INHUMANUM: A THRILLER (Law of Retaliation Book 1)

by Bradley Ernst

The boy missed home. He wasn’t like them.

  Someone shouted. Something was wrong with the net. The captain swung the sjambok wildly. He yelled. It seemed part of the net was caught on a reef. They had to take a smaller boat out to free it. Henna tucked the bag of snails in her satchel and took a few tentative steps toward the cooler. The snails were heavy. Each one must weigh nearly a kilogram. Her heart raced. The captain leered at her and yelled. Henna glanced around for the boy, but he had his back to her. He seemed intent on helping with the net.

  “You will come, too. We take the small boat.”

  You. He meant her.

  The captain smiled broadly. “We send two men into the water to free the net. You inspect the net for shells when they do it.” Henna’s blood ran cold. She held her stomach as if she was ill, but the captain pointed to the skiff with the sjambok. “Real quick. We are quick. My best men. They know what to do.”

  “Thank you, no. I will stay here.” The captain shook his head at Henna. Then nodded to the men who awaited orders from him.

  She was in trouble. Getting on that skiff would be the biggest mistake she could make.

  The men had her arms. They roughly marched her to the ladder.

  “Let go of me NOW—I’m staying here!”

  Henna landed hard in the little boat. Whether she fell or was thrown didn’t matter. She heard rather than felt the impact and rebounded despite the blow.

  She was going back up that ladder.

  She reeled and touched her head. Men climbed down and blocked her way. The outboard started on the first pull. They started for the reef. Henna looked for the boy on the trawler. He was there. Watching her. He cried—he didn’t use his fingers to indicate crying—tears actually streamed down his cheeks. The ladder, her lifeline, was gone. The captain took over the controls in the skiff. He knelt in front of the outboard motor and spun the throttle full forward. The crew knew to lean forward, but Henna fell backward and hit her head on a fuel tank. Small things whirled in front of her. A buzzing noise inside her head drowned out the sound of the outboard. It felt like several minutes that they raced at top speed, but she wasn’t sure. Her head hurt. She felt disoriented. She began to come around as the boat slowed. They were helping her. Many hands were on her arms, helping her up. Someone laughed. They were sorry she was hurt. It was sheepish laughter. She smelled fuel. She must have fallen into some fuel because they took her shirt off.

  Please, God, let them be helping her.

  ~Motivation

  Bonn threw some things together. Manny was on the phone, and he felt increasingly anxious to get to Ithaca.

  He could use a break from the city anyway.

  Lately Manny had been calling him daily. The history buff, Norman Trundle, remained obsessed with the Bill of Rights. More people became involved. “I put it in the trunk of the Mercury like you asked me to, but this is Norman’s new hobby, son. He just won’t let it go.”

  “It’ll all work out Manny. How is Linda doing?”

  Bonn’s question seemed to make Manny angry. He didn’t answer it.

  “He snuck a picture of it, by the way—Norman, I mean. A couple guys in suits showed up with the picture. They demanded to see it. I told them I had a university official come pick it up to see if it was authentic, but they wanted a name. I balked. Finally I picked up a ball peen hammer and re-invited them to leave. One of them tossed a card at me. They said they’d be back with a search warrant. Card reads: Warfield and Rainbolt, Attorneys at Law.”

  “I’ll have Rupert call them. He’ll take care of it. Listen, we are overdue for a visit. I’ll take the train up tonight. We can catch up in person. I want to break open that CNC machine.”

  Manny was quiet on the other end of the phone. Something else was going on. Neither of them spoke for a few moments.

  “The other thing, son—I’ve considered skipping this detail—when the lawyers were here Linda came down with some lunch. She does that most days anymore, but, like I said, the lawyers were here. She and Jelly Bean got all tangled up coming down the stairs. They’re fine, but Linda took a big spill.”

  Manny was trying to hold it together, but his voice shook.

  “After I helped her up and checked her over, I noticed one of the lawyers leaning on my workbench with a big smile. I don’t think Linda heard what he said—she was yelling at the dogs not to eat the sandwiches, but I heard what he said. It’s the real reason I picked up the hammer. For a minute I considered beating him to a pulp.” Bonn stopped packing. He looked out the window toward the park. “‘Clumsy nigger.’ That’s what he said. Just loud enough to hear, but he said it. I’m sure they’ll come back with a warrant and if they’re the types who would use that language. I’m not sure what other tricks they’re capable of.”

  Bonn pulled on his coat. He swung a messenger bag over his shoulder and made for the park. His jaw muscles felt tight. His heartbeat felt fast. When he hit the heavy bag, he could get his heart rate above 120, but it felt faster than that now.

  “That was ignorant.”

  And reckless.

  “I’ll ask Rupert to give them a call. I doubt you’ll see those guys again—”

  And what I mean by that is I guarantee it.

  “—when I get there, let’s make those oddball parts for the GT you told me about. I suspect the CNC machine will work like a charm.”

  At the mention of the GT Manny’s voice brightened—it was a Ford GT. The son of a collector took it out on a joyride and rolled it. Bonn bought it at auction. Manny wasn’t sure they’d ever get the thing going again. The frame was even better than new, the body was pristine again, but some of the specialty parts under the hood were difficult to replicate, even for Manny. Manny liked iron and steel. Bonn knew that. All of the cars from the farm were sold now, but Bonn kept a steady stream of interesting and collectable cars coming. Manny liked to stay busy, but he was over his head with the GT. When he became overwhelmed with the project, he’d put the Ford away. He took a month to fix up a Superbee to clear his head. Supercars like the GT were intimidating. The tolerances were too tight.

  “It’ll be great to see you, son. I’ll be glad to finish that GT up and be done with it. Heck, I’d rather work on another Marauder. Do me a favor and don’t buy any more cars like that Ford. I’m nearly retired. I don’t want to discover more things I’m not good at.”

  Bonn had things to do before he headed north. He needed to test himself before taking on the racist attorneys that harassed Manny and Linda. He felt his pulse. It had returned to normal.

  He was ready for the test. This had been coming for years.

  ~True White Devil

  Henna looked at the man in front of her. Her vision was clearer now. He had her wrists. He was helping to steady her. She needed to vomit. Henna tried to turn her arms to free her wrists from the man’s grip, but he shook his head and smiled. It was the man with the short knife—the man who wanted a porpoise dinner.

  My best men. We are quick. They know what to do.

  She turned her head to look behind her. The captain had his pants down. Someone had her hips.

  Her pants were off. She didn’t remember taking them off. A sharp pain.

  They weren’t helping her. The man who held her wrists squatted down and squeezed her wrists so hard she couldn’t feel her fingers.

  Oh God. Oh God, please send me help—send me a pack of glass-toothed wolves. Send me Stephan. Pull us into the water. Anything.

  The men laughed casually. She wasn’t fighting. Someone new was behind her. “Porpoise Lover” squeezed her wrists even tighter and mocked her. She wasn’t fighting—yet.

  But she could.

  The captain was finished. He pulled his pants up. He walked to the front of the boat. Instead of his sjambok, he held a panga. When they’d finished with the rape, he’d kill her with the short machete and throw her overboard. No one on the trawler would ask what happened to her. They wouldn’t need to—they’d know.

  They knew al
ready.

  Enraged, Henna screamed. She bore down and screamed until her grim breakfast shot from her mouth into Porpoise Lover’s face. He lost his grip on her. Henna twisted and rolled. Men laughed less casually. They celebrated her willingness to fight.

  Something was underneath her—the satchel?

  Henna shoved her hand blindly inside.

  There—a cone snail.

  She gripped the animal around the center of the shell and rolled quickly toward the captain.

  Things slowed down.

  Stephan spoke to her. She couldn’t see him, but she knew Stephan had his wig in his hand. She heard his voice as though he were standing at her elbow. “They don’t expect us girls to fight, but we always do.” She attacked. She rolled onto a knee and thrust the base of the cone snail into the Captain’s groin with all her might.

  “Jolly good,” said imaginary Stephan, “now the others.”

  Why wouldn’t he help her? Maybe he was—at least he told her what to do.

  Down again—she rolled for the satchel. The other idiots were frozen. They looked at the Captain, who gasped for breath in fetal position. The snail had harpooned the man—the toxin appeared to work on vertebrates.

