Vessel

by Matthew Bryant

  “Should I be writing this down?”

  “Not necessary. I have all of this saved in my documents. Let me download the files to a portable and you can just hand that over.” He boots up his computer and gestures me towards the freezer. “Go ahead and grab a case of tetanus boosters to take with you.”

  “That’s very generous of you.”

  He shrugs. “The deported need to look after their own. If they can keep me up in equipment, I shouldn’t have a problem trading them for meds with the other street doctors, plenty to keep the Techies well supplied and still making a profit for myself. I’m not sure what to expect on your end, but I’m impressed with your ambition. It seems like good business.” He hands over a data disk and looks me hard in the eyes. “But be careful about relying too heavily on that boy of yours. He seems a bit too vital to your own goals in this.”

  “Is that supposed to be a stab?”

  “Not at all. You chose your own way, and it’s not the life I would have chosen for you, but you’ve found a way to make it work for you.”

  “Thanks,” I say, feeling a bit smaller than usual.

  “I don’t have any seeds or saplings to spare. I get mine from the Aggies in return for the occasional check-up. But I’ll give you some advice. There’s a lot of bias up in those areas. Better to avoid letting them know where their supplies are going. Or better yet, just get a handful of guys to deal with you on the side. The less people involved, the better.

  “And stay the hell away from those Junkers. It may seem like faster money, but they are not to be trusted, you hear?”

  “Wouldn’t dream of it,” I lie. “I’ve had enough bad experiences to keep me away for good.”

  Twenty-Eight

  I feel slightly comforted that Mathan’s back with Doc and Myrna as my heart drops at the all too familiar dump sight. Mountains of refuse and discard rise so high they block out the moon and stars, but I know I’ve been spotted and watched from a mile away. Hidden amongst those piles of one man’s trash are the discarded remnants of humanity, tossing morality and civilization away in favor of a life of sodomy and masochism.

  The Doc was right. This is a mistake. But I need that fast money, and nobody comes through turning one man's trash into another man’s treasure better than these clowns. Plus it’s the best place to unload illicit drugs with no questions and no fear of getting pinched. Metaphorically anyway. The Barren’s Kingdom holds its own danger behind walls of welded scrap metal where getting flogged and gang-bang ass-raped is their idea of a slap on the wrist. Or a reward.

  All of my street cred goes down the crapper the second those spotlights hit the truck and I can hear the bang of drums and the gravity of the situation hits my bowels with enough pressure to practically empty them right onto my seat. High-pitched hoots accompany the deep bass rhythm to create a glorious chorus of “Get the fuck out if you know what’s good for you”. Even navigating through the blinding lights, I can spot the twinkling like shooting stars of the inhabitants running alongside the loader, flashes bouncing off of metal and glass body modifications that take piercing from a hobby to a lifestyle.

  I stop the truck just short of the fortress gates, grab my bag of goodies from the rehab clinic, and slide out of the cab, a little too wary of the ever-growing entourage crawling from the refuse. They meet me with a mixture of feelings and I can hear whispers of “Candyman”, “Traitor”, “Cockmeat”, “Murderer”, and a barrage of other colorful names I can’t make out. I keep my head high and my mouth shut, anxiously awaiting the opening of the gates.

  My mistake becomes ever more apparent as time drags on. The mob around me grows considerably and the bravest of them have moved to the edge of the spotlight, but dare not cross over for fear of losing grace in the eyes of the Barren and his lords and mistresses. But hunger and curiosity can only go unsatisfied for so long.

  The gates open and I allow myself to breathe regularly again, though my relief is short lived as I recognize Vida atop the rickshaw. I am uncertain if her human mule is the same as last time. The humiliated hairless slaves are stripped of all individuality and name as surely as they’re stripped of clothing and dignity. It seems she has spared this one no lack of punishment though, his skin scarred, torn, and openly bleeding, leaving little exposed flesh to be seen. Like all other mules, the long, metal handles of his burden have been pierced through his skin and grafted there to become a part of him. I would be counted as one of the many to consider this a fate worse than death.

  “It would appear,” Vida calls out to the audience as she rises from her seat, “that our beloved Candyman is as foolish as he is shameful, hiding his birthright behind tattered rags of cloth and lies. Does he not know what consequences his actions have brought? Is he truly ignorant of the pains of loss that we have suffered in his absence? That the pleasure once bestowed upon our people was stripped with loss of life from the dark shadows that follow him?” Murmurs rise from the crowd around me. Some in agreement, and a pathetic minority whimpering sympathetic tones.

  “And yet here he stands. Coming to us once more! But for what purpose? Has he come to make amends? To show the proper respect to our kind? To our family?” Pausing for purpose, her eyes slide across the crowd, tongue darting out across her lips before continuing, “Or is he business as usual? Wishing to take from us without remorse. Without leaving a bit of himself to prove that he is anything more than an outsider come to rape us of our wealth? Our birthright?”

  She snaps her fingers and the bravest of the mob, those with their toes in the light, race to my side and surround me, stretching my arms and holding me taut. I offer no resistance. They won’t kill me. They need me. My only concern is walking away with a bit of humility still intact. With a tug against the plastic bag death-gripped in my hand, I speak clearly without averting my gaze from Vida. “Whomever chooses to rob the Candyman of his goods will find his hand removed from the wrist and buried so deeply up his asshole that no solids shall ever pass through again.” The tugging stops and I resist the cocky smile brewing at my cheeks. I’m reminded that I still hold cards.

  “None of us shall take from this man anything but his life fluids.” I don’t like the sound of that. Vida closes the distance between us slowly, purposefully, clenching her bullwhip tightly in her fist. Her free hand reaches up and softly strokes my cheek before her claw-like nails trace along behind, soft enough to keep from breaking the skin, but sharp enough to leave four burning trails. A long pink tongue with a flock of bars pierced through breaks free of her lips and she stands on her toes to run it along my other cheek, painting me with saliva before pulling back and spitting liberally in my face. Shouts and cheers erupt from the crowd, feeding her ego and urging her to continue.

  Gripping my chin with her free hand, she tugs firmly to open my mouth before thrusting her fingers inside. Never taking my eyes off of hers, I respond obediently. There’s a time for resistance, but this isn’t it. At the same time, I don’t give her the satisfaction she wants, merely playing puppet for the moment.

  “Don’t think I’ve forgotten about my promise to you,” she whispers venomously. “I have so many plans for you.” Her face presses against mine, mouth on my ear, sucking gently on the lobe. “You will be my slave. And despite all the pain I put you through, you will only beg me for more.” Again, I hold my tongue, but other things are beyond my control. She pulls back to meet my gaze again, eyes wide with excitement as she rubs her sex against my thigh and finds a little something extra. Those hormones are going to be the death of me.

  “So what will it be, Candyman,” she calls out loudly for all to hear, yet only inches from my face. “What will you pay for the privilege of entering our Kingdom once more? Blood or cum?”

  “I’ve bled enough for this cause,” I mutter.

  “So you choose the other?” she asks, barely masking the quiver of excitement in her voice.

  “The Candyman demands trial!” I shout defiantly.

  I can almost feel th
e blood boiling through her skin. “Trial it is!” she shrieks, gripping the bag from my hand and ripping it away before dropping it on the ground behind her. “Strip him!”

  Despite the fierceness of their mistress, the men are surprisingly respectful, assisting me with my undressing and one even neatly folding my jacket before laying it on the ground. All of this only serves to infuriate Vida even further as she returns to the cart, barking an order at her cloaked handmaiden, but I never seem to play it smart. I even get a brief reverie from the audience at the sight of my naked, scarred, but unmodified body. Fully naked, arms outstretched, I turn around and await the shackles.

  Strong arms grip my wrists and pull them behind my back, binding them together solidly with a rope that feels like it was made from braided plastic bags. I test their durability and would find myself impressed under different circumstances. There’s no wiggle room, but I still have circulation. These bondage cats know their business.

  I’m offered no cart rides this time, instead walking alongside the rickshaw on display through the streets as citizens escape their hovels to observe me under moonlight. As before, some eyes bore through me with burning loathing while other heads bow in respect. Such a lot of time has passed since my last visit and I am still recognizable through the entirety of the populace.

  There’s no such thing as a fair trial here. Not one with a judge and court of unbiased peers at least. The trials here are just like their gambles, sick games like classic gladiators where the odds are stacked highly against the participants. It’s the Junkers’ own perverse way of making amends to those who have wronged them or those too far in debt. There are also those who volunteer for the challenges. Winning means freedom, wealth, or status among the citizens of the Barren’s Kingdom. Losing, on the other hand, ends in death for the lucky ones. My eyes linger towards the beaten mule at my side.

  Dreams still haunt me of my last visit here, where my trial was held with several others in a game called Screamer. Contestants are all fed hallucinogens until the visuals become too much for them and they scream. The last man standing silent is the winner while the losers are carted off and abused in horrific ways. Since the death count is all but unheard of, this is less of a trial and more of a regular game for when enough servants lose their usefulness and they need to restock. Judging by the wear on the fellow next to me, it occurs more frequently than I’d like to know about. But with the arrival of Swarm, tearing through bodies and leaving a trail of blood, or at least that’s what my trippin’ ass saw, I was declared winner only through default. Apparently I’m still shouldering the blame for the tragic evening.

  The Barren sits solemnly on his throne of sparkly refuse as we approach, hiding any readable emotion from his expression. Or maybe he’s so high right now he doesn’t know what he’s looking at. Either way, the past has proved that his favor won’t do a damn thing for my predicament.

  “Halt,” calls Vida’s booming voice and our entourage stops just short of the steps to the throne. “My Barren, the accused has chosen to come before you to seek Trial as retribution for his crimes.”

  “I see that our Candyman has returned once more,” The pitch of Barry Goldstein’s once jovial voice comes across as far more condescending this evening. Or maybe I’m just sour to the whole situation. “It would seem that he has nothing to hide from us. Bare your sins before our court, child.”

  Pride beckons me to tell the man to eat a fucking dick. Common sense leads me better. This isn’t a scenario that holds any escape routes. “My Barren, I stand before you with nothing to hide. I too was a victim of the Screamer tragedy. I pledge my life and honor to those words and seek trial with the court to wash the shame from a name that once brought joy in a time of prosperity.”

  “You see yourself not as a criminal?”

  “My dealings with the Barren’s Kingdom have always been fair and with the interests of the citizens close to heart.”

  “Why then the delay? Why is it that you have waited so long before returning? Many among us, myself included, believed you to be amidst the casualties of that fateful evening.”

  I hold my head high, cautious with my wording. “The events leading up to that evening and then immediately following had put me under constant surveillance. There was no way I could return to explain myself without bringing trouble to your doorstep.”

  “So you admit to bringing death to our home?” Vida snaps.

  “You speak out of turn, Mistress,” Barren scolds her, “You may choose to disregard the question, Candyman.”

  “I shall answer the question. That death was here of its own accord. But it shall return no more. I have personally seen to its destruction.” Confined in an airtight chamber and blown to hell with enough explosