicate, feminine hands. When it became obvious that Dajjal was just going to keep staring his way, Merica grew uncomfortable and stood up. The bulge receded up his leg faster than shit through a goose and he tugged hard on the zipper.

  “Seems our new buddy has quite the set of balls on him,” Merica said in that heavy Tennessee accent of his, tossing a look over to Hose. “Hell, they’re probably even bigger than yours. I mean, they gotta be when waltzing up anywhere uninvited, but coming in here of all places? That’s either downright brave… or stupid.”

  “Perhaps a mix of both,” Dajjal said with a dirty chuckle, denying the man the upper hand. “Though to make one thing clear, I don’t need your permission to go anywhere, or to get anything I want. So, I’m going to ask you one time and one time only: where's my ride?” He shrugged, letting out another laugh. “Well, his ride.”

  “Chum, I have no fucking idea what you’re talkin’ about,” Merica replied with a cocked eyebrow, lightly smacking his lips as he bent over to pick up a cigar. He clipped one end with a cutter from his pocket before calmly lighting it. “Now, the way I see it, you're not in a position to be asking for anything. In fact, the only thing keeping your ass from going six feet under, and I mean the only thing, is that ya have an awfully familiar look. I can’t quite put my finger on it, but I wanna know why you’re ringing my bell before we give ya the warm welcome you deserve.”

  “Oh, I'm used to being six feet under,” Dajjal said dismissively. “Much deeper than that, in fact. The receptions they give down there are far warmer than you're ever going to be able to give me up here, Matty.”

  Merica didn’t take too kindly to those last words, balling up a fist while blowing out a large puff of smoke.

  Dajjal liked provoking anger, smelling the mounting tension. He swept the room one last time, confirming a count of eight people – not including the recently departed. If the bikes out front meant anything, another six were lurking somewhere else in the clubhouse.

  It was no matter; he had wasted too much thought on this already and definitely didn't plan on being in this human dump for much longer.

  “I think we’ve squandered enough time on idle chit-chat, gentlemen. It’s time for us to get down to serious business.” Dajjal was cool with his words, though his eyes burned once again. He cracked his knuckles, then pointed a solitary finger at Merica’s head. “Since you didn’t answer my question, I’ll go ahead and answer yours. You know who I am, bastard – the jaw still hurts.”

  There was a high pitched whine; Merica’s skull started thumping. The beating inside wanted out, growing so great that bursting had to be the only way to relieve it. Flashes of memories – fists and teeth and blood – came and went within a barrage of blinding lights. Matthew actually found himself afraid, with no control, imperiled at this demon’s mercy. He fought hard not to scream, the veins in his head and neck swelling. His face reddened, but sadly for Dajjal there were no tormented cries.

  The demon’s smirk faded away and he sighed, flicking a hand. Merica’s senses eased and the young man wavered before slumping down on his knees.

  “Such a tough guy you are, Matty,” Dajjal chided. “So strong. Don't worry, we’ll have more opportunities to test your limits soon enough. But for now, it seems that your friends are pining for some of my attention...”

  He turned toward others but Merica was quick to speak back up.

  “Drake? YOU’RE Wilson fucking Drake?” he said between sharp gasps. Standing, his head continued to ache as his huffing transitioned into a fit of laughter. “Damn! You used to be a scrawny motherfucker… how much juice did ya steal to jack yourself up in these few months? Ah fuck that, who cares? You're still a wet pussy and always will be. What in God’s name makes ya think you’re ever getting that bobber back?”

  Dajjal rolled his eyes. “Oh trust me… God has absolutely nothing to do with me. It really is quite simple, Matty,” he continued. “I think I’m getting it back because I always get what I want.”

  With those words, Merica’s nose started to bleed and he quickly wiped away the thick stream with one of his wrists. He sniffled hard, staggering over to the pool table before leaning on its edge. “What you’re gonna get is the ass kicking of your life.” Merica looked around at his crew. “Have at him, but for God’s sake make sure the fuck ain’t getting back up!”

  Hose and Ace wasted no time advancing as Ratched smashed a beer bottle
against an end table, its sharp, glassy prongs hungry for action.

  “Told you, boy!” she said with excitement. “You best be ready for some – ”

  Dajjal snapped his fingers before she finished and her head erupted in a cloud of gore. “That’s much better,” he snipped. “I find it incredibly difficult to believe that none of you found her voice to be the least bit annoying.”

