INHUMANUM: A THRILLER (Law of Retaliation Book 1)

by Bradley Ernst

  “Thank you.”

  “Seems like something terrible happened?”

  “Yes.” Henna felt amazed. She drank the remainder of the fluid.

  The water tasted like water.

  “I boarded a trawler in Malé bound for these fishing grounds. I wanted to collect cone snails—I’m a toxicologist. A boy with no tongue found some for me. The captain of the trawler—” Henna’s voice cracked. Becky nodded encouragement and put a hand on Henna’s foot. Henna clawed at the captain’s shirt. “I need this off—” Becky pulled a pair of trauma shears from a pocket and unceremoniously cut off the shirt. She helped her into an exam gown. The shirt was still on the foot of the bed. Henna drew her feet away from it. “It’s the captain’s shirt. They ripped my clothes. I took it after I killed him.”

  Becky put the rapist’s shirt in a clear plastic bag and handed it to someone in the hallway. Henna felt a little better with the shirt off. “I killed four men who raped me. I need their blood tested for STDs, hepatitis, and HIV. I brought their—their hands with me. They’re in the satchel the men in the hallway are arguing about.”

  The cone snails.

  “I need you to get the satchel. There are cone snails inside—with the hands. Extraordinarily venomous animals. They shouldn’t be handled.” Becky stood. She went to the door. The policeman didn’t want to surrender the satchel, but Becky pulled rank. She carried the satchel to a small stainless steel tray to open it.

  “Probably overkill on the tourniquets, but I admire your spirit.” Becky appeared unflappable. She unwrapped each hand and placed it on the tray. She didn’t attempt to handle the cone snails, but did peer into the satchel at them for a moment. “These need a cooler or something, don’t they? If you want them to stay viable?” Henna nodded.

  Too much. This was all too much.

  Henna heard her own voice. She sounded to herself as though she babbled nonsense. “The trawler is out of Zanzibar. Most of the crew is Kenyan. Not the boy. The boy with no tongue—he’s Indonesian—”

  The boy!

  “There is a boy from Indonesia on the trawler. He tried to help me. I hope he isn’t hurt. Can you make sure they don’t hurt the boy with no tongue?” Henna stood. She needed to help him.

  Everything was going too fast.

  It felt like she now paid for the extra time Stephan gave her on the skiff. “I told the superstitious one I would whistle to conjure up the True White Devil if he didn’t take me back to the ship, then I chopped his head open with a machete—”

  Becky draped a towel over the gruesome row of hands. “We’ll work it all out. Come, sit down. Let me examine you and we can go from there.” Henna couldn’t sit.

  “—one of them held my wrists after I hit my head. At first I thought he was trying to help, but he was holding me down. He held me down so they could take turns.” Henna sobbed. She didn’t know if Becky could even tell what she was saying. The stress from her week at sea came out in a flood. “He had a knife. He cut a porpoise. He killed it because he wanted to eat it, but he didn’t have to.” Becky sat on the bed with Henna and put her arm around her shoulders. A nurse came in to ask how she could help.

  “We have plenty of time. I’m going to give you something for pain and an anxiolytic,” Becky nodded to the nurse and she left the room. “I need to examine you, but do you need to just cry for a bit? I think I would. I’ll stay here with you.”

  Yes. I need to cry.

  Henna didn’t say it, but Becky seemed to know. Henna sobbed. She clung tightly to the woman. Becky held Henna and glanced at the towel covering the hands on the tray. After a couple of minutes, Henna relaxed and laid back on the bed. Becky handed her a washcloth for her face. The nurse came in to start an IV. She gave her morphine and lorazepam, then drew up more medicine. Becky spoke in a matter-of-fact tone that was soothing. “I’m going to start you azithromycin and a cephalosporin. Let’s just treat you empirically for everything. I don’t have antivirals here and if I did, they would make you feel terrible. Since you’d have to wait to start them anyway, I’d advise you to wait until the test results are back.” Becky cleaned up Henna’s nose. She reduced her nasal fracture and taped it up like a boxer. After examining the rest of her body, Becky brought her fresh blankets.

