Last Rites (25 page)

He paused and considered Truman some more, nodding. “We don’t really kill you folks much anymore, either. Just not as many of you left around, at least not near the city. I guess people are about set for a nice, long show of discipline, punishment, pain—all that good stuff. Makes them feel right. Shows them things work out the way they’re supposed to.”

Truman examined the torture device in the middle of the tent. As Ramona had said, it looked like a bed—or more precisely, the old wire frame and springs of a mattress. It leaned against the tent support at about a forty-five degree angle. Thick cables ran from the frame to some device with a large crank handle sticking out of it. A few cables also connected to a black box on an old bar stool. Truman thought the whole thing looked strangely appropriate—simple, shoddy, and dirty.

“Yes, sir, the way they’re supposed to,” Doctor Jack continued. “But not always, not exactly. That’s just why folks love things like tonight—makes them believe that way, believe the world is the way it’s supposed to be. But things are—messier than all that. Last time we got one of you all and gave him some special training, poor fellow couldn’t take it.” He shook his head, and Truman might’ve mistaken his look and tone for real sadness if he hadn’t already heard the story from Lou. “Poor kid. Rat boy.” He chuckled. “That was some show he put on, though, fighting rats like he did. Can’t believe we even thought of that. Some of the boys and I were sitting around, drinking and playing cards, and we kept seeing all these rats running around. Don’t know why, in particular, that night. But it made us think one of you all could fight them. Lot easier than catching sharks and keeping a big glass tank from leaking—though whoo-boy! People loved that too, for sure!”

He scowled and looked serious again. “All right, enough of that. What I was saying is that we have here a very blunt instrument. No warranties anymore. You all don’t come with any, either. So we do the best we can. We’re gonna make tonight bad for you, so you don’t go acting up again. I’d rather not finish you off, but don’t you think that’ll mean it’s gonna be easy. No—this is gonna be a long night for you. We’re gonna do some other training tonight, too, I think. No sense wasting an opportunity for people to learn. No, that’s important.”

Shortly after that, people began filling the tent, which had been lit with torches tonight. Doctor Jack was ever the showman—the firelight gave it the foreboding, barbaric look of a dungeon. Some of the spectators would examine Truman for a moment before finding a place to sit. He stood impassively, not really feeling like snarling at them. It all seemed inevitable and he just wanted to get on with it.

Then he saw Dalia over by the entrance. Truman threw himself against the bars, causing the people who were gawking at him to jump back and gasp. How could they let her in for this? Truman cursed himself again, for thinking they might have limits. He should have known better by now.

At the commotion around Truman’s cage, Doctor Jack immediately came over and poked at him with a wooden pole. It was about the length and thickness of a broom handle. “Back, you,” he said in a loud voice, not quite shouting. “You’re in enough trouble as it is.” He leaned closer and spoke more softly, so only Truman could hear him. “You think you’re a brave little dead fucker, don’t you? You don’t mind if this goes on longer and hurts more?”

Truman didn’t, not a bit. He had only cared for it to hurry up and begin, and now he only cared that they’d subject Dalia to the horrible spectacle.

“Well, how about you think of what she has to see, and how sad it’ll make her. You gonna think of that now, and make things easier on everyone—easier on her?”

Now Truman did snarl.

Doctor Jack’s eyes sparkled and he smiled. “Oh, yes—a little bit of that will be good for the show! But are you gonna remember that poor little girl and her feelings when we open this cage up and get to business?”

Truman kept his broken teeth bared as he nodded.

The assistants who usually helped with Lou took Truman from his cage and strapped him to the wire frame. The belts were like those on the collar when they’d first taken him prisoner—cold and greasy. He was lucky—Ramona and Lou always had to wear a collar or something on their ankle, while he could move around his cage and didn’t always have something touching his skin to remind him that he was tied up like an animal.

Truman closed his eyes and tried to think how maybe this was about his ingratitude: he hadn’t been grateful enough for the better treatment he got, compared to the other two wretches in the tent. He should’ve thought of them, and of Dalia, and behaved himself. He didn’t think enough of others.