  The group watched in horror as her headless body floundered, then fell to the ground with an off-putting squelch.

  Dajjal simply grinned at the spectacle. “Now that’s music to my ears.”

  Ace was livid, steadfast in his charge until a hand grabbed him abruptly by the shoulder. He staggered, whirling around to see who had stopped him.

  It was Hose. Had it been anyone else they’d have gotten a face full of fist, but he was shaking his head while staring at their pool cues. Suddenly these slim twigs didn’t seem like such great weapons against whatever the hell this guy was.

  Buzzsaw noticed that the two of them had stalled, tapping into his own reserves of adrenaline. He wasn’t going to let this thing get away with killing them off one by one. Fighting the urge to flee, he worked himself up into a near frenzy, aiming his jittery pistol at Dajjal. The trigger pulled back twice with ease and the muzzle boomed, bullets blasting their way into the side of the demon’s head. Warm blood gushed from the holes, flooding down Dajjal’s neck all the way to the floor.

  “Yeah! Take that, you fucking freak!” Buzzsaw shouted at the top of his lungs, still riding high on the thrill.

  Merica smirked himself, glad the trouble of Wilson Drake had now passed for good. He lumbered over to the couch and threw himself back down, though his two companions had long fled the scene.

  “Damn bitches,” he said smugly as Hose and Ace lowered their cues.

  As they all began to take in the grisly scene, the walls began to rumble. Cracks scurried along the surface and the air grew hot, distant screaming rising up from elsewhere in the compound.

  That’s when Ace noticed something orange flickering out of the corner of his eye. Through a side door, he saw tongues of flame creeping along the ground, lapping away at something charred and crisp. Squinting, he made out a body, maybe two, being consumed by the living fire.

  “What’s that?” asked Hose nervously, afraid of the answer given the horrors they’d already seen.

  “You mean who,” Ace answered gravely. “Can’t tell for sure… but… I think it’s Rush. Maybe parts of Dusty, too.”

  Without warning, a line of silver whizzed past them, flinging its way over to Buzzsaw. It glided effortlessly across his neck, leaving a thin line of lacerated flesh behind. He gargled, dropping the gun as he raised both hands to stop the bleeding. It was a hopeless effort, death seconds away with the amount of life gushing out of him like a waterfall.

  The whirling object flew back in their direction, narrowly missing Hose before landing gracefully in Dajjal’s open palm.

  Ace almost shit himself when he saw the guy alive and kicking.

  “One good turn deserves another,” Dajjal muttered, bullets pushing their way out of his skull before falling to the floor with two subtle clinks. “Ah, that’s much better. Unfortunately for your friend, it seems I have better aim. But, who am I kidding? It helps that I’m already dead.” The wounds started to close right before Ace’s traumatized eyes.

  “What the fuck are you?” Ace pleaded, his heart beating so hard and fast he could taste it at the back of his throat.

  Dajjal didn’t answer right away, closing his fingers around the razor before sliding it back into his jacket pocket. He raised that same hand up beside his beard, rubbing his fingers anxiously while his mouth turned into a deliciously wry smile.

  “What am I?” he thundered, the deepness in his voice tenfold greater. “This world’s worst nightmare.”

  Ace knew by Dajjal’s tone that his time had come. His eyes shot wide open and he desperately attempted to turn and run. It was pointless of course, all of their efforts that night had been, the sound of Dajjal's snapping fingers soon reaching him. A terrible ringing took over before all went red, then fell to forever black.

  The same thing happened to Hose a second later, standing just a couple feet away. Scooter watched as the men just came apart, right before his own vision disappeared into darkness. The whole group’s lifeless chunks spread out across the entire room, coating everything in a layer of pasty, hot death.

  Except for one.

  So it was that Merica was left in the middle of the now red room, sitting alone on his overstuffed red couch, wearing the red innards of his brothers so generously provided.

  The carpet was soaked, squishing and oozing out from underneath the lug soles of Dajjal's boots as he strode up to the sole survivor.

  Hellfire continued to rage in the other rooms, consuming bodies, furniture, and walls.

  “I told you that your reception would pale in comparison to what I was used to, Matty.”

  Merica didn't respond, frozen with shock and staring at the bits of something stuck to his forearms. Dajjal reached across to him and began to stroke the top of his head, sending Merica into a fit of shaking.

  “Shhh…” Dajjal said softly, bending down so they were both at eye level. “Shhh…I know I've probably pushed you well past your limits and you're tempted to cry. All this will be over soon, but I’m going to ask you one more time out of the… goodness of my heart: where is Drake’s bike?”