  Warm ones.

  Henna looked at the tray. The hands were gone. Becky followed her gaze. “I pulled samples from the hands, but the tests are send-outs. The samples will be flown to our mother hospital in Japan.” Despite the warm blankets, Henna began to shake. The nurse came back carrying a small cooler and some surgical scrubs. She handed the items to Henna. She opened the cooler so Henna could see inside.

  The snails.

  The cooler was full of water. The nurse smiled at her. “It’s salt water.” Becky left to make some phone calls. Henna listened to the men in the hallway argue about her satchel. The police were concerned about evidence, but there were more Marines than police in the hallway. Henna put on the scrubs and pulled the blankets over her head. She didn’t feel cold, but she couldn’t stop shivering.

  Just the aftermath from the adrenaline.

  A few minutes passed. Becky was in the hallway. She barked orders and a short argument ensued. It sounded like the Marines escorted the police out. The nurse brought in Henna’s satchel and wiped at the beat-up bag until it was clean. Henna wrapped her arms around the small cooler and hugged it hard. When Becky returned, she gave Henna a sweatshirt. It was blue with an embroidered yellow helicopter. She had two Popsicles in a cup. She offered Henna one. She took the other by the wooden stick and bit into it. She chewed as she talked.

  “The police want to question you about the hands. Do you have any interest in talking to them?”

  “No—but I probably have to don’t I?”

  Becky smiled. “Not exactly. We aren’t really prepared for this type of thing. No one really knows what to do with you.” Becky took another bite of the Popsicle, but tucked it into her cheek so she could talk. “As far as I can tell, you’re a good woman who got on a bad boat. My question is why make things any more complicated than they have to be?” They were both quiet for a few moments. Becky looked blankly at a wall then nodded her head confidently. “How about this: why don’t you leave me your phone number so I can call you with the results from the blood samples. I’ll put you on the next plane to the States—I know that’s nowhere near Scotland, but it beats staying here until they do figure out what to do with you.”

  ~Timing Screw

  Marauder: pillager, raider, bandit, buccaneer, corsair, freebooter, looter, outlaw, pirate, plunderer, ravager, robber, thief.

  Bonn bought a ticket for the late train. It left for upstate in three hours. He slipped the ticket in his pocket and hailed a cab. As he rode from Penn Station to 77th, he replaced his running shoes with sparring shoes. He entered the park at 77th west and headed southeast toward the lake. After a group of cyclists pedaled by, Bonn slipped on some light police-style gloves. He slung his bag across his chest as he walked. He prepared himself, sliding a friction lock police baton into a tube he’d sewn between two belt loops on his jeans. He pulled his sweatshirt down over the weapon then took out a can of wasp spray. As a boy he’d watched a hired man prepare to use the stuff. He was a tough guy—a retired bull rider. The man showed great respect for the wasp spray. He’d put on safety goggles before climbing a ladder to douse a hornet’s nest. As he climbed he told Bonn something memorable:

  Got some of this in my eye once. Just a speck of it really. It hurt so bad I screamed like a mashed cat. I fell off a roof and broke my pelvis—worst pain I ever had—including being stomped on by a bull.

  As an afterthought, the man paused on the ladder and looked down at Bonn to clarify.

  The eye—not the pelvis.

  Bonn held the spray in his left hand—the shortened nozzle oriented away from his face—and carefully tucked the can in his sweatshirt. He slid a black sweatband high on his forehead then stretched a pair of swim goggles ove
r the band. The fabric would keep the lenses on the goggles from fogging up. He pulled the hood of his sweatshirt over the goggles so they were hidden above his hairline and eased his left hand back into the long pocket on his sweatshirt. He held the wasp spray in the pocket as he walked. With his free hand, he pretended to talk on his cellphone. A woman walked by. Bonn threw his head back and laughed into the phone. He strove to blend in, but his left eye didn’t lend itself to blending in. He usually wore sunglasses, but he had to simplify things if he needed to use the wasp spray.

