She trailed off, thinking only of the beauty of his screaming voice. How it seemed to echo even in this small, gray room. How it brought a lightness to her heart. How it remained one of the few vices to satiate that constant need, that constant Call.
He spit on her. It was a weak attempt consisting of nothing but clear spittle, yet the hatred was still there in his eyes. The same way it had been the hundreds of times he’d done it before, or the thousands of times he’d wished to.
As always, the action brought an immediate and prescribed punishment. Gertrude reached between his chained legs, grabbed his pair of musky testicles, and squeezed with enough force to nearly crush them. But she was an expert in pressure and limits, of course, and he remained intact.
Rhonda’s makeshift surgery removed those dual vestiges of manhood from the regular men, those that The Cause deemed teachable. But those men always cried and screamed in fear as she relieved them of their greatest distraction. Gertrude mused that they didn’t realize how lucky they truly were. This useless scrum she held onto now could have told them what true pain was, if he were ever given the chance.
But even as she released and watched him hover on the edge of, then fall into, unconsciousness, drooling from the side of his slack mouth, she secretly respected his courage. He had known, of course, what would happen whenever he spit on her. And still he did it on occasion, bearing his punishment despite the small comfort it gave in return. She wished more of her girls had that kind of mettle. If there was even one among them, maybe her difficulty in arranging the replacement of her second-in-command wouldn’t be taking up so much of her time. Oh Lucy, she thought. Why must the world be as it is? If only you knew the true difficulty of leadership.
When the man woke, Gertrude continued the prescribed punishment: punches to his face with her strong, granite-like hands. He took them all, never pulling away. But he didn’t spit on her again either, not even when his mouth began to fill with blood.
Her mistake came during this monotony of routine. She simply forgot about the butcher’s knife. She’d been distracted, it was true, by the Lucy dilemma, but this didn’t excuse her absentmindedness and she later chided herself for the mistake. As she continued beating him, he fell unconscious twice more before she remembered the knife. She looked and saw that at some point it had been rammed against the heavy oak table to which he was chained and had opened a huge gash in his lower leg. Blood was pouring out of the wound, and instantly Gertrude knew the folly of her ways.
She employed her limited medical knowledge, holding a towel- the one she reserved to mop her own sweat or, less often, to gag the scum-pig halfway to suffocation- against the wound.
When the towel blossomed like a rose she knew the man would die. And what was she to do? Apply a tourniquet? Call Monica for her useless assistance? To what end? Maybe eight years is enough, she considered. There are others who need the treatment. Any one of them can satisfy my needs.
Instead, Gertrude allowed his blood to flow, glad at least that in his unconscious state he wasn’t aware of his small victory over her. Nevertheless, she swore once in a soft, almost gentle voice as the pool of blood spread and slowly thickened.
The interruption had prevented her from finding the complete solution to Lucy’s replacement, and this was all turning into a highly frustrating day. Instead of solving one problem, she’d created another. And what was worse, the man-pig’s final moments on Earth hadn’t even been an appreciative session. Her sole motivation for coming down to the square, gray room in the first place had been to clean the cobwebs in her mind. And now it was over. He was dead, and she had missed it. His soul, if such a thing existed, was already on its way to Hell. His opportunity to acquire the angelic wings of Heaven had officially passed.
And even as she watched his blood flow and darken, she heard that Call begin its faint demand once again. It hadn’t been quelled for even an hour. The incessant cries for blood continued.
Just above the hilt of the knife, in the two inches of blade that weren’t quite embedded into the dead man’s knee, Gertrude caught the reflection of bright red in the room’s lone light bulb. Despite the vibrant shade and wet shine of the fluid so recently purged from the living body, it was a low, soft glow.
It was rare for Gertrude to bring a weapon of any kind to the basement. Rhonda, of course, almost always brought a device or two. Most were designed to be inserted into the body cavity, which was wonderfully effective, however Gertrude preferred her bare hands. The only reason she’d brought the butcher’s knife today was so she could let it do most of the work while she worked out the finer details of her plan. And now it had become the scum’s salvation.
