Fresh Flesh (15 page)

And a valuable second was lost. A tragic
mistake made.

His eyes cleared, catching the woman emerging
from the cave entrance. Slowly moving down the dirt trail. His eyes
followed her, laser efficiency, dedicated.

Takin' a piss, my pretty?
He pondered
as she slipped into the spot Templin had designated as a
bathroom.

Everson sneaked toward the bathroom. His eyes
were horny; they had not seen a woman's naked flesh in ages. He
slithered across the dirt, stupidly losing sight of the woman,
squashing some night roaming bugs beneath his bare belly. He
reached the enclosure in less than a minute, his eyes alight and
excited.

He reached for a handful of vines that
blocked his eyes like a curtain.
Nudity lies beyond
. He drew
back the vines with a hardness forming in his pants.

His eyes darted around the darkness, focus.
Cut through it like a flashlight beam.

His heart pounded as sweat rolled down his
temples. He drew the vines the rest of the way.

And his eyes saw no nudity. An empty space.
The woman had slipped into the bathroom—out of sight—fooled his
eyes into coming over, then snuck out. A decoy! How could his eyes
have been deceived?

The smell blanketed him and he almost
retched. The vile scent of human excrement lingering in a small,
confined space for a long period of time. Seth may have had
incredible power over his eyes but his nose was normal, and there
was no way to cloak the stench of a mountainous pile of shit.
Holding his breath, disgusted he let the vines go and they snapped
back to a curtain-closed position.

His eyes had been tricked for the first time.
Not perfect. Not infallible.

Damn you!
He cursed them again and
again.
You can't fucking do this to me!

His eyes—angered and hurt—turned against him
creating a bizarre, paralyzing mirage. All of his skin was shed
revealing a gruesome costume on the ground. One by one, his organs
squeezed, still functioning, out of his dumbstruck body. At Seth's
feet lay a nightmarish assemblage: a slimy intestinal track
cringing and a heart squirting blood.

(GOTCHA, SETH! GOTCHA).

And, in the meantime, the two he'd been
ordered to keep eyes on escaped.

"NO." Everson blinked, mentally ordering his
body to reassemble itself. His eyes punished him for another
minute, then dispersed the mirage and returned to his control.

He got up, tripped, and climbed to feet
again.

He flew through the ravine, unquestionable
rage coursing through him. He bulleted through obstructions that
would have stopped a weaker man. He grabbed the branches that raked
the flesh on his cheeks and snapped them like necks.

No one escaped his eyes. . .

No one escaped. . .

No one. . .

No. . .

He. stopped, dog-panting, cuts burning like
individual fires all over his body

And heard only the sound of footsteps far off
in the distance, much too far away for even his eyes to see.

He stopped and moaned in the darkness, over
and over,

"No one escapes Seth Everson's eyes, no one,
no one, no one . . ."

And when the footsteps became the wind,
Everson knelt down and, not him, his eyes wept ceaselessly into his
hands.

"What is that?" Jessica whispered.

Richard led her through the darkness. He
couldn't stop, nor could she, and if anything the awful moaning
sounds quickened their pace.

"What is—" Jessica started again and Richard
put a finger to her lips.

"I don't know, and don't want to find out.
Come on."

Five minutes later, Kyle Roberts and three
others came upon the weeping, sorry sight of Seth Everson. They
carried torches that illuminated the scene. Kyle knelt down,
grabbed Everson between his armpits and hoisted him to his
feet.

"Speak to me, Seth," he slapped the man's
face until Seth stopped crying.

"Roberts?"

"What happened?"

"My. . .eyes." a few left-over tears streamed
down Seth Everson's bloody scratched cheeks, "They're not
infallible, not perfect, they missed—"

Roberts slapped him again, violent enough to
open one of the scratches wider.

"My eyes had them all day. . .they went to
the beach. . .back to the cave. . .all day. . .into night. . .my
eyes didn't fail me."

"But Templin and the woman tricked you and
got away, didn't they?" Roberts said. His eyes cutting a hole in
Seth's eyes. Roberts had angry, mean, sometimes cruel eyes.

"Y-Yes." Eversons lips trembled.

"Your eyes are incompetent. I told you not to
let them out of your sight. What the fuck went wrong?"

"I-I. . .I'm sorry. My eyes never—"

"FUCK YOUR EYES. They got away, you
idiot."

"Please forgive me, Roberts. I'm sorry. My
eyes have never failed me before."

"I don't care about before," Roberts said.
"For your sake you better at least know which way they went."

Everson pointed south, toward the beach where
Richard found Jessica. "That way, the beach. I think."

Roberts turned to the three convicts behind
him. He pointed at the tall Indian and a big black man. "Smith and
Jackson, go find them. Bring them back. Go."

The men grunted approval and took off through
the night, the flare of their torches cutting a ragged red-white
light through the blackness.

Roberts turned to Everson and put his index
finger on the man's heart. "You need to be punished, Seth."

"Not me, no, my eyes let us down, Roberts. It
was my eyes."

"I don't care." Roberts shook his finger in
front of Seth's eyes. He grabbed Everson and easily shoved him to
the ground. "Get up. We're going to the cave."

Everson got up and followed Roberts into the
cave. He mumbled about his eyes the whole way.

They reached the cave, went inside, and
Roberts looked around. The fire was still burning, and gave the
appearance that they hadn't gone anywhere. Exactly what Templin had
wanted them to believe.

"Good one, Richie." Roberts raised his fist
to the night. Then he laid his dark green eyes on Everson. "I'm
holding you responsible for this, Seth."

"My eyes turned on me. . .my eyes—"

Roberts turned and looked at Don Walkins, a
muscular man who almost perfectly resembled Chuck Norris. Roberts
grabbed the torch from the man.

Walkins looked at him, puzzled.

"Draw your knife," Roberts ordered.

Seth Everson kept babbling.

Walkins drew his knife, the blade glimmering
in the firelight. He awaited his next command.

Roberts turned back to Everson. "You let me
down, Seth. You and your eyes. You know what I do to people who let
me down?"

Everson held up him hands, pleading, "No, no
please, it was an accident, it'll never happen again, Roberts."

"Oh, I know it will never happen again, Seth.
I intend to make sure of that. Right, Mr. Walkins?"

Walkins chuckled. "Right."

"Please don't kill me, Kyle," Everson kept
begging.

That's exactly what Roberts wanted to do.
Everyone who had fucked up on the island must be punished. Except
at the moment things were a little different as he needed all of
his men. At least until he had Templin and the woman. Then he could
collect all of them. He wouldn't let the other convicts sink their
mangy claws into the woman. No, not like Templin had been doing. He
wanted Everson done badly but he decided upon something different.
Something more fitting.

"Ok, Seth. I'll give you another chance. You
believe in second chances?"

"Yes, thank you, Roberts, thank you. I would
like a second chance."

"Let's go back to the winter you first came
to the island and met our Japanese farmer friend. Yeah, remember
ol' Sar? He found that clearing not far from this very cave. He
brought those great tasting vegetables to the camp the next summer.
Remember how much we all liked Sar after that? We couldn't
understand a fucking word he said but you understood him some and
translated some of his vegetable and dirt talk. Tell me what
happened. What else did Sar find?"

Seth Everson shook his head violently. "I—I
don't know any more than you do, Roberts. I swear I don't."

"That's what you've been saying for years but
Sar found something else here on the island the fall of that year.
Something that scared him real bad. He came back to the camp and
was never the same. What did he find?"

"I told you everything about that that day,
Roberts. You remember. We were both there with him when he came
back."

Roberts walked over to the fire, dropped the
torch, and furiously stomped out the fire.

"Seth, I can't tell if you know Sar's secret
or not, but I can punish you for losing the girl."

"My eyes. . .MY EYES. . ." Everson
lamented.

"That's exactly what I was thinking, thank
you. Your eyes. Your eyes are what fucked up, weren't they?"

"Yes! Yes. . .my eyes!"

"So it wouldn't be fair to punish the rest of
you then, would it?" Roberts flashed an eerie smile, cracking his
knuckles. He walked over to Everson and clutched the man's bony
throat. "Would it?"

"No, no, not me. Roberts, my eyes." His eyes
were two gigantic egg whites.

"That's right," Roberts said, grabbing
Everson's head and nodding it
yes
several times.

"What should it be, Seth, what should I
punish?"

Everson looked at him in horror, knowing the
answer.

"Yes." Roberts laughed and gestured Walkins
over with the knife"

"No," Everson pleaded. "No, not my eyes, my
eyes, my eyes."

"Now, don't be a baby about this, Seth. Mr.
Walkins is a professional. He'll try to make it as quick and
painless as possible."

"NOOOO."

Roberts tightened his grip on Everson's
throat, holding him as Walkins brought the knife closer.

Closer to Everson's eyes.

"Mr. Walkins won't leave you blind if you
don't struggle, Seth." Roberts laughed. "In fact, he'll take your
weak eye."

Seth struggled, a look of terror rippling
across his face.

"Take his left eye. But make sure you don't
kill him. We can still use his. . .other eye."

Roberts turned and walked back to the glowing
embers. As he picked up the torch he could hear the sound of
Walkins poking Seth Everson's left eyeball

His fantasy while Seth Everson's screams
rocked the night was that it was instead Richard Templin he was
torturing.

The world wanted Jumping Bat Jackson to
believe he was chasing Richard Templin and Jessica Stanton, but Bat
would have no part of it. He only felt the hungry eager feeling
when he was walking down the aisle to an important wrestling match.
The feeling was a strong pounding near his heart, as if some
internal animal was chipping away inside there, aching to get out.
The feeling bordered somewhere between pain and pleasure; a strange
internal mixture of fear, anticipation, hunger, and
nervousness.

They wanted him to believe that they'd
confined him on a small island in the middle of nowhere. That
they'd cut off the world from the greatest champion in professional
wrestling since Andre The Giant. That they'd banished him from the
ring forever.

But it was all lies. Clever lies.

Jumping Bat had been at in the Garden when it
happened. He was battling the Fearless Forenza, a jelly-bellied
Mexican with more talk than rock. Forenza had traveled from the
Kingdome to the Superdome to the Astrodome breaching FORENZA
DOMINATION the supposed Mexican wrestling takeover. He had the
nerve to play Led Zeppelin's
Whole Lotta Love
as his ring
song. Forenza told the world that number one contender Jumping Bat
Jackson was, in no uncertain terms, another "incredibly dumb nigger
from the south." Bat was absolutely furious and could not wait to
destroy him at the Garden.

Of course Forenza had not really called him
racist names—such atrocities were not sanctioned—but Forenza had
casually hinted it (and in that day and age, that was all you had
to do). Still, Bat wanted to totally annihilate that Mexican poser
at The Garden, and planned on it.

Wrestling had become something more real that
fateful night in Madison Square Garden. Before the match, Forenza
told Bat to make it look good. Bat nodded, but if Forenza would
have looked closely he would have seen the razor eyes of a pit
bull. He would kill the Mexican as a deterrent for future insults
to his creed and color.

And even more so because Forenza was, after
all, a fat, lazy, greasy Mexican. And so with a full house at The
Garden, the Fearless Forenza and Jumping Bat Jackson collided.
Being the wrestling profession was a very predictable sport, Bat
knew in advance (and had even practiced with Forenza) that he was
supposed to be the loser and Forenza the winner.

But not so tonight. Not this time.

When the match had finally begun, he sent
demolishing blows with his fists that were exactly what they
weren't supposed to be: real. He kicked Forenza's flab like it was
a football and a sixty-yard punt was needed to win the game. He
body-slammed Forenza with the ease of a pillow, grounding the
Mexican grease machine into the mat. He threw Forenza against the
ropes so hard the posts shook in trepidation. He punished and
tortured Forenza as if he was not a man, but an experiment.
Forenza's blood was not fake, as it should have been, it was real.
Coppery-scented, slick, real blood. The pain, the anguish and
degradation, everything was real. But somehow, perhaps an act of
the God Bat didn't believe in, Forenza landed a lucky blow. A blow
somewhere at the base of Jumping Bat Jackson's skull. A blow which
changed the world, the future and life of Bat Jackson. Because
following that auspicious blow, he was never his true self again.
Bat Jackson left The Garden, wrestling, the crowd, on a stretcher.
The wrestling commission banned him indefinitely for the crippling
of the not-so Fearless Forenza.