  Merica lifted his eyes, staring into the cold, dead pits of Dajjal's. For a moment, it seemed like he may actually be cooperative, but his puppy dog eyes tapered, filling with contempt. “Go to Hell and fuck yourself,” he hissed, spitting a large wad right into the demon's face.

  The bubbly spit oozed down the side of Dajjal's nose and mingled with his mustache, rolling straight into his mouth as he spoke. “Well you see, the problem with that is that I've already been there,” he replied, reaching into Merica’s pocket.

  Merica’s eyes followed and he wanted to get up and away, but for some reason he couldn’t move. Dajjal wrestled around in the man’s pants for a moment, grabbing at all things before settling on the cigar cutter he had seen earlier.

  Slowly, he withdrew it before continuing. “I didn't like it all too well down there. Too much talking and not enough action; even from the big man. It was pathetic. So, I suppose all that is just my way of saying I have no intentions of going back. Ever.”

  “Get away from me, freak!” Merica said, struggling to speak. It was as if an invisible hand was pressing down, keeping him in place. Sweat beaded on his face then ran down, mingling with the already drying fluids.

  Dajjal paid him no mind, those demonic eyes narrowing as he leaned in, so close they could have kissed. No matter how much Merica wriggled, he couldn't get free.

  “I can smell fear in you,” Dajjal said euphorically. “So… tempting.”

  “What the fuck? What… what're you doin’? Get away!”

  Dajjal didn't lock lips, instead grabbing Merica's right hand, yanking it forward. He brought the cigar cutter over and inserted one of his long fingers into it like an engagement ring, until it couldn't go any further.

  Merica breathed hard, squirming as each erratic puff of air came faster than the last. “Stop it,” he begged.

  Dajjal looked down at the trapped piece of flesh and bone, the smell of Merica’s fright filling his nostrils once more.

  “Stop it!”

  Dajjal applied gentle pressure to the sides, until the cutting blades were primed against Merica’s finger.

  “Stop! Stop! Stop! I'll tell you where the goddamn bike is. Just… stop! Please!”

  Dajjal looked at him… stopping for a second.

  Then squeezed.

  Merica screamed, the shrill cry echoing throughout the whole compound. Before he could regain the slightest control of his erupting senses, he felt the cutter scraping against another one of his fingers and…

  “Gahhhhhh!” M
erica screamed again, his entire body reeling amongst rushes of light and sound. He then felt Dajjal's hand unzipping his pants, reaching in to pull out his junk. He wished he could pull it up inside, the cold metal blades of the cutter scouring the tip, his foreskin drawn tight.

  “Snip, snip,” teased Dajjal.

  “Outside!” Merica blurted. “In the… goddamn storage area! I should’ve told you sooner. I –”

  “See, that wasn’t hard at all, was it?” Dajjal said callously, releasing Merica’s already bleeding dick before placing those severed fingers next to it in his lap. Standing and without a word, he strode through the bloodshed and back out the way he entered.

  Merica sat there for a few seconds, expecting the worst before exhaling deeply when it didn’t come. Dajjal had left and though he was quite literally less of a man than he was before, Merica was relieved to still be –

  Surging agony unlike he had ever felt before coursed through his entire body and an instant later, he burst like a grossly overfilled water balloon. Flames from the other rooms finally breached the lounge, consuming its contents whole.

  Out in the hall, Dajjal smirked in the mounting orange light as he lowered his hand, nestling it inside a coat pocket. The other one followed as he walked outside, the gusts of night wind like ice on his skin. He went to the left, glancing over to the damaged bikes before taking another left around the corner.

  There, a towering chain link fence stood in his way, several sea containers beckoning from a shadowy corner. Quicker than a blink, he appeared next to them, the resulting boom quickly dying in the dark.

  Wasting no time, he extended a hand and the end of the closest one crumpled with a metallic groan. Specks of rust and blue paint kicked up into the air, catching the auburn light of the raging fire behind him. Moving off to the side and with a flick of his wrist, the end of the unit tore away, screaming through the air until it crashed through the rear wall of the compound.

  The demon stepped forward and peered into the container, expecting to see a rusted out piece of shit after all his efforts. Yet, he found himself smiling when he saw what was inside. There sat a one off custom bobber, luminous in the firelight – its sleek and glossy whites enhancing the flat blacks without a trace of chrome.