When the restraints were tight, Truman opened his eyes and strained against the leather. Fuck those thoughts. He’d take all sorts of blame, but not for this shit. He let out a howl and the crowd cheered. Fuck them too. Bunch of fucking animals, they were. He’d give them a show, but why’d they have to bring her here?

“Shut up!” Doctor Jack shouted and gave him a good smack in the ribs with the broom handle. Not too bad, just a little warm up, but the crowd loved it.

Truman turned to see the assistants were now dragging Lou over. What the fuck did they want with him? He was gentle as a kitten. He hadn’t done anything wrong. Truman brought his head forward and gave another cry, this one lower and longer.

“Hold him still,” Doctor Jack said to the men hauling Lou. “This is for real, so hold on to those chains. That’s it. Keep pulling him over here.”

Doctor Jack gave Lou the stick across his knees, then the small of his back. The dead man screeched and looked more plaintive than enraged.

“Turn that handle,” the living man yelled at Lou. “I know you’re not as big a pain as this dumb smart-ass, but you need to show you can still mind!” Doctor Jack struck him two more times—once to his head, once to his shoulder. Lou raised his hands to ward off the blows.

The chains attached to his neck collar went taut as Lou planted his feet and tried to keep them from dragging him forward. Now his look was one of terror as he threw his head back and roared, eyes wide, partly detached jaw flopping side to side. The crowd’s cheers nearly drowned out his cries of despair.

Doctor Jack laughed as he kept pummeling the dead men with his stick. “Oh, you’re a hoot, Lardo! Didn’t put up such a fight when we had you turn the handle for Rat Boy! Is that it? Now you know what the handle does? Ha! You’re smarter than I thought, you dumb piss fuck!”

The blows from the stick became more frenzied at this point, and the crowd’s sound turned to jeering laughter.

“You actually feel guilty? Is that it? Fuck you! You are! You’re guilty as hell! You do everything wrong! Everything is your fault anyway, so just shut the fuck up and do it! Fucking do it!”

They’d succeeded in dragging Lou to the device, but there was nothing more they could do to force him, except beat him over and over. He tilted his head down and caught Truman’s gaze. Truman nodded, and after hesitating a moment, Lou’s body went limp, the chains going slack as he surrendered. He grabbed the handle and began to turn it, the machinery setting up a whine and then an irregular hum.

“Let’s hear it for Lardo, ladies and gentleman!” Doctor Jack shouted. “Give him some positive reinforcement for his good behavior! It’s how you train them, you know!”

The crowd gave a combination of applause and some derisive calls of “Fatso!” and “Stupid!”

Doctor Jack walked over to the crowd, gesturing expansively. “Now, while the Great Lardo gets the juice flowing, let me welcome you folks! Sometimes there’s positive reinforcement, and sometimes there’s negative. I think you all are here for the latter. Am I right?” The crowd sent up a more enthused response to that.

“Now, I’ll need a volunteer,” he continued, looking over the crowd. “Someone to help inflict this negative reinforcement.” Hands shot up at that prospect, as well as shouts. “Good, good. So many people want to help.”

Doctor Jack had made his way past much of the crowd and was close to the entrance. “But, you see, it’s not just our unfortunate, uncooperative dead friend here who needs to learn,” he called out. “So I think the volunteer also should get something out of this.” He grabbed Dalia as an assistant shined a spotlight on her. “Here!”

She wasn’t here just to observe. No, that would show some restraint or shame on their part. They’d never be satisfied until she was like they were. For a moment Truman strained against his bonds so hard he thought he’d tear his hands off at the wrists. He’d gladly do that, if he could get to them, tear their throats out, taste their blood on this lips, feel their bones snap in his jaws, their flesh tear, hear their screams—not of delight at someone else’s pain, but of fear and heartbreak at their own. That’s what Lucy would do. She’d been right about them. Rachel and Will were off doing whatever the merely apathetic and selfish members of their race do with their time—rutting like beasts, or eating dainty foods, or listening to music. Oh, music—would poor Lucy ever get to hear any again? While those two ingrates got what they wanted, he and Lucy were subjected to the degradations dreamed up by those living people who indulged in greater, more imaginative cruelties. Killing them would be a mercy to those among them who hadn’t yet become as diseased as the rest.

