Lord of Order

by Brett Riley

  Soon enough, Boudreaux, Benn, and Clemens entered the base proper. The last time Boudreaux had visited, it had teemed with life—the guards, their families, their pets. Now it was nearly empty. Strangers manned the gates and towers. All New Orleans natives had been relocated into the city as if the generations who had lived and died on these blocks had been stricken from the cosmic record. The world had fallen into slippage, schism, dissolution.

  Boudreaux and the deputy envoys reined up and hitched their horses in front of a drab two-story bunkhouse. The sky had gone a deeper gray. Thunder muttered in the distance.

  They walked inside. The bunks and furniture had been ripped out. Iron-barred doors had replaced the wooden ones. The inmates, filthy and malnourished and broken, watched the floor as Boudreaux and the envoys passed. Some wept. More than a few had deep, dark patches on their skin, bleeding gums, bulging eyes, distended bellies. My Lord, they’re malnourished and scurvied worse than I’ve ever seen. Ain’t we even feedin these wretches? Down the corridor in the kitchen, an enormous wood stove sat against the back wall, but someone had boarded up the heat vents and installed chains and cuffs on each corner of the island. Chairs were nailed to the floor. The double sink against one wall had also been fitted with restraints on either side. The back door was barricaded, the inner door barred.

  It’s a torture room. Sweet Jesus.

  Benn and Clemens looked at him as one might inspect sides of beef.

  Somethin’s about to happen.

  He eased his hands near his holsters.

  They might kill me, but they won’t torture me. I can do that much.

  Footsteps in the hall. Boudreaux turned. A guard was shoving an emaciated, grimy thing toward the room, its long greasy hair hanging over a face like a gutshot, filthy rags billowing around stick limbs. The figure stumbled and fell, coughing. Through that veil of hair, a hint of beard—a man. The guard kicked him in the hindquarters, sending him sprawling on his face. A bloody tooth skittered across the floor.

  Get up, pond scum, the guard barked.

  As the man struggled to comply, his hair parted enough to reveal bleeding gums and bulging insectile eyes. Boudreaux did not recognize him. He regained his feet and started toward the chamber again, the guard prodding him in the back every few steps. The prisoner whimpered like a whipped puppy. He could have been anyone, a long-time preacher of the Word who had spoken to the wrong person, a hunter who had demonstrated too much skill and not enough lock-step dogmatism, a deputy lord who had followed orders right into the jailhouse. He could have been Jack Hobbes or Santonio Ford. Even Gabriel Troy. Might still be, before all was said and done.

  Boudreaux’s stomach roiled.

  The guard pushed the prisoner through the door and pulled it shut. Then, taking a key ring the size of a mushmelon out of his satchel, Clemens locked them all in. The Troubler stood before them, stinking, palsied.

  Mister Kouf, said Benn. Welcome.

  Clemens grabbed Kouf by the neck and dragged him to the island. Benn drew his gun and covered them while Clemens wiped his hand on his pants, scowling as if he had just handled rotten meat. Perhaps he had.

  Climb up on this block, if you please, said Benn, his voice conversational.

  Kouf leaned against the island, palms on its surface, one finger tracing a deep groove left by someone’s knife or bone saw. When he spoke, his whisper sounded as scratchy as sandpaper on coarse wood. I haven’t done anything, sirs. Please let my family go. We have always been loyal.

  Benn backhanded the prisoner with his gun barrel, knocking Kouf to the floor. He lay there, moaning. Benn and Clemens looked at Boudreaux.

  Well, don’t just stand there, Deputy, said Clemens, grinning. Get this trash on the block.

  Benn’s face was impassive. The envoys waited to see what Boudreaux would do.

  They got me two to one. I’m deep in their territory, surrounded by armed guards. If I draw, I’ll have to fight my way outta the room, through the building, and across the river, where the first Crusader I see will probably shoot me. And for all I know, Kouf’s guilty. Nobody’s shown any evidence either way. Won’t it be better to play along until I know for sure?

  Boudreaux gritted his teeth.

  Well? said Benn.

  Boudreaux swallowed hard. His hands twitched near his guns.

  Then he grasped Kouf by the wrists and hauled him to his feet. Best you get up, mister. They ain’t gonna stop until you do.