  Imaginary Stephan did something that slowed time. When he spoke again, even his voice was slow. “Hey, Henna, those snails are pretty hot—the captain can’t breathe. You’re onto a fish-eating species.”

  Henna grasped a cone snail in each hand and stood. Porpoise Lover reached for the panga, in slow motion, while the other two looked on. Each of the men had their pants down. They wouldn’t move fast even if imaginary Stephan sped things back up. A surge of anger fueled her. She was ready. She rammed the base of the shell in her right hand into Porpoise Lover’s neck. He spun, but remained upright. He felt his neck with his free hand, then raised the machete to strike her. She raised her left hand to ward off the blow. Something stirred inside the shell. In a flash, the snail thrust its harpoon. It pierced the man’s upper lip. He dropped so suddenly, it appeared his bones had melted. A man with a tiny penis took a tentative step toward her. She crouched and held the snails in front of her like knives.

  “Shake ’em up, old girl,” her imaginary friend said in his best African Queen voice.

  Good idea.

  She aimed the business ends of the snails at “Tiny Penis” and shook them hard. One of them answered with a harpoon. A bone-melting dose of injectable death dropped the man. Henna spun to face the last of her attackers. He looked frightened. He’d pulled his pants up. He appeared terrified of the snails in Henna’s hands. She rolled her shoulders back and readied herself, aiming the snails at his abdomen.

  A calm came over her. She spoke to him in Swahili. “Take me back to the ship.”

  The man’s eyes bulged and rolled in his head, not unlike the eye of a wildebeest cut from the herd in the last few steps of chase, when it knows it has lost. Not wanting to look, but looking back all the same, for the terrible hooks about to pull it down. He nodded vigorously. He worked his mouth like an oxygen-starved mullet, but was unable to conjure a fearful word past the gatekeeper of his mouth.

  Henna stepped forward. “If you try anything I’ll whistle,” Henna promised, “the True White Devil will come. I’ll let the snails spear you, but I’ll keep you alive for the True White Devil. You know what he does.” The man’s eyes flashed wider still. Tanzanians were superstitious people—they imagined many fates worse than death. He turned to pull the starter on the outboard and Henna picked up the panga. She swung the machete hard. It cleaved his skull easily. The superstitious man fell still. Henna turned in a circle to look for real Stephan.

  He wasn’t there of course.

  The motor was pitched askew, tilted to one side. The boat turned in a slow, tight circle.

  Four dead men.

  How many of them raped her? She didn’t know. Porpoise Lover held her wrists—did he rape her first? Henna felt her sinuses burning. Her nose was broken and bled badly.

  Blood. She needed blood samples from these men. They could have HIV—they could have anything.

  She couldn’t breathe through her nose. She felt herself hyperventilating through her open mouth.

  What did people do for that?

  Stephan didn’t answer, but Henna could think for herself now.

  They breathe into a bag.

  She had a bag. Henna looked for her satchel. It was open. Simply having a plan to do something helped slow her breathing. A cone snail was at her foot. She picked it up carefully and looked around the boat. There were four left—she’d driven the first snail, sharp end first like a railroad spike, deep into the captain’s pubic symphysis. Henna decided to let the captain keep it. She placed the remaining snails in her satchel. She still needed blood samples from these men. She looked at the panga.

  There was a way.

  She pried the big knife from the skull of the superstitious man. Next she tied a tourniquet tightly around the captain’s right wrist. She placed his arm across his chest. Holding it steady, she chopped at the arm until it came free. Suddenly she realized she was completely naked. She looked for her shirt. It was in shreds. She took pieces of her shirt, wrapped the hand of the Captain in it, then placed the hand in her bag with the snails. She repeated the process with Tiny Penis and Porpoise Lover. She was winding the last of the cord around the superstitious man’s right wrist when she noticed the trawler coming at her.

  She’d have to work on the move.

  She turned the throttle on the outboard and straightened the till. She pointed the skiff toward what she hoped was Diego Garcia. She couldn’t see well; with her nose broken her eyes were full of tears. It felt like looking at the sun through water. The ship corrected to head her off. The outboard on the skiff was small. It was a short, wide boat. The trawler might be able to overtake her.

