Gabriel's Sacrifice (The Scrapman Trilogy Book 2) (2 page)

“Calm yourselves, Fellas,” he requested. “We’re all on the same side.”

Opening a glass door, the hunter allowed the young man to enter the building. Darkness dwelled there, thick and viscous, so the hunter cast it out with the switch of a flashlight. The young man yelped in surprise as a woman became instantly visible before them, blood trickling from the edges of her lips.

“Holy shit!”

And the men outside erupted at his expense.

“What’s the matter?” the hunter asked with a smirk. “You don’t like zombies?”

“I just … wasn’t expecting a poster of one.”

The hunter nodded, tapping the picture of the undead girl. “I used to love that show–watched every seasons of it.” He looked back at the young man, who still seemed a bit jittery. “I used to look forward to the apocalypse every Sunday night.”

“And now we’re living the dream.”

“No zombies though.”

“Just aliens.”

“And they were some tall bastards, too.” They passed the poster, along with the final threshold. “Alright.” He handed the stranger the flashlight. “You got two minutes to find your two items. If you want clothes, you head straight back; food, you go right, past the registers. You’ll find batteries there, too. I’ll meet you back outside in two minutes.”

The young man nodded.

“Go.”

Two minutes? The timing was tight, but it was enough to work with. Ethan allowed the man his directional spiel. It seemed like something he did with all who came baring the proper payment. But Ethan didn’t really need it. He and this department store went way back. He could probably switch off the flashlight and make his way through the utter blackness just fine.

Ethan swept the light across each familiar aisle, dodging items that were either dropped or discarded. Unlike the barren shelves of other stores in the city, these shelves remained remarkably stocked. The store had been preserved in the wake of the war–claimed, guarded and protected. It was only opened to the rest of the survivors just recently, due to their hatred of the hybrid species. And as news of the offer swept through the city, a great many seemed to be accepting it.

Five items for a right hand–proof of death–a rather macabre form of currency.

Ethan headed straight for where he knew the food to be. There he gathered a tub of powdered Gatorade–something to make the rain water taste substantially better, at least for a time. He then helped himself to a bag of Oreos, tearing it open and shoving a handful into his mouth. They were slightly stale, but still sensational.

Nearing the end of his second minute, Ethan grabbed another unopened package of the Nabisco cookies and started his trip back to the entrance, being sure to clear his teeth and lips of any chocolate debris–the telltale marks of his defiance.

His true defiance, however, was not in the rebellious consumption of cookies, but rather the very way he’d earned his entrance in the first place.

Ethan didn’t kill the hybrid girl. Ethan could never kill anything.

At the cunning age of sixteen, his life to date was best described by various RPGs and pizza deliveries. Without the wherewithal of a predator, Ethan still considered himself clever enough to play the part, a sheep in wolves clothing, if you will.

He’d found the hybrid’s dead body, her right hand already severed by whomever killed her. So Ethan took her left, and threw up twice while doing it. But his deception was well worth the prize he currently carried, and well worth the dual regurgitation to get it.

He switched off the flashlight when the sun illuminated enough of his surroundings, then stepped outside. There he found the assembly of men again. But this time they were not engaged in a game of cards, as when he’d arrived. They were all facing him–silent and patient.

“Find what you need?” the leader finally spoke.

Ethan nodded, visibly nervous, revealing his two items with shaky hands.

“Pat him down, Jackson.” The leader squinted. “Let’s make sure he’s not playing us for a fool.”

The man called Jackson approached him–the same man with the gun. Ethan raised his arms, allowing him to inspect his legs and midsection.

“Speaking of fool,” the leader continued, “I was looking at your hand and noticed something odd.” He lifted the hybrid hand, and uncurling the fingers, revealed a puncture wound at the center of its palm. “Why did you stab her here?”

Ethan shrugged. “I didn’t. She musta done it herself somehow.”

The men laughed while the leader merely smiled, a smile that only increased the uneasiness brewing in Ethan.

“Is that so?” he teased. “It would be hard for her to do that … when she’s already dead, right?”

Shit.
“What?”

“This puncture was made post-mortem, Idiot.” The leader tossed the hand to the side. “So at what point are you gonna start telling us the truth?”

Fuck
. “I am.”

“Really?” The leader tilted his head slightly. “What’s your name, Kid?”

“Ethan.”

“And how old are you, Ethan?”

“Sixteen.”

“Just a little younger than my son.” The leader stretched his arm toward a boy on his left; and there was a definite resemblance between the two. He surely was the spitting image of his father at the same age–a walking representation of his narcissism. They were a sickeningly handsome, blue-eyed, square-jawed pair. The boy looked at Ethan, disapproval hardening his perfect features. “But, unlike your father,” the leader continued, “I taught him honesty and integrity.”

Ethan said nothing–thought it better to keep silent.

“But that’s fine. You don’t have to tell us the truth. I can tell it for you.” He took a step closer, pointing back to the reddish hand. “You didn’t kill this hybrid, as you’ve claimed. You found her body after she was already dead and took her left hand, because the right was taken by the one who actually did the slaying–the same person who left the puncture wound in the palm.”

Ethan swallowed hard. This really wasn’t going as well as he’d hoped.

“You’ve come to us with a punched ticket, Ethan.” Menace tugged at the leader’s lips. “And I’m afraid there’s a penalty for that. You must excuse the pun, but we caught you red-handed.”

The back of Ethan’s skull collided with the building’s wall as he was hurled against it. Two men held him in place as the man called Jackson scooped up his fallen items.

“All over some Oreos, Kid?” he smirked. “Hope it was worth it.” Jackson opened the bag and shoved a handful into Ethan’s mouth and held it there. Another man stepped forward as Ethan attempted to scream–the sound all but lost upon the duct tape being wrapped around his lips.

“How’s it taste?” someone was taunting.

But the voice was merely a whisper beyond the deafening blaze of Ethan’s adrenalin. Jackson gripped him by the shirt and threw him to the floor. The burn of asphalt tore across his skin as terror continued to pump its numbing agent through his veins. Ethan rolled to his feet and shot for the only opening in the circle of men forming around him. But they caught him there, where he’d received a fist to the stomach.

The leader was waiting patiently beside the wooden table. Jackson dragged Ethan and dropped him before the man’s feet.

“Pick him up.”

Ethan’s body was lifted, his stance aided by a few. The leader stepped forward, tilting his head until Ethan was able to match his gaze.

“Sorry we have to make an example out of you,” he said. “But there must be consequences.”

He placed his hand at the back of Ethan’s neck, much like a father would while empathizing with a son. “This is the world we now live in.”

The leader broke eye contact and nodded to Jackson, who grabbed Ethan’s left hand and forced it flat on the table. Beneath the encompassing weight, his struggles were as useless as the screams upon his fastened lips. The gleam of a knife danced across his blurred vision as Ethan wrenched his eyes shut. There was then the crisp sound of its tip entering the wood; but the pain, dulled by the fury of Ethan’s racing heart, was reduced to the sensation of ice in the palm of his pierced hand.

P
lump and oblivious, the thing sat content as ever, its tiny-brained head tucked within the comfort of its soft feathers. The rifleman took aim, and with the pull of his index finger, managed to send the pigeon on a flapless fall, ten feet into a pile of corrugated scrap. Nostalgia could be found in a falling bird; it always brought him back to childhood.

His rifle, an M14 pellet gun, made little more than a crisp popping sound once fired–hardly enough to frighten away any lingering game. There was something about that place the pigeons seemed to enjoy, that sunny spot below the factory’s cyclone. In ranks like some pigeon militia, they would assemble there each morning. And the rifleman would take just a few of them down–whatever was necessary to survive.

Four more pigeons remained; and without the collective intelligence to disburse, they stared down at their dead companion, bobbing their heads in dim fascination.

Thank you, Lord, for all your stupid creatures.

The roof offered enough cover for the rifleman to remain well-hidden. Littered with large motors and hundreds of feet of reflective ducting, the place was a metallic jungle suitable for any aspiring Hunter. The afternoon sun brought with it an unforgiving heat, turning certain surfaces into searing replicas. He had to be mindful, for even the briefest contact could result in blister–then to infection, if not handled properly. True, the rifleman had a stockpile of antibiotics–treasures he’d smuggled from the pharmacy a few blocks away–but he couldn’t afford to be more reckless than life was already calling him to be.

The rifleman took aim again, bringing the left-most pigeon in his sights, when a loud bang rang through the air … then another, sending the pigeons off in a fit of babble. Cursing, the rifleman got to his feet and rushed to the side of the building, peering down into the factory’s outside shipping area.

Apparently I’m not the only one hunting.

The rifleman found a small league of survivors scouring the yard below. They’d chased something into the stacks of pallets, the huge towers of wood lining the farthest gate, and were working on surrounding it. One man shouted orders with an outstretched hand, signaling the others to close in on their prey.

Must be a cat.

The rifleman would see the animals darting this way and that, stopping to dip their tongues in puddles of rust-filled water.

Seems like a lot of trouble over a cat–wasted two bullets already
.

But it was then the rifleman saw what they were after, a glimpse of its reddish skin between a break in the wood. It tried to flee, but was tackled by the two surrounding men. It thrashed and shrieked, but couldn’t fight free.

Jesus Christ.

It was a girl, looking no more than sixteen, her black hair tossing frantically, her body entirely visible now to the rifleman. She was a hybrid, one of the creatures those things had left behind two weeks before.

The lead man circled the girl and knelt beside her, whispering something; and then, lifting his weapon, silenced her. It was the third and final shot, the one to claim her life. But the rifleman could still hear her screams; they echoed off the building’s concrete surfaces and metal structures … or perhaps … it was only in the hollows of his mind.

The man then knelt, removing a knife from a sheath at his side, and proceeded to cut her right hand off at the wrist.

What in God’s name …

Once the appendage was fully severed, he stabbed her left hand and wrapped the right in cloth. The men then rose, leaving her there, a crimson puddle expanding beneath her, hooting and congratulating themselves on a good hunt. The rifleman lowered himself until they left the shipping area, their banter nearly out of earshot, when he rose again.

And there in the yard, the girl lay still, motionless.

It’s a witch hunt.

Indeed, the rifleman just witnessed a trial; and there would be more, he was sure of it. Man had not yet finished the spillage of blood, proof could be found at his own front door–the reason why he’d separated himself from the others.

Hunger departed, he descended into the plant, pigeon in hand. It was a massive fortress, one the rifleman managed to barricade in a minimal amount of time. Several factors made this possible. In order to make corrugated board, one needs to have an ungodly amount of paper. This paper comes in rolls that stand seven and a half feet tall, five and a half feet wide, and weigh nearly eight thousand pounds. There were hundreds of these rolls still within the plant, along with the propane-powered lifts used to move and position them.

The rifleman had stacked them in front of every entrance and sealed every sturdy fire-door. The place was all but impenetrable. He stacked the rolls two-high and five-deep, when space allotted; and nearly emptied the propane tank in the shipping area to store in several smaller containers within the plant. The castle was his, and he planned on keeping the devastation on the outside. He could live on pigeons and accumulated roof-water for as long as he had to.

There were only two ways in and out of the plant, and both ways led directly to the roof: one through a hatch in the ceiling, and the other from the mezzanine above the maintenance shop. If he had to leave to gain supplies, he’d toss a rope over the side of the building and climb down, rigging up a pulley system if he needed to get something too large for his bag.

The place was deathly quiet at night. He could hear the scurry of a rodent from opposite ends of the plant. The acoustics within Castle Corrugate were lovely. The entire place seemed to be an extension of himself; his ears were his eyes in the dark, and at night the place was utter blackness. Atop a forest of rolled paper, leveled by plywood, he slept below one of many skylights. The evening’s nest served as his sanctuary. And he would awake in the morning to see what game had come to gather around that skyward cyclone, living his life in a series of repetitive twenty-four-hour periods. That was his plan, at least.