by Amy Fecteau
“Good kid,” Linken said, turning back to Matheus. “Comes from a good family.”
“So, psychosis is genetic,” Matheus said.
“I think you’d better have the gag back in for this.” Linken stuffed the gag into Matheus’ mouth, avoiding his clumsy attempts to bite off a finger. He tightened the leather until it strained. A thick layer of spit still coated the gag.
Matheus kicked at Linken, slow and ineffectual. Linken smacked his leg down. Matheus flew from side to side.
Linken let Matheus swing while he circled around, stopping behind his back. He grasped Matheus’ neck, and forced his head downward, bringing the demonstration of pendulum physics to a halt.
“Hold still,” he said.
The knife sliced cool and smooth up Matheus’ back, splitting his shirt in two. Linken folded back the fabric, tucking the edges into the sleeves to hold them in place. His hand returned to Matheus’ neck, thumb digging into Matheus’ carotid artery. Lightly, he traced a pattern across Matheus’ shoulders with the tip of the blade.
Matheus trembled, a mess of anticipation.
“This is going to hurt,” said Linken.
Matheus shrieked. He threw his weight against the ropes, nearly breaking his wrists. The knife dug furrows into Matheus’ flesh, thick gouges that oozed blood. The cool sludge slid down Matheus’ back. Linken worked across Matheus’ shoulders, sometimes dragging the blade over and over the same mark until the cut reached the desired depth. Matheus’ shoulders burned with a mass of fire, the pain too broad to pinpoint.
This is not happening. There is not a psychopath carving into me. I am at home in bed watching a violent, unrealistic movie. That is not my blood on the dirt. I can feel my arms. This is not happening to me. It’s happening to someone else. Someone else far away in the television and I am just watching it from my warm bed.
Linken wiped the area clean with Matheus’ ruined shirt. He leaned back, surveying his work, making an adjustment here and there, before nodding approvingly. He spun Matheus around, tilting Matheus’ head up to look him in the eyes.
“Hey,” he said softly. “Where do you think you’re going?”
Tucking the knife away, he pulled out the Taser, giving Matheus a long burst.
Matheus whimpered, but remained limp, safe inside his head. Linken tapped the Taser against his wrist, then shocked Matheus again. A trickle of smoke rose up where the leads caught on Matheus’ shirt.
“Oh, God,” Matheus moaned, his words garbled by the gag. The conversation on the other side of the fire had stilled. Hunter Junior turned to watch, his eyes very wide and white. Matheus hoped he enjoyed the show.
“Back?” Linken asked. He holstered the Taser, taking out the knife once more. “Let’s see.” With a smooth thrust, he embedded the knife into Matheus’ gut, just below his naval. White-black stars burst in Matheus’ eyes.
“That getting through?” Twisting the knife, Linken tilted the blade up and down, circling, digging a hole in Matheus’ flesh. A wet, slick clump slipped out around the hilt of the knife, staining Linken’s knuckles.
Matheus sobbed, well beyond any point of self-control. He would do anything Linken wanted, anything. He just wanted this to stop. If only it would stop—
“Hey,” said a shaking voice. “That’s enough.”
Matheus opened his eyes, the scene blurry before him. He blinked quickly, breath hitching in his throat as he tried to concentrate.
Hunter Junior stood next to Linken, looking pale and nauseated. He raised his chin, hands in fists at his sides.
“I think he’s had enough,” he said, voice cracking on enough. “You should stop.”
Linken stared at him, bemused. The silence darkened as the rest of the hunters tried to pretend they didn’t hear everything that happened ten feet away.
“Are you worrying for the enemy?” Linken asked.
“He’s bait, isn’t he? That means we need him alive.”
The fire cracked as the ash fell. The hunters looked anywhere but at the standoff tableau.
Matheus’ breath sounded obscenely loud in the thick quiet. The knife still stuck in his gut, shifting with the tiny flexing of Linken’s hand. Matheus stared at Hunter Junior, unable to look away for fear the boy might disappear.
“I’m not going to kill him, kid. Just play a little.”
Hunter Junior hesitated for a second, then repeated, “It’s enough.”
“Fine.” Linken stepped back, his hands held up. “He’s your responsibility. When the time comes, you kill him.”
Hunter Junior nodded.