  People seemed averse to a person who laughed on a cellphone. It was difficult to tell what a person usually looks like when they smile: eyes became colorless wrinkles, a belly laugh allowed a great view up one’s nose, but won’t allow an observer to identify specific features. There was a social barrier that accompanied cellphones. Even panhandlers avoided Bonn when he pretended to be on the phone.

  Bonn knew Central Park well. He knew where people walked their pets, he knew the trails cyclists preferred—he knew where drug dealers and gang members met. Despite the surrounding urban crush, Central Park was relatively safe. Police presence fluctuated with crime levels and vice-versa. Everything came down to timing.

  Everything.

  Good timing was crucial to all successful endeavors. A person who understood timing could become rich. Good timing even allowed an average man access to beautiful women. Bonn thought of the old Mercury. The Marauder had a timing screw on the carburetor. Manny could make a carburetor purr; he knew the sweet spot between the coughing death rattle and the too rich whine of a humming bird. When he hit the sweet spot, his friend always turned to him and flashed a satisfied smile.

  Just right.

  It was, of course, the volume of fuel that caused a change like that in an engine, but it was the flow that mattered. Manny was a carburetor artist. He knew what perfect sounded like by ear.

  All of it was timing.

  A professor, who had accused Bonn of cheating, would have argued that in the energy conversion, there was always more energy into a system than out. Bonn knew this was true, but recognized something his professor didn’t: where the laws of physics stopped explaining the success of certain people, the phenomenon he thought of as artistry picked up the conversation. Artists of physical timing weren’t physicists. Artists were regular people with great reflexes. They didn’t struggle to make quick estimations.

  They acted.

  Babe Ruth became a phenomenon because he knew where a baseball would be before it got there. By the time it left the pitcher’s fingertips it traveled roughly fifty-eight feet to get to the plate. That gave him time. Babe was a legend because he used that time wisely. The ball was a victim of physics during each fifty-eight foot trip. Physics don’t change mid-flight. Babe had the bat ready when the ball got there. Babe Ruth was no athlete—he had a famously flabby midsection. He was, however, an artist. In comparison, even an amateur lightweight boxer required exponentially faster timing to avoid the fists of a skilled opponent.

  Gifted reflexes, immense core strength. The willingness to keep going when damaged.

  A boxer was just an opponent’s arm length away from damage. Consequences became dire quickly when they didn’t block or dodge. And how did a good boxer differ from a legendary boxer?

  Superior timing.

  Bonn turned off of Terrace Drive. He headed northeast. The trail ended at the lake. There was usually activity there. Bonn walked fast. His footsteps were nearly silent in the sparring shoes. Three young males were ahead of him on the trail so Bonn slowed. They couldn’t hear him approach from behind. They took their time. They waited for an opportunity.

  Gang members.

  They could be his opportunity.

  Time would tell.

  Bonn heard hooves and a snort behind him. Two mounted police approached. Bonn stepped off of the path and sat beneath a tree. As the officers passed by he shrugged his shoulder into the phone and pretended to write something important on his hand. The officers ignored him. They continued toward the lake.

  Everyone headed toward the dead end.

  Bonn glanced at his watch. He had an hour and a half to catch the train. As the officers slowed to pass the thugs, one of the men on foot spoke. “She’s not that cute, but the other girl? The one in my calculus class—” Once the officers were out of earshot, the banter stopped. There was no jocularity or laughter from his companions.

  They had a method.

  A man and a woman approached from the lake. Bonn backed further into the trees to watch as the two groups converged. One of the thugs stopped to tie a shoelace. It gave them all a reason to pause there. Tension grew as the couple neared. The gangsters assessed the situation. The man was big and fit. When they passed the loiterers, the man put his body between the woman and the strangers. He kept his hands free. He moved fluidly. He waited to wrap his arm back around the woman’s shoulders until they were past the thugs.

  Gallantry was not dead.

  The thugs exchanged looks. One spoke. The others nodded. They’d agreed on a plan but hesitated. Bonn guessed they speculated on the likelihood of the cops return. If the cops didn’t return on the path?

  Maybe they’d mug the couple—maybe they’d hassle the woman. Maybe they’d taunt the woman to humiliate the man after battering him.

  There were many worse scenarios, but none of them mattered—

  He would intercede.

  The couple neared Bonn’s hiding spot. He remained still and watched, unobserved. From the looks of the man, the thugs might have their hands full with him, but they would certainly have weapons. The sun dipped beneath the trees. In the distance, Bonn saw the mounted police gallop off the path, through a grassy expanse. Either the horses needed to run or they’d received a call. Either way, they wouldn’t return on the path. The thugs noticed too. They didn’t hesitate. They went after the couple with purpose. Bonn waited to commit until they passed his hiding spot. Maybe he’d misread their intentions.

  No. He’d been right.

  Two of the men held guns and the third pulled a lead sap from his back pocket. They’d just passed Bonn when the guy with the sap spoke. “Drag her back here to the trees.”

  No doubts now.

  The couple disappeared behind a grassy knoll. Bonn pulled the goggles down over his eyes. He grasped the wasp spray firmly in his left hand. He removed the baton with his right.

  Here I go.

  Bonn swung wide and ran up behind the men.

  Fast, quiet, low.

  His mind slowed. He perfected his plan on the move. With each step, his next movement became clear.

  The one on the left has the sap. His hood is up—the calculus student. He will be last. The middle one is a step behind the others—he has a gun. He is first. The one on the right also has a gun. He is second.

  Bonn approached like he prepared to kick a field goal. Just before he reached the thug in the middle he flicked the baton open. Click. It was loud, but it was too late—the thug just began to turn his head when the baton smashed into his right temple. The thin bone caved like an eggshell. Bonn wasted no time. He lunged toward the man to his right and swung the baton backhand.

  Babe would be proud.

  The effect was devastating. The baton impacted the second man’s trachea and he instantly folded in half. He dropped the gun to grasp his throat with both hands, and Bonn kicked the gun a safe distance away. Bonn wheeled left and leveled the spray at the third man. The confused thug held the sap out like a remote control. Bonn circled him until he was upwind.

  “This is your final exam. Calculus can be described as the study of how things change. Two elements are important in this study. The first element is numbers—what is the second element?” The gangster was dumbstruck. He glanced at his companions, but they were of no help.

  “You’re crazy!”

  “The answer I would have accepted was ‘functions.’” Bonn sprayed the man for several seconds with the wasp spray.


  The stuff does work.

  The thug wheezed and dropped the sap. He pushed his fingers into his eyes. Bonn strode forward and rained blows down on the would-be rapist.

  One collarbone, two—left mastoid insertion site, right. Nasal bone.

  Bonn stayed low, but pivoted slightly to check the others. The first man appeared dead—he was motionless. His right eye bulged from his head like a lemon. The man on the far right was frothing blood from his lungs in an odd arched position. His eyes were open but glazed. His pupils were huge.

  No oxygen to the brain. He wouldn’t last another minute. Neither was a threat.

  Bonn turned back to the third man. He had mechanically destroyed the guy’s ability to use accessory muscles above his neck. The man’s two-decade-old sternocleidomastoid muscles pulled in vain on his broken clavicles. The muscles were no longer tethered to the man’s skull either. Since his nose was shattered, he had to breathe through his mouth. He made grunting noises. Bonn timed his inhalation attempts. When the cretin struggled to take his next breath, Bonn emptied the rest of the wasp spray into his mouth.

  Timing—it was everything.

  While Bonn walked toward where the couple disappeared, he pulled off the swim goggles and sweatband. The goggles went into the bag and a small bottle of isopropyl alcohol came out. Bonn squirted some of the fluid onto the sweatband. He used it to wipe down the baton.

  The couple was visible again—two hundred meters off.

  Bonn finished cleaning the baton and jogged to a maple tree. He struck the tip of the baton on the tree to collapse it, then slipped off the sparring shoes.