If there is a Hell, he probably managed at least one laugh at me before beginning his eternity of pain. Only there he won’t die. Won’t ever pass out. Oh, what I wouldn’t give to be freed of limitations like that. Rhonda would be in Heaven. She’d probably write a whole second book just on the specifics of torture techniques for the afterlife.
As this thought and its comforting images faded from her mind, Gertrude remembered her newest dilemma. A body left unattended would rot, and rotting flesh attracted flies and island rats and, inevitably, curious minds. The incinerator would have to be fixed, as soon as possible. In the meantime, she needed to stuff the body deep behind the others in the cooler before her girls came back from their day’s work.
Without so much as a single grunt of effort, Gertrude bent and lifted the man’s dead weight onto her powerful right shoulder. His arms and head lolled awkwardly behind her like a child’s abused rag doll. His legs dangled stiffly in front of her. She saw but didn’t remove the knife.
As she carried him up the stairs for the first time in over eight years, his legs jounced in front of her eyes with each of her own steps like a mockery of motion. The knife seemed to taunt her, to Call her.
Take me, Little Gertie, it said. Take me and use me. I won’t bite. I promise. I only want to play a game. I only want to be your friend.
Then, just as she was reaching for her key to open the padlock on the door, the half-inch of blade not quite hidden by blood and meat caught the dull glint of light once again.
She didn’t think, she only acted. It was The Call, and it could not be ignored any longer. Gertrude took the handle of the knife and pushed, digging it all the way to the hilt and deep into the dead man’s dead joint of bone and ligaments and flesh. Then she twisted it a full hundred and eighty degrees and sighed with pleasure as she felt the tendons strain and snap, heard the bones bend and crack, and smelled the blood as its fragrant bouquet drifted into her nostrils and filled her soul.
4
Elton looked down at his companion of so long, and felt fear for the first time in years. He’d been watching her for five minutes, five minutes at the very least, and he was pretty sure she was dead. She wasn’t breathing, anyway, so probably she was dead.
“Mutha fuggin’ son of-”
His mind raced with the possibilities. I could bury her… his mind conjured thoughts of a shovel, piles of dark brown earth, and so much sweat from hours of back-breaking work… but some fuggin’ dog might sniff it up. The piles of dirt turned into a mongrel with a bent tail and a coat of fur riddled with mange. The cur sniffed the ground incessantly, eventually stopping at Elton’s piles of earth, where it began to dig, slowly at first, then more feverishly as it neared the scent it had learned to love.
I could chop her up, feed her to the fishees at the reservoir. He considered some more. A bucket now. Several buckets, lined up like grocery items on a conveyor belt. They sat at the edge of a long lake. Elton sat by their side, slowly reaching in a hand, picking out an item, and throwing it far out into the depths beyond. No. That ain’t no good either. One little chunk goes floatin away… a big toe is all it would take.
The lake and the bucket vanished in his mind, replaced by a little girl plucking a floating, white finger from the side of her daddy’s boat. Her screams echo across the lake a
nd reverberate against the wall of trees. No, this way wouldn’t do either.
How did they always do it in the movies? Trash bags, right? Wrapped up in big black trash bags and stashed in some drain pipe or sunk to the bottom of the lake. Yeah, that’s better. But I has to buy lotsa ducky tape too. Does ducky tape hold in water? It must or the movies wouldn’t use it. Damn, why’d she have to go and die like that?
He didn’t like this. Didn’t like it one bit. Was she really dead? She might be fakin’ it. She’d tried that once way back years ago when she’d still been fresh and full of spit. Was it his fault she couldn’t hold her breath that long? She’d done it right dozens of times before. It hardly seemed right that she’d knock off like that just as he was starting-
He punched her, hard. Right in the ribcage. Nothing. “Shit,” Elton said. “You really is dead, ain’t you? Dumb bitch.”
In the distance he heard an approaching siren. As always, his ears perked to the sound, but just as quickly dismissed it. He wasn’t in the suburbs, after all, and plenty of crimes went on every day. Probably another robbery or maybe just some guy tellin’ off his bitch a little too loud for the neighbor’s liking. He poked at her eyeball with his finger. Still nothing. “Shit,” he said again.
A black trash bag bloated with cargo and weighted down with a pair of cinderblocks filled his mind. The bag wouldn’t float up to the lake surface for years. Nobody was allowed to fish in the reservoir. It’d be years before the fishees nibbled through the plastic and found her bones. He’d be long dead himself by then, sure thing. Yeah, the trash bag was the best idea. Maybe he’d double-bag her. No, quadruple-bag her. Layers of bags had to be right. The movies wouldn’t lie. But he’d have to do it at night. Movies taught him that much, too. At night. Wearing gloves. Dressed all in black. And he should use his own boat. He’d have to buy a boat. Just a little one would do. A ding-ee, that’s what they were called, right? Didn’t matter. Just something he could use to get her out into the middle where it was deep. Damn, why’d she have to die like that? And why did his demon have to insist he always choke her? He always knew one day his demon would get him in trouble.
“I love you my angel,” Elton said into the quiet room.
Then he bent forward and kissed her tenderly on the cheek. In the eight years he’d held the poor girl hostage, it was the gentlest thing he’d ever done in that cold, square, gray room.
5
My name is Obe, the young man thought as he ran. Obe like robe. Obe like globe. Obe like lobe and strobe and especially probe! My name is Obe.
He ran on strong legs, injured feet, and the wish to just once have wings instead of fear.
CHAPTER 2
SAD DESCENTS
1
Obe had accidentally chosen the shortest hill to climb. From behind, an ominous sound chased him down. But his fear was subdued, tempered by months of experience. Nevertheless, the churning of car tires in dewed grass and dirt compelled him. He was already in his running zone. His lone thought-
My name is not Obe. My real name begins with the sound of ‘C’.
-was that he needed to reach the top of the hill first. Whatever lay on the other side wasn’t important. All that mattered was that he lived long enough to see it.
His strong legs had been running the island hills for months. Before that, they had run months more on the women’s treadmills. He was now as fast and resilient-
They were just prepping you for the hunt. You’re their pawn. It’s how they stole your mind so easily.
-as any professional athlete. But his day had been beyond taxing. The bottoms of his feet felt like so many shredded rags. His nose had been broken. His back and shoulders had been beaten like a-
it’s a Spanish word. Something with a ‘P.’ Per-something? Pay-something? It’s like a donkey only many colors and has candy inside.
-as he had tried and failed to grab a scant satchel of food at his first Grocery Day in his newly-assigned area of the island. Even his hands had been sliced in the tall grasses of this wild and unknown world of the Blue Sector. And through it all his most damaged feature, his mind, sang its chaotic song.
My name is Obe.
And yet he ran. For this was the life of any island man. An island man didn’t feel pain other than that agony he had caused the woman or women he had abused. An island man didn’t cry unless for his mortal soul.
He summited the hill and saw a thick-trunked, lone tree standing at the base of the next valley. The sight of it gave him a glimmer of hope. The words “silver lining,” slipped through his lips as he turned and ran for it. The grass was slick with morning dew, and he was forced to continue his descent at an awkward downhill angle, fighting to stay on course. His full litany, first from his lips then solely in his mind, pounded in quick time with his running feet. Lining lining silver lining cloudy silver silver lining.
The car crested the hill behind him. Tires whirred in the open air. The engine screamed wildly. Then the heavy front end landed, unmindful of the jolt to its shocks. The driver had already turned the wheel in Obe’s direction,-
Obe like probe!
and the tires slid sideways, tearing two deep gouges through the grass and dirt. Then it gained traction, swinging wide with heavy momentum. This driver wasn’t playing games. She wanted him dead on the first pass. Obe could feel her wrath in the headlights on his back.