Linken walked away, leaving his knife plunged inside Matheus. He joined the other hunters, conversation rising with forced casualness.
“I have to….” Hunter Junior gripped the hilt. Matheus let his head roll in the semblance of a nod. After Linken’s twisting, pulling the blade free felt like a caress. The boy cleaned it carefully, digging out the narrow grooves and cracks.
“I will kill you,” he said, eyes on the knife. “I just…it’s not right, this.”
Matheus closed his eyes, resting his weight on the ropes. The pain in his wrists amounted to a hangnail compared to that in his stomach and shoulders. He listened to Hunter Junior walk away before he passed blissfully into unconsciousness.
The night dragged out. When Quin failed to appear, the hunters took shifts to search for him. When Matheus woke up and found Hunter Junior gone and Linken still there, he had a burst of panic. Matheus watched Linken, muscles tensed, but Linken ignored him, staying on his side of the fire, sharpening his knife on a whetstone.
Blood oozed out of the hole in Matheus’ gut, a slow, thick stream that soaked the top of his pants and dried into a sticky crust. An ache spread across his shoulders, interspaced with sharp jolts whenever Matheus shifted position. He tried to move often, but he drifted in and out of consciousness.
“He’s gone,” said one of the hunters, tossing another log on the fire. The inferno had diminished to a handful of flames flickering meekly over a massive mound of coals and ash. “Ditched this one and ran off.”
“If Quin doesn’t show, does this make it a draw?” asked another hunter. He tore open an energy bar with his teeth, and dropped the wrapper into the fire.
“I don’t know about you, but I’d rather have Hell’s Heir than some no-name newbie.”
The second hunter chewed contemplatively on the bar.
“Hell’s Heir?” he repeated through a mouthful of half-masticated brown sludge. “I haven’t heard that one before.”
“Oh, sure. My dad used to keep a whole list of them. Son of Hades, Lucifer Reborn, He-who-rejoices-in-death, the Sanguine Storm—”
Matheus let out a choked laugh. His organs were sausage meat, and the vision of Quin in red tights and a shiny cape refused to disappear. If he got out of this, he’d take the piss out of Quin for decades. The Sanguine Storm, indeed. Cheesy comic book villains had less ridiculous names.
“What’s his deal?” asked the first hunter, nodding toward Matheus. He squinted at him, one hand moving toward his discarded crossbow, as though Matheus’ laughter heralded the first step in a grand escape plan.
“I don’t know. Maybe he thinks the Sanguine Storm is a stupid name.” The second hunter shoved the rest of the bar into his mouth.
“Hey, my dad came up with that one.”
“Really.”
Ducking his head, Matheus bit his lip to stop the spasms of laughter. At the edge of breaking, the threshold for humor dropped to record lows. He would have laughed at a Garfield cartoon.
“I like it,” said the first hunter.
“You like pickled sausage and cheese from a can.”
“Oh, fuck off.” The first hunter stomped off toward the woods, the other snickering behind him.
A sudden realization shot through Matheus, cold and resonant in the parts he thought of as himself, echoing up into his physical body. He stared into the darkness where the hunter had disappeared.
; Quin, he thought.
Through the trees came a thump and a scream, cut off before completion. The hunters rose, the casual, campfire atmosphere broken with the clacks of weaponry.
Matheus strained forward, pulling the rope taut.
“That’s Hill,” said one of the hunters.
“Do you think—”
“Jesus Christ!”
A head flew out of the trees and landed on the fire. A fountain of sparks flew up, orange-red and bright against the black. Linken stood, checking his knife in its sheath.
“I’d say he’s here,” Linken said. “Not shy, are you?”
Quin emerged from the shadows, solidifying into the light. Blood streaked his palms, his forearms, a Jackson Pollack painting across his abdomen. He scanned the camp, examining the hunters and dismissing them one by one. He lingered for a moment on Linken, taking in his smirk before disregarding him as well. Turning to Matheus, his expression shifted a fraction.
“Sunshine,” he said.
“Quin.” Matheus tried to keep the desperate relief out of his voice and failed entirely.
“Christ in Heaven, someone shoot him already!” Linken shouted. The hunters jumped as though released from a spell.
Quin grinned, a manic and terrifying grin that frightened Matheus more than anything Linken had done to him.