  Don’t you mean we won’t stop? asked Benn.

  Boudreaux held Benn’s gaze. That’s right. We won’t stop.

  Kouf tried to climb onto the island, his scabbed feet kicking for purchase. Boudreaux boosted him up and rolled him onto his back. Kouf was a sack of dry leaves. He grimaced in pain, his teeth yellow and red, the gums receded down to the roots. A deep bruise in the shape of Boudreaux’s hand was already forming where he had gripped the man, the skin still sunken in. No elasticity. It’s like they plucked him off a ship that had been becalmed for months.

  Benn yanked Kouf’s arms upward and shackled his wrists in the corner restraints, while Clemens did the same to his ankles. Spread-eagled, Kouf lay there, panting. He could barely raise his head. Where had he found the strength to walk down the corridor?

  Kouf looked at Boudreaux, desperation in his eyes. Please, sir. My wife and daughter.

  Clemens punched him in the mouth. Blood dribbled from his lips and onto the island. He opened his mouth to groan, revealing the jagged stumps of three teeth, the remnants on his tongue. Kouf spat them out.

  I have a wife and two daughters as well, Benn said, his voice cold. They have never stolen so much as a crumb. Besides, we aren’t here to talk about the traitor you married or the one you sired. We’re here for you. If we were popish, you might call us your confessors. Answer us truthfully, and you can go to God with a clean conscience. Wouldn’t you like that? To stand before the Almighty’s throne, shining white like the angels’ very wings?

  Kouf drooled blood. Boudreaux moved closer to the wall, watching Kouf and Benn as the one glanced about, goggling like a frightened horse, and the other leaned on the island, studying his fingernails. Clemens stood nearby, fists clenched, ready to strike again. A creeping sense of dread settled in Boudreaux’s stomach, turning fiery and climbing up his throat like heartburn.

  Two to one, then out the building and across the river.

  Kouf groaned. I’ve nothing to confess.

  Benn stroked the man’s oily hair. Nothing? Are you without sin, as only the Son of God ever was? Blasphemy, sir.

  Clemens struck Kouf again, this time on the cheekbone. Clemens grinned, shaking out his hand. Ow, he laughed.

  No, you are just another sinner, Benn said, as if he had not noticed the interruption. We’re aware that, on your march here, you stole several strips of jerky and a canteen from a sleeping guard. The very Commandments condemn you, sir. Would you go against Matthew Rook and the Bible in the same breath?

  Kouf looked from Clemens to Benn and back again, despair in his eyes. He burst into tears, his flesh torn and bloody where Clemens had punched him.

  Clemens strode to the other side of the room and grabbed a covered rolling cart. He pulled it over to the island and yanked off the cloth. On the cart’s surface, a set of tools, some brand new and recently forged, others so rusty they might have been produced in the ancients’ time. Two hammers, two chisels, a handsaw, a bone saw. Two knives, one serrated. A long, hooked implement Boudreaux had never seen before.

  Clemens unhooked and brought over a wall lantern. He held it over the instruments. Kouf saw them and blubbered like a child.

  Benn selected the serrated knife. He held it to the lamplight. Dried blood coated its teeth. Benn turned it this way and that, as if inspecting it for flaws. Kouf struggled against his bonds, yanking, grunting like a pig.

  Now, now, Benn said. None of
that.

  Clemens grabbed Kouf’s head, wrapping his fingers in the greasy hair, and held it still while Benn stuck the knife into Kouf’s nostril and yanked upward. The blade ripped through flesh and cartilage, blood splattering Clemens’s face. Kouf howled, his nose laid opened on its right side from tip to bridge. Cilia and blood and snot wiggled when he breathed.

  Benn slit the other nostril.

  Kouf babbled as Boudreaux started toward the table, hand dropping to his gun.

  By the time he touched it, Benn had drawn his, the barrel pointing straight at Boudreaux’s head, the knife in his other hand.

  I assume you’re stepping up to help us get this Troubler’s confession, he said. Because if you make one move to stop us, I’ll gutshoot you and let you take his place.

  Boudreaux’s hand fell away from the gun. He raised both hands, palms out, trying hard to keep his face expressionless.