Ten seconds from the tree he heard the tearing of grass and earth stop and knew the car was coming straight for him. And ten seconds became a very long time. Despite his own speed, the tree didn’t seem nearer. It slid back from him, up the next hill, taunting him. Then suddenly it was there and so was the car. One thick branch hanging low on the right side had been his destination, and he leaped for it. Flying through the air, he had a momentary vision of the branch pulling itself out of reach at the last second like the bags of food had done.
Like Charlie Brown and the football! his mind insisted, though he had no idea what that meant.
But his hands grabbed it solidly. His body swung forward and he pulled his knees up hard against his own impetus. The car slammed its left headlight into the trunk and caromed off, ripping up even more soil and sward. A hand from below slapped at Obe’s bare left foot but couldn’t grab hold.
Then Obe hit the peak of his swing and his hands lost their grasp. He fell to the earth, the thumb on his left hand making first contact and bending backward. The full weight of his body landed on the hand. The thumb stretched and thinned like strands of pulled taffy.
The pain was immense but a stream of profanities from the woman took Obe’s attention to another place.
LiningLiningSilverLining-
He felt only a hot wash flow through his entire arm. He scrambled to his feet and ran the other way past the blessed trunk of the tree. Something in his mind pictured a piece of silver-colored taffy in a coat of waxed paper. He saw the paper being spread open with uncaring fingers. He saw teeth bite down and pull, stretching the taffy into thin, web-like strands. Then the image was gone and he was just running again.
As he put space between himself and the car-
My second run! I’ll tell Baj in the morning and get my second mark.
-his torturous mind reminded him of the horrible news he had learned only minutes before the sudden appearance of the midnight car. Almost unbelievably, a stranger had told him news of his brother.
We saw horses from a helicopter once. That was a real memory, not just wishful thinking. He even said my name. If only I could remember.
And the news was that his brother was also here on the island.
2
Elton’s dinghy jerked and rocked violently as he let go of his plastic-bound burden. The volume of the resulting splash startled him and he quickly looked to the shoreline, but it was still empty of people, bathed only by the half-moon’s soft glow.
Upon the little boat’s second lurching sway he lost his balance and nearly went into the reservoir as well. He caught himself
on the cold metal frame and laughed an irreverent guffaw. “Fuggin’ bitch. Y’almost got me after alls. How’d you know I never learnt to swim, huh?”
But the woman couldn’t say. She was folded and tied and stuffed into not four but eight layers of contractor bags and already gone to the reservoir’s black depths. Elton pictured her strange descent through the inky void. He pictured her the day he’d brought her, crying and screaming into his basement. He pictured her clawing her way out of the layers of thick, black plastic, undead now and intent on revenge. But he knew that would never happen. Ghosties weren’t real, and girlies never fought too hard.
She’s prolly on the bottom already, he thought. It’s deep but not so’s deep, and she was heavy, even without the bricks. Why’d she get heavier when she died?
But the water beneath him didn’t answer. Already its surface was smoothing over. In another few moments it would be crisp and clean again, rippled only by his rocking boat and the occasional breeze.
“I’ll miss you, angel. Really really.” His words were kind but there was another part of him- his demon- that was already calling her all the horrible names and picturing the moment she’d died when he’d been fucking and choking her and she’d been trying to cry out. His demon side had secretly liked that moment. His demon side had loved that moment.
He picked up the oar he’d used to paddle the boat out the reservoir’s middle. Its twin lay unused in the boat’s bottom. Elton had tried using the pair together like he’d seen the people do in the Olympics, but he hadn’t been able to manage the coordination of it. Now, with the same abruptness he did almost everything in life, he jabbed the blade rudely into the water, disturbing its peace once again.
“But it’s bye now. I ain’t sorry, if that’s what you’re wonderin’.” He guffawed again, letting his demon side speak for him. “I ain’t met a bitch yet who deserved that!”
Woman Scorned Page 2