“Sunshine,” Quin said. “Close your eyes.”
Matheus never forgot the sounds. The short, aborted shrieks, the twang of crossbows, the sickly crack of bones, the slap of organs splattering on the ground.
“Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God—”
“No, please, no, please, don’t, plea—”
“Our Father who art in Heav—Jesus!”
They all plead in their own ways. Linken broke down and sobbed. A small, uncharitable smile crept across Matheus’ lips. Psychotic bastard, he thought. Serves him right.
Matheus lost track of time. The begging faded out, layer by layer until one small whimper remained, and then, nothing.
“Done,” said Quin, in an eerie, singsong voice.
Matheus opened his eyes. If a bomb ever managed to explode without flames, the camp demonstrated the result. Body parts littered the ground. A set of entrails dangled from a branch, dripping…something…onto a severed torso. The head in the embers crackled like pork, the skin peeling and bubbling. The scent of blood and shit and piss hung in the air.
“Cut me down,” Matheus said, frantic, tugging at the ropes. “I have to go. I have to go now.”
“Calm down.” Quin stooped to pick up a knife.
“Calm down? Don’t fucking tell me to calm down.”
“Matheus—”
“No! I’ve been hung up like a side of beef and tortured and used as a goddamn carving stone and witness to a fucking slaughter and I don’t even know if the good guys won and—and—and—”
“Hey.” Quin cupped Matheus’ face, leaving a messy, red handprint. “You’re okay.”
“I’m not, I’m really not,” Matheus said. “Please.” He bent his head, resting it on Quin’s shoulder.
Quin ran his hand down Matheus’ back, freezing as Matheus yelped. He moved around Matheus, holding him in place with a light touch.
Matheus felt the spike of rage coming from Quin, but he didn’t care. Quin’s anger was for the man who hurt him. Quin protected him. Quin kept him safe. Matheus surrendered to feelings not his own, too exhausted to fight the manipulation. The bond swept through him with a warm feeling of safety and unfamiliar comfort.
“Shh,” said Quin. “I’ve got you.” He faced Matheus again and wrapped an arm around Matheus’ waist, then reached up and cut the ropes.
Matheus slumped forward, barely noticing as Quin knelt on the ground. From far away, he heard Quin speaking.
“—should be safe. Between the ones here and the three I got at the cave, I think—”
The bolt skimmed Matheus’ head, nicking his ear before striking Quin in the chest. He fell backward in a crumpled heap. Matheus swayed, shock vibrating down his spine as he collapsed in the dirt.
“Quin?” he whispered.
A pair of legs stepped over him, walking over to one of the fallen hunters.
Turning his head, Matheus saw a dark figure stop by the fire. He stood there for a moment, then stooped to pick something up. Blood dripped off the point of the long blade. The figure wiped it on the edge of his shirt, a streak of scarlet tinting the metal. With slow, heavy steps, he moved toward Matheus and Quin.
Oh, God, Quin, Matheus thought, as fireworks of panic detonated behind his ribs. The man moved closer, dragging the tip of the sword through the dirt. The low, scraping noise stung Matheus’ nerves. He fumbled for the knife Quin used to cut him down, finding nothing but pine needles. Matheus didn’t know what to do with his hands still bound. He risked a glance behind him.
Hunter Junior stood over Quin. With a booted foot, he kicked Quin onto his back.
A spike of pain drove down Matheus’ spine. His fingers tightened around each other, sinking into the soft places between bones. Buzzing consumed his mind. One coherent thought circled through the static: he had to save Quin.
He must save Quin.
Matheus pressed his tongue to the roof of his mouth. His fangs curved over his lip.
He must save Quin.
The boy raised the sword, the sinews in his arms stretching against the skin. Matheus pushed himself off the ground.
He must save Quin.
The sword began its downward arc. Matheus slammed into the boy’s side. The point of the sword pierced Matheus’ thigh, but he didn’t notice. Terror rolled off the boy like a perfume.
Matheus pressed his bound hands to the boy’s chest and bent down. He dug his fangs into the boy’s neck. Blood spurted into his mouth. He gulped, a wild giddiness burning through him, sunlight racing in his veins. The boy clawed at Matheus’ back, his hair. His blood stung like nettles over Matheus’ tongue, the taste of panic better than any spice. Matheus thought he felt his heart beat. He jerked back, a lump of flesh in his mouth. He spat, the lump hitting the ground with a sick wet noise.