  Not even outta the room.

  Do something, said Clemens. Or don’t.

  Boudreaux’s mouth had gone dry. Lord, forgive me. He’s got me dead to rights. If they get me on that table, they’ll work me till I betray everybody. No matter what else I do, I can’t be the engine of their destruction. I just can’t. Forgive me. Forgive me.

  He cleared his throat. I was just thinkin maybe you should ease up. Look at him. He’d blow away in a strong wind. He said his family was starvin. You really plan to torture him for tryin to save em?

  Clemens sneered. We don’t make the rules, boy. We just enforce them. Mr. Rook says sinners have to pay for their crimes. It’s that simple.

  Boudreaux said nothing. He felt his face redden. He was no good to anyone dead, no good to Kouf alive. Shame burned through him like fever.

  Benn turned back to Kouf. This gentleman could probably explain the economics of thievery, Deputy Boudreaux. When one man steals and gets away with it, he licenses every other thief. That way lies chaos. And then there is the matter of the sin. We must make him repent, or else it will weigh his soul down and sink it into the fiery pit. Just as the darkest sin can shine in our flawed vision like diamonds, so is salvation often jagged and ugly, like this knife’s blade. That is the way of things. Even if we wish it otherwise.

  Benn holstered his weapon and stuck the point of the knife on Kouf’s torso, just below the breastbone.

  PLEASE! Kouf wailed.

  Benn flicked his wrist, opening a two-inch vertical incision. Blood pooled out of it and ran down Kouf’s sides in rivulets. He shrieked, sucked in air, shrieked again. Blood dripped onto the floor. Boudreaux felt his gorge rise and struggled to stop it. He burped. Clemens grinned and let go of Kouf’s hair. Benn tossed him the knife. He dropped it on the cart and picked up the hook, handing it to Benn, who let Kouf contemplate it. The man whimpered again.

  Benn shoved the hook into the incision with a sound like a man walking in water-logged boots. Kouf screamed again. Hot, acidic bile rose into Boudreaux’s throat. He held his hand over his mouth but did not turn away. Clemens watched him as Kouf’s head thrashed from side to side, lips pulled back in a grimace, rotting teeth clenched and splintering. Benn rotated the hook and then pulled it out, dragging with it a link of bluish intestine.

  This ain’t right, Boudreaux croaked. It’s sick.

  Clemens’s sardonic grin disappeared. We’ve been killing Troublers since before you were born, son. It’s about time you bayou rats caught up to the times. Now get over here and help hold him down.

  Boudreaux retched. No. I’m gettin outta here.

  Clemens drew his weapon. We’ve been over this. Come hold his head still before he beats his own brains out. Or you can be next.

  Boudreaux stared down the gun’s barrel. Then he turned to Kouf, who still thrashed, his screams now little more than hoarse whispers, his hands hooked into claws. Benn looked serene as he yanked the intestines out. He might have been alone in his kitchen, stirring a pot of soup. His eyes met Boudreaux’s. The deputy lord saw no fear or uncertainty there, only conviction.

  Forgive me, Boudreaux said. He did not know if he were speaking to Kouf or to God.

  He grabbed Kouf’s head with both hands and held on with all his might, the cords in his neck standing out. Clemens holstered his weapon and moved to Boudreaux’s left, placing his palms on Kouf’s shoulders, pushing down as Benn yanked the hook upward again. A good two feet of Kouf’s insides now hung in the air between implement and wound.

  Kouf could no longer scream. He moaned instead. Then he moved his lips.

  He’s prayin.

  Benn lowered the bloody, gut-wrapped hook and laid the whole mess on the island. You want to be very still, Mr. Kouf, he said. If you jerk, you’ll knock that hook onto the floor, and Mr. Clemens will likely kick it across the room, taking your innards with it. Do you understand?

  Kouf’s face had turned fish-belly white. His eyelids fluttered as if he might pass out. Benn slapped him. He still did not answer, but he seemed more present.

  Good enough, Clemens asked, or should I pull out an eye?

  Good enough, Benn said. Now, Mr. Kouf, I’m going to ask you again, and before you answer, you should remember you’ll die here either way. Your only choice lies in how you’ll face God. Are you ready?

  Yes, Kouf rasped.

  On the march, did you or did you not steal your guard’s supplies?

  Kouf swallowed hard several times and closed his eyes. His lips moved again.

  I took some jerky and water, he whispered. My wife and daughter were starving. I begged the guards for water, just enough for my girl, but they laughed at me.

  Clemens grinned. Safer not to have a family, he said to Boudreaux. Like me. Like you. We’re free in a way this Troubler never was, even before somebody put him in chains.

  Benn frowned. Family is strength, Mister Clemens. Unless you yourself are weak. He pushed the sweaty, greasy hair away from Kouf’s face. Only one more question, and then you can rest. Do you admit your disloyalty to the Crusade?

  Kouf never blinked. His voice seemed stronger now. No. I love my God and my church. As do my wife and daughter.

  Kouf had barely finished speaking when Benn grabbed the hook and yanked, dragging out more intestine. Kouf’s hoarse, cracking cry filled the room. Clemens chuckled.

  Clemens is crazy. They both are, and damned too. So what does that make me?

  Benn yanked. Kouf whimpered.

  Benn rolled the loose intestines around the hook’s handle and yanked again.

  Sweet God, Kouf cried.

  Do it again, Clemens said, breathy and flushed.

  No.

  Boudreaux let go of Kouf and elbowed Clemens in the face. Clemens stumbled over his own feet and fell. Boudreaux whirled and shoved Benn with both hands, sending him flailing toward the wall, still holding the hook, yanking Kouf’s guts with him like a fish unspooling line.

  Gordy Boudreaux drew his gun. He jammed the barrel against the top of Kouf’s skull. And then he pulled the trigger.

  Blood and brains spattered Kouf’s wasted body, which jerked hard, just once, then stilled. Boudreaux’s ears rang like a struck bell.

  Benn regained his balance and drew his gun while Clemens scrambled to his feet. Boudreaux holstered his pistol, tears and sweat stinging his eyes. He felt as if he had been hollowed out and filled with sewage.

  Benn watched him for a second. Then he holstered his weapon and looked at Clemens, shrugging.

  Huh, said Clemens. Killing him with sin still on his conscience. That’s cold, son. Colder than me even. Maybe you have what it takes after all.

  Benn walked away, flinging Kouf’s blood and sweat from his hands. He left the hook on the floor, the guts trailing across the room. Clemens uncuffed Kouf’s body. And Boudreaux watched, feeling filthy and sick.

  Boudreaux and Clemens dragged Kouf’s body into the hall, leaving a long bloody smear
on the floor, and dropped it there. Kouf’s ruined head oozed. They had wrapped his intestines around his torso like macabre chains.

  In their cells, the emaciated prisoners did not react, but they watched. A guard stepped forward to take the body, but Benn said, No. Let the rest of them look on their futures, should they refuse to confess and die in peace.

  In their cells, the prisoners—men, women, even a few children—were already drifting back into themselves.

  There ain’t no lesson here. Folks only fear you when they still have hope. Benn and Clemens walked outside. Boudreaux lingered, still nauseous. This man stole water and jerky for a child. If that’s sin, what about what I just did? I snuffed out Kouf’s life like a candle in a drafty room. I did it for mercy, but only after I stood by while they butchered him. Just one more Troubler I’ve killed, and for all I know, every one of em had a starvin kid. Lord above, were we ever right about anything?

  The world seemed awash in guilt and gore. Lightning flashed through the barred cell windows. Thunder crashed overhead like gunshots.

  Boudreaux looked at Kouf one last time, and then he followed Benn and Clemens into the storm.

  Later, sodden and alone, Boudreaux rode down Pelican Avenue toward his house, a modest one-story wooden structure. A yard and a columned porch surrounded it. An ancient magnolia towered near the street. Seeing the house’s shape in the gloom of an evening had always helped ease the day’s burdens. But now, with Kouf’s blood stuck under his fingernails, Boudreaux thought the place looked like a wart-infested toad squashed on the road. Rainwater puddled in his yard and dripped off the magnolia’s leaves. The wind had shaken loose a mess of white petals that now lay clumped around the trunk. They would be shriveled and brown before the landscapers came back around.