Soul of the Butterfly

by Scott Carruba

  “Those deaths are not your fault.”

  She shakes her head, slowly.

  “I understand your point, but it still weighs on me. And you don’t know all of it. I have sent people directly to the executioner.”

  “Alright, Therese, but Kettle is different. He was already in this, and he came to you, hmm?” He perks his thick eyebrows.

  “Maybe so, and maybe he’d also hide, but it would always nag at me. Look. I don’t want to bring him with us, but he needs to be warned, so he can go into hiding. Or better hiding.”

  His nod holds weight, hidden bitterness.

  “I don’t like it, but I understand. This is your thing much more than mine, anyway, so do what you have to do. Find him, and we’ll do this.”

  He watches, half expecting her to object to his being involved. He feels a great relief when she just nods her assent.

  *****

  They have come to a place of abatement for that choking darkness. There is light here where they stop to rest, but diminished, as if an eternal gloaming cloaks the land. The entire place looks half-formed, painted with an unimaginative palette. The concrete yet lingers, but what might pass for more ‘nature’ gives way - crooked, leafless brush along with wane grasses. This change takes further hold as they rise along the incline.

  The Hunters have been bound, but they are still capable of a labored form of locomotion. Reaching this point had been simple enough, though painstaking in passage. As with everything, all is slowed and weighty.

  “Why have you brought us here?” Skot looks to Pierce and Lance, throwing out the question with an accusatory tone.

  Some time passes, Pierce focusing on the captives while Lance gives a slow, rheumy blink to his companion. “They brought us here,” Pierce finally says, moving his head toward the others.

  “Aren’t you in command?” Skot asks.

  “No,” Pierce states, flatly, then shuffles away.

  Lance keeps looking at them, his expression one of pity, then he finally follows. Pierce remains standing, showing a pinched anxiety, impatience, but Lance takes the opportunity to plop unceremoniously onto the ground, giving his leg a respite.

  “We have something exciting in store for you,” the haggard man says, grinning a crooked grin.

  “What!” Pierce turns his head suddenly, practically shooting the word at the man. The Hunters note his surprise, all registering it in their own ways. Skot thinks it does not bode well for any of them.

  The haggard man turns that grin onto Pierce, stepping nearer. “It’s very boring here, so we’ve come up with games to keep us entertained.”

  “The fuck are you talking about?” Pierce all but growls.

  The grin does not falter. “Listen,” he invites, bringing a hand to cup an ear. “Do you hear that?”

  Pierce slits his eyes, drilling them into the man. The subject of his intensity just smirks back. He finally turns, beckoning with an unusual and sudden enthusiasm. “Come on!”

  Those near them roughly bring the captives to their feet, and the laborious trek continues upwards. They finally reach an area of some leveling off, the cement gone, more of the thirsty scrub brush crowding about. A rise of the rock on one side forms a natural wall, then falls off a steep incline. They hear the rush of water.

  Pierce looks around, noting what seems an end to their path. “Why did we come up here? You’re supposed to-”

  “There!” the haggard man points, gesticulating. He places a hand on Pierce’s shoulder, and Pierce finds it revolting. He nearly shudders from the contact.

  They all move over and then see it. There is a narrow bridge of rock connecting from their side over to a continuance of walkable ground. The brush there turns to trees, the land more inviting, in relativity to what else covers this realm. To get there, though, the thin walkway must be traversed. Its length is not as fearful as the lack of width, but below shows a deep drop into sickly-looking waters raging over ugly rocks.

  “We have to cross that?” Lance asks, fear laden in his voice.

  “No,” the man chuckles. “One of them do.” He points a gnarled finger at the Hunters.

  Pierce again fixes the man with a slit gaze. “What are you tal-”

  “This is the game!” The man claps his hands together once.

  Skot notes a charge rising in their captives. Some of them gain a fidgeting motion, others brighten with the look of genuine grins. It all resonates deep in his gut, and his sense of alarm heightens.

  “One of you.” The man springs lightly on his feet, giving forth the suggestion of a jig, as he points at the captives. “One of you will cross it, and then, we will be fair and wait a while for you to try to get help. If you don’t return soon enough, then another will be forced to try.”

  They look to one another, knowing the futility of this. They have no clue what waits on the other side, much less if they can find help were they to successfully traverse the precarious walkway. It all feels designed to slowly end them all for the enjoyment of their wretched captors.

  “This isn’t fair!” Their guide gives voice; fear bubbling forth as he looks from the contemplative Hunters to their eager captors. “How are we to even find help if we cross that?” He points at the bridge, finger trembling.

  “You?” the haggard man says, “You wish to volunteer?”

  The guide goes immediately silent.

  “Come on,” he draws out, a perversion of a gameshow host. “Someone volunteer, or we’ll choose.”

  Skot sees it then - the resolve on Lilja’s features. He can all but read her thoughts. She harbors no doubts she can cross the bridge; the true test is figuring out how to get back unseen and provide help.

  “I’ll go,” speaks a voice, though not the one Skot had feared.

  “We have our volunteer!”

  Most of the bedraggled group gives forth applause as David gets to his feet. Lilja reaches out to stop him, her hand grabbing at his arm. He looks back at her with a congenial smile. “Don’t worry. I’ve got this.”

  “I can-” Lilja begins, but she is cut off by a swarming intercession.

  “Wait your turn!” the haggard man commands, waggling a finger in Lilja’s face. “And you.” He turns, looking David over. “You’re very healthy. You ‘got this’, huh?” He titters, then nods, and the swarm of people presses closer, hands on David, pushing and pulling and holding.

  They drag him some meters away, others remaining behind and grabbing hold of the other captives. Skot figures this is to prevent them trying to intercede, but then a different sort of terror unfolds.

  “What are you doing?” he demands, trying to keep a better watch as his captors hold and press upon him.

  “We’ve got to make this sporting,” the haggard man explains.

  It takes many of them, but they manage to do it. Surprise is also on their side. They bring out David’s right arm, holding his hand over the hard surface of a stumpy rock. The crude stone club swings down several times, fast, direct, and the sickening crunch is only overwhelmed by Zoe’s voice.

  “Stop it! Stop it! What are you doing to him, you fuckers! Let me go!” She struggles but remains held.

  “Oooh. Spirited.” The haggard man looks at the Huntress. “Maybe you’ll be next.”

  “Fuck you!” She continues to try to press forward, baring her teeth.

  David grits his teeth through the pain, whatever vocal reaction he had overwhelmed by Zoe’s fury. He tries to extend the fingers of his right hand, but they don’t all move as they should, and the sudden shock of pain reels into him. He mustn’t pass out. He feels a tremor beginning to shake up from his ruined hand, and he takes several deep breaths, trying to calm himself. The haggard man gives a terse nod, and David is pushed to his feet. His bonds are cut. He stands there, taking in some more breaths.

  “Go on, now,” the haggard man chides. “You got this, right?”

  David looks at Skot. Both tell tales with their eyes, but the training ultimately froths fort
h. David turns, and steps toward the bridge.

  It looks as unnatural as this unnatural land, connecting to this edge with a span of one meter at best. It carries on, sloping inward deceptively to its most narrow part where David knows both his feet would not fit side by side. The composition even partakes in the trap, starting rough here, eager to offer hold, but the slender middle is smooth as though somehow shaped by the fluids far below.

  And that water rages. David listens to it, letting it lull him from the pain. He then blinks, shaking his head, realizing the danger of this. That coursing river flows in from his left, picking up speed to go quickly from a gurgle to a angry crash where it is choked by sharp rocks and forced into a more narrow passage to finally course away again. He wonders that they did not notice it on their way up here. He takes a calming breath, then proceeds.

  “That’s it.”

  He hears the voice from behind him, close. It’s the haggard man, and there is such desire in the tone, he wonders that they might just shove him off the bridge to get the death they want. He uses this as inspiration, stepping along, keeping himself low at the center, knees bent and passing his weight evenly. He has undergone hours upon hours of training, and he knows how to keep his balance.

  A decrepit tree waits on the other side, coming out from the edge and rising aside the bridge in the perversion of a lover’s embrace. More of the eager scrub comes up with it. It looks to David as though the growth of nature here is more natural there. That side holds the possibility of freedom. He must get there.

  He slips, catching himself quickly, wobbling. He rights from the tilt. His ‘audience’ reacts accordingly, giving forth gasps and caught breath in anticipation of his possible failure. None of his own are in those voices.

  He slides his right foot forward, feeling it catch on the smooth surface. His nerves are getting to him, the throb of pain in his hand coursing up his arm. He is very close to the tree now, nearly there.

  When he sets his left down, it happens. That foot glides aside as though no purchase at all waits on the bridge. He steps forward quickly with his right, leaning that way, reaching for the tree. This foot holds, but not well. He tries to shove off, moving left to center himself, but he knows he is losing. He grabs at the tree, so close now, and he feels the riot of pain in his ruined hand. This will not hold, and he thrusts wildly with his left, finding a decent reach of branch and gripping tight as he falls.

  The crowd gasps, calls, some even clap as David goes over the left side. He hears a stunted cry and call of ‘no’, and he knows it is Zoe. He waits for the pull, holding tight with his left hand. He is not sure how he’ll climb back up with only one good hand, but he’ll find a way. His hope is that the branch is short, and he may not end up too far from the bridge.

  And then the branch snaps.

  The Hunters try to rise, to fight, as David falls, but they are held by too many hands. Zoe’s surge of anger creates a tumult, but their captors are too many. Skot merely sits, resigned, that unfortunate familiarity of mourning already setting in.

  The haggard man watches, standing right on the edge. David does not scream, little more than a forced grunt emerging when he hits the water of the river. It’s clear the impact does not kill him, but his body is carried on the charged rapids, and he collides roughly with the rocks.

  New red mixes into those gray waters, coiling together like a dark announcement in the already soiled river. David is turned, and he lets out another call of anguish, also trying to pull in a breath, then he is swept under and disappears beneath the rocks.

  The haggard man turns, looking upon his captives with a satisfied grin. Though it looks of satiation, it takes not long for it to change.

  “Who’s next?” he asks, giving a single clap of his hands.

  “Bastard!”

  He looks to Zoe, the Huntress still struggling against the bonds and hands holding her.

  “I’ll kill you!”

  “Oh my. You, then?”

  Lilja suddenly squirms free, having been patiently working to this for some time now. She has the most experience of them all with this sort of thing, what with her grappling and self-defense training. She’d remained calm and subdued like Skot, but where his had been the true resignation of accepting the inevitable, she had done this to coerce her captives.

  She rushes to the bridge. Skot sits up, gaining further attention from those holding him. He watches with deep fear as Lilja approaches the bridgeway. She is moving too fast. She has somehow slipped the bonds about her ankles, but her wrists are still held.

  “Wait! No!” calls out the haggard man. “You can’t go like that!”

  Like that, Skot repeats in his head. As if the way were not precarious enough, their ‘game’ requires that the prisoner not be whole when going across. He slits his eyes, moving his fingers in a particular way. All attention is on Lilja.

  She traverses the length with speed, using that momentum to her advantage. She gets to the tree, all but bounding across with such a show of grace as to awe many. Her hands take hold, using the plant to aid in her final movement. She does not stop, quickly gaining distance.

  “Go after her!” the haggard man commands. “Bring her back! This is not how it’s s’posed to be.”

  A good number of them hustle to it. None fall as they help each other to get across the bridge. They don’t match Lilja’s speed, either, but soon enough, a decent group is in pursuit.

  The haggard man looks at Skot, angry. Skot gives it right back, though his expression is much more calm.

  “I think we might just slit your throats,” he says, no grin at all on his cracked lips. His face is pinched with need, his eyes boring into Skot’s. “What!” he challenges, seeing movement at Skot’s mouth. “What are you saying?”

  Those left holding onto Skothiam cry out in pain, reeling back. They have felt a sudden surge of heat, like the shock of intense fire. Skot shuffles to his feet, straining, and he snaps the bonds around his wrists.

  “Get him!” The haggard man points, hand waggling, but he moves away in the gesture, obvious fear gripping him.

  Though Zoe’s anger covers like a red coat, she does not fail to see the opportunity, and she takes advantage of the confusion to attack. She bares her teeth, lashing out at the nearest captor, and with an animalian snarl, she tears into the flesh of his neck.

  He screams, trying to move away, and is only able to do so because she releases him. His hands shoot up to his neck, trying to staunch the flow of blood. The bite is not bad, but his fear makes it worse.

  Zoe continues, pushing against another, getting to her knees, then using the improved stability to headbutt one who tries to take better hold. His nose erupts in a riot of blood, and he reels back. She shoves her shoulder into the solar plexus of a woman trying to offer assistance, throwing her back.

  Skot rushes over, dodging, noting the reduced number of them now that most have left to catch Lilja. He collides with another, knocking the man down, and he then gets to Zoe’s bonds. She is freed quickly and makes a beeline for their weapons.

  They know not why the weapons were collected and brought when it would have been wiser to discard or use them, but she reaches the treasure easily, most of the remaining captors now reeling in confusion and fear. Machete in hand, she becomes an angry dervish of revenge.

  It’s over in seconds, and she stands next to Skot, both peering over the edge into the waters. She breathes heavily, painted in the blood of the slain. Skot gives her a look, his own eyes drooped.

  “He’s gone,” he says.

  “Let’s find Lilja,” Zoe replies, handing Skot his own and Lilja’s weapons.

  He gives a nod, and they are off, dragging their guide with them.

  Moments later, the explosion of a cough having been forcefully held sprays wetly unto the scene. This is followed by shuffling, grunts and groans. Lance and Pierce emerge from their hiding place. Lance stays supported by the large rock, his eyes showing a wariness. Pierce march
es to the bridge, angry. He observes for a moment, and Lance hopes he will not cross. He doubts he could make it, but he would try. They are both compelled.

  “Fuck!” Pierce exclaims, turning. “That stupid fuck!” He looks out at the fresh corpses, the riotous stains of blood.

  “What are we going to do now?” Lance finally asks.

  Pierce looks at him, the anger mostly gone.

  “We’re all going to the same place. We’d better hurry.”

  *****

  Duilio feels relegated to nearly being borne carried along as baggage.

  He still carries his sidearm from time to time, noticing those instances have increased in frequency as his involvement with the Malkuth has deepened. Therese has taken charge of their work, not only in determining what needs be done but doing most of it. Duilio has his contacts and experience in investigation, but all of this preparation has been taking place in cyberspace.

  He also recalls when he encountered her in the coffee shop, and how easily she handled him. Where she has learned to better herself offline, he has done little to keep up with the radical ways the internet has changed the world of investigation. She even showed him how to disable the tracking in his smartphone, an option they have only just taken for worry it would cause suspicion.

  Their destination is not terribly far from Therese’s residence, but they take a few different busses just in case. A burning need to be done drives them, but they know they cannot be impatient. This is a game with terribly high stakes, and they hope to survive the play.

  The apartment complex is a few blocks off the main road where they disembark this final bus. It gives Therese reason to wonder. She actually expected it to be more isolated, but she just as quickly changes her mind. It had been very difficult to locate the address in cyberspace, and that would be the main security. She figures there are likely some cameras and other intrusion detectors, but at this point, they don’t mind being seen.

  It is quite likely that Kettle will refuse to have anything to do with them, and if he is adamant in that regard, they’ll go on without him. Therese had agreed to this under Duilio’s incessant push to enforce some control over their final play. She knows he is entirely against including Kettle, but he seems just as against abandoning her. She wonders that he doesn’t make the correlation between the relationships. Yes, they just learned of Kettle, and there is no real bond, but the sudden exposure of an internet investigator to possible harm is something that strikes close to home for Therese.