The boy lay still and wide-eyed, waxy-pale but for the too-bright gash on his throat. Matheus swallowed hard, the lingering taste of the boy’s blood still painting his mouth. He turned to Quin, trying to grasp the crossbow bolt between shaking hands. He took half a dozen tries to work the bolt free.
“Quin?” He nudged Quin’s shoulder. “Shit, Quin, wake up.”
“I’m awake, Sunshine.” Quin groaned as he sat up, rubbing his chest. “I never get used to that. Stings like hell.”
“Quin,” Matheus said.
“You’ve got blood all over you—oh. Oh.”
“Quin.”
“I’m right here.”
“Quin.” Matheus held up his hands. A blank, carefully constructed silence dominated Matheus’ mind. His voice contained the trusting pleading of a small child.
“Okay,” Quin said. “I get it.” He peeled the ropes off Matheus’ wrists, taking away ribbons of torn skin, the raw channels left decorated with blood-soaked fibers.
Taking Matheus by the waist, he led him down to the river. He sat Matheus on a flat-topped boulder, and knelt beside him, in the river. Matheus sat meekly as Quin scooped up handfuls of water, cleaning his wounds and wiping away the blood. The moon shone clear overhead, craters with their radiating spikes visible among the lunar seas. Reflected sunlight, cold and distant, transformed by its empty journey. The beach stood out in stark lines, colors clear in the night. Matheus wished for his former eyesight back, for the comfort of shadows.
“It was self-defense,” Quin said. “He wouldn’t have let you live.”
Matheus tilted his head as Quin scrubbed his neck. He’d acquired a cloth from somewhere; Matheus didn’t ask. He felt himself returning with each layer of blood washed away. Tender, fresh skin covered the hole in his gut. Matheus prodded the wound, wincing at the hollow feeling beneath the elastic flesh. He wondered how much blood
a liver took to regrow. Quin pushed his head down, the cloth moving in long strokes over Matheus’ shoulders. Tiny wildfires rose and died with each pull of his muscles, the skin tight and raw.
“He was a kid,” Matheus said, when his ability to speak returned.
“When I was his age, I was a soldier and had been fighting for two years.” Quin soaked the cloth in the river, pale scarlet tendrils swept away by the current. Matheus looked away, making a noise in the back of his throat.
“If you want to feel regret, guilt, that’s fine. You’re not a sociopath. But don’t let it rule your life,” Quin said.
“What life?” Water dripped down Matheus’ temples as Quin scrubbed at his hair. He felt like a recalcitrant dog being bathed by its owner.
“I suppose after the day you’ve had, you can be melodramatic if you want.” Quin sat back on his heels and looked Matheus up and down. “You wanted to live, Matheus. That’s not a bad thing.”
“He stopped the other one, Linken.”
“Don’t tell me you feel bad about him,” Quin said.
Matheus shook his head. He supposed that ruled him out as a candidate for sainthood..
“Good,” Quin said. “I enjoyed killing him. Psychopath. You can hunt without torture. It’s sick.”
Matheus wondered if the hypocrisy made a whooshing sound as it flew over Quin’s head. He stood, wavering for a second on unstable legs, then stepped around Quin into the river. The water rushed around his knees, cold and midnight blue, reflecting fractured slivers of moonlight.
“You’ll be all right,” Quin said. “You do what you have to do.”
“Yeah,” said Matheus, watching the water flicker. The actual killing of the boy hadn’t upset him. He hadn’t had much of a choice; the compulsion to save Quin as strong as the instinct for self-preservation. What Matheus didn’t want to tell Quin was that he had liked it.
Matheus left the cave before Quin woke up. He had thought with all the hunters dead, the hunt had ended, but Quin said they had to wait one more night. Something to do with the rules, and his reason for agreeing to the camping trip from hell. Matheus offered a suggestion for what Quin could do with his rules, and stomped off. He got close enough to smell the blood, thick in the air around the hunters’ campsite, before turning back. Quin hadn’t said anything, just sat with Matheus outside the cave until the oncoming day drove them inside.