  She’d have to dump the bodies.

  She turned the skiff sharply 180 degrees and backed off the throttle. The ship corrected to intercept her. She had to focus on one thing at a time.

  First, the arm.

  She made short work of the superstitious man’s arm. He was thin.

  She probably outweighed him.

  She squatted and dragged him to the side of the boat, then tipped him headfirst into the ocean. Porpoise Lover was even thinner. He and Tiny Penis were easier to move now that she had a method.

  The captain was last.

  The trawler closed on the skiff, but she took the time to roll the captain’s body back and forth to remove his shirt before she hoisted him overboard. He floated face up. Henna glowered at the corpse with rage. “Porpoises are mammals, jackass.” The ship was close now. It slowed and turned sharply. She guessed someone wanted to board the skiff—

  But they surely didn’t want to help.

  She slipped the captain’s shirt on and spun the throttle hard. The ship was now only feet away. She turned the skiff to the rear of the trawler. They’d need to swing wide to chase her. That should buy her some time. With just Henna’s weight, the skiff was faster. She rubbed her eyes to clear them and steered for the only landmass she could see. Another boat raced toward her from the island. Henna reached into her satchel and pulled out a cone snail. She found the heavy machete and wedged it into the gunwale.

  If they wouldn’t help her? She’d kill them too.

  ~Survivor

  The boat from Diego Garcia reached her first. From 150 meters they hailed her with a bullhorn. “Power-skiff headed for Diego Garcia: halt your progress and cut your engine. Prepare to be boarded.” It was a British voice so Henna spun the throttle to low. When the boat pulled alongside her, men pointed automatic rifles at her. The man with the bullhorn put the device down and gave commands. “Miss, turn off the outboard. Place your hands on top of your head.” Henna turned off the outboard, but the captain’s shirt was short. She was not going to give the Brits a show. The military boat was longer and much faster than the skiff. It flew a ragged flag. It looked like someone pinned a
British flag to a flag from the USA. Several deeply-tanned mildly-drunk men were aboard. One held a volleyball. The man who gave orders spoke into a radio, then barked some orders to the others. The men with rifles held them at low ready. Henna felt dizzy, but held her chin high.

  The small whirling things were back.

  “I’m a Scottish citizen. I’ve been raped and beaten. I need immediate medical attention. In my bag I have a fax from British Indian Ocean Territory London office that allows me to collect scientific samples from these waters—” Henna collapsed. Two of the tanned soldiers boarded the skiff.

  “Jesus—” said the youngest of the men, tiptoeing around the pools of gore that shifted with the men’s steps. “That’s a lot of damned blood.” One of them removed his shirt and tied it around Henna’s waist. The trawler was nearly on top of them. The man at the console spoke into the radio. The men with rifles trained their weapons at the incoming vessel. The man in charge shouted into the bullhorn. “Shut down your vessel. Set anchor. Prepare to be boarded.”

  When Henna awoke she was in the military boat. She was covered in an assortment of shirts. She followed the eyes of a tan man with a broad back as he grinned toward Diego Garcia. When he spoke, she was relieved. “I thought they were sending out the patrol boat.”

  “They are,” the man with the bullhorn answered tersely.

  The man with the broad back shook his head and held a hand to his ear.

  “But I hear them firing up the Harrier,” the Brit with the bullhorn answered with understatement. “They’re sending it all out.”

  Once ashore, four of the British Royal Marines escorted her to the clinic in the back of an ambulance. One read her fax from BIOT London en-route. They took her to an examination room. A woman entered and the Marines excused themselves. When the door swung open she saw a policeman and some US Navy officers in the corridor.

  They had her satchel.

  She heard the Marines argue with the policeman, but Henna couldn’t tell why. Through the window in the door she saw someone standing guard. “I’m Dr. Becky Phillips. Please call me Becky.” Becky covered Henna with a blanket and put the head of the bed up for Henna. “I don’t need to examine your nose. It’s broken. Before I examine the rest of you, do you feel like you can tell me what happened?” Henna tried to speak, but choked on her own voice. Becky brought her a cup of water. She sat on the foot of the gurney. After a sip of water she coughed and cleared her throat.