He Runs (Part One) (16 page)

‘My granddaughter, Lily, the little baby, she’s fine. I’ve had one of the lads take her to my house. I know you’re a clever boy, maybe a little too clever, so you’ve probably realised that Rose here is my daughter.’ Mick puts his arm around Rose, pulls her in close. Her frame is dwarfed by his enormous bulk and her pomegranate locks fall thickly over her face.

‘Your daughter? Bu…but you called her a whore!’ Man can feel the muscles in his forearms tensing, the sinews tightening against the strain of plastic ties.

‘I’ve called her much worse than that, I can assure you! But I never meant any of it.’

‘What have you done to her? Why is she like that?’

‘Something the good doctor prescribed; a harmless neuromuscular-blocking agent to emulate the effects of extreme shock. It was her idea. It should wear off in an hour or so. Did you honestly think that I would consume a baby?’

‘I think you don’t even understand what you’re capable of,’ says Man, straining tighter against his restraints. ‘You’re an animal, a killer, a…’

‘Oh shut up! Please! You come out with all this righteous bull shit but I know what you are. I saw your face after you turned Danny’s head into jelly. You enjoyed it, you loved every second of it.’

‘Not as much as I’ll enjoy…’

‘Doing it to me, yes, we all know what you’re going to say. Listen to what I have to say: You will consume the flesh in front of you. It belongs to Danny, the very boy who you killed.’

‘I WILL NOT!’ screams Man, the rage spewing up from his throat like a ferocious volcano. His face bursts into beetroot patches, veins throbbing like pregnant snakes.

Two pairs of hands grab his face, force his mouth open as he fights back. Mick sits up, leans Rose against the seat and begins to laugh. Man, owing to his hungover state, is swiftly beleaguered by his captors and sits quietly, his mouth pried open as if by a vice.

Mick stands, holds his hand out and is given a knife. He leans over the table, cuts away a hunk of Danny’s flesh and stuffs it into Man’s mouth.

Man holds his mouth open, closes his eyes and lets his saliva pool around the tainted meat. He tries to shut out the smell, the taste, the pork-like texture that sits on his tongue.

‘Chew it for him, lads,’ says Mick.

One of his captors takes the meat from Man’s mouth, inserts it into his own and chews it. He then spits it out into hand and places it back in Man’s mouth. In a simultaneous motion the two thugs move his jaw up and down in a chewing motion and Man can feel the alien saliva sliding down his throat like mucus; he can taste the flavour of his kill.

With great reluctance he swallows the flesh, coughs loudly as the meat works its way down his throat, further into the alimentary canal.

‘See, that wasn’t so bad, was it?’ taunts Mick.

Man’s eyes turn ink-blank.

‘You’re one of us, now. You have consumed your kill and now you will feel a power you couldn’t even imagine. Tell me, son, have you ever heard of the Leopard Society?’

Man shakes his head from side to side, urging the flesh inside him to be thrown up violently. Rose sits still, staring into a paralyzing abyss. 

‘Well, interesting story really,’ states Mick. ‘In West Africa, the Leopard Society was a secret society of cannibals. They would dress in leopard skins, murdering travelers with weapons adapted to look like claws. You see, I know this because I read about it once. In the old days, before books were burned to keep us warm during the harsh winters. You know the nature of or species, you know it well. We’re capable of great atrocities and yet we’re compassionate when we choose to be. You’re in a pickle, lad. You’ve been caught by a group on individuals, led by me, who aren’t about to show you any compassion at all. Now, we aren’t about to don our leopard skins and tear you to pieces and eat you right here. We’ll get to that later. For now you can go to the cage down by the river. The animals in there are more suitable for you. You’re a powerful man, even without your cock. I bet you’ll taste delicious.’

Man relaxes as he comes to the realisation that he isn’t going to vomit. He sits back, straining his shoulders against the might of his captors’ grips. He looks at Mick, and then at Rose.

And although there is no escape and soon he will be murdered, executed like Number Forty Three, dissected and consumed and slowly turned into shit in Mick’s swollen belly, he holds his head high and laughs.

                            ************************

A clatter of hooves. The churning of freshly wetted grass.

The rain falls in fat droplets as they race across open fields, mud puddles splashing gorily in the sun-tainted shower. All around them is a dying greenery coming back to life, a vernal resurrection.

Six riders come upon a grassy verge, guns resting on laps, ready to use at a second’s notice. As they reach the top of the verge they recoil in shock as a figure bounds towards them, his steed galloping powerfully.

They pull their guns. Take aim.

They do not fire.

The figure’s horse comes to a slow trot and he speaks with a voice familiar to the riders.

‘Found a village about five miles north of here.’

‘That’s practically in fucking Scotland,’ says one of the riders.

‘Cancerous kind of place. As if there’s a blood-cloud looming over it. Saw some weird shit there, before I had to take cover from a scouting party.’

‘Did they see you?’ asks the lead rider.

‘No.’

‘Did you see him?’

‘No.’

‘Do you think he’s there?’

‘I’d bet my fucking horse on it, sir.’

‘That’s where we’ll go then.’

The figure turns his horse and all the riders, twenty five in total, follow him over the verge. The lead rider stays still, his horse breathing deeply. He looks over the fields, sees trees and hedges springing intermittently from the ground. He smiles at the beautifying innocence of nature, a brief but joyful departure from a vacuum of darkness.

And then he goes, his horse racing forward to form the head of his band of hunters. He is the lead rider.

He is Smith.

TO BE CONTINUED…