After this moment of rebellion and despair, however, Truman relaxed. He had to be strong—for Dalia. If he showed all his outrage, disgust, and pain, it would be harder on her. Her anguish at what was happening was not his fault, but he had the power—and therefore, the responsibility—to alleviate it. He’d never forgive himself if he failed at that duty. He’d never forgive the living, regardless.

Dalia struggled a little, but let herself be led over to the black box on the bar stool. When they got there, Truman could hear Doctor Jack speaking to her in angry, low tones.

“You need to learn as much as he does,” he was saying.

“No, Doctor Jack,” she pleaded, glancing at him, Truman, and the crowd. “I know you have to punish him. But you do it. I don’t want to. I can’t.”

“You can and you will. I won’t let you train any more of these things. And I won’t be so gentle with them anymore, either. And this one—I might just shoot him tonight when we’re done here, and that’d be your fault.”

“No!” Her scream was so loud and sudden, it quieted even the raucous crowd for an instant, and there was only the hum of the machinery Lou was turning.

Doctor Jack leaned closer to her. “Yes,” he hissed. “Now do it.”

Dalia stepped to the box and put her hand on a large dial on one side of it. As he had done with Lou, Truman gave her a tiny nod, but it was more difficult for her to go through with what she had to do. Innocence was as strong as it was fragile—it held up to every assault until it just snapped at a certain point. Truman would witness her moment of loss, but he’d give her the strength to endure it, if he could. They held each other’s gaze, her eyes and cheeks wet with tears, as she turned the dial, just a bit.

The first jolt was nothing, less than the beating with the broom handle, even. It tingled was all. Truman gained confidence that he could do this.

“Now, it doesn’t do just to give the beast pain,” Doctor Jack called to the crowd. “As I said—it’s negative reinforcement. He has to associate the pain with some object, so he learns to keep away from that thing.”

Doctor Jack came closer to Truman, careful not to touch the metal frame. He rolled the sleeve of his jacket back to the middle of his forearm and extended the limb over Truman’s face. “Turn the dial, Dalia,” he said, keeping his eye on Truman.

As the tingling increased to a dull ache and burning, Truman didn’t look at Doctor Jack or the proffered arm, but stared into Dalia’s wet brown eyes, showing as little of the pain as he could.

“You’ll have to turn it up more, girl,” Doctor Jack shouted. “Tell her, people!”

The crowd roared. Dalia was no longer just standing with tears running down her cheeks, but she was more violently weeping, her body shaking, collapsing down and then coming back up as she took in sobbing breaths. But her eyes stayed on Truman’s and he still felt sure they could make it.

The pain was up to a wringing sensation in all Truman’s body, a stretching or twisting of every nerve and muscle.

Doctor Jack leaned close, bringing his body in between Truman and Dalia so he couldn’t look at her. The son of a bitch. “Look at it, you dumb, hungry bastard,” he said in a low voice for Truman, not the crowd. Truman finally looked at the arm above his face. It was thick, like that of the man he’d attacked the day before. Truman knew how bad the blood tasted, how it burned and hurt to swallow. But he knew how much he wanted to make them suffer, and that was all he could think of, all he could imagine or desire—their pain, their loss, their weakness, their wretched, useless pleading.

The electricity made all that moot, of course. Truman’s jaw was clamped shut and his neck was bent back, holding his mouth away from the man’s arm, regardless of what he wanted to do.

“I see you fuckers sniffing around, so I know you can smell,” Doctor Jack continued, grinning. “This must look and smell like juicy porterhouse, hot apple pie, the best fucking bourbon, and the nicest, sweetest pussy you ever could hope to get this close to—all rolled into one!” He didn’t take his eyes off Truman as he shouted to Dalia to increase the current. Truman’s back arched and his whole body shook. It felt like the vertebrae would just pop out and he’d be a twitching rag doll in a moment. The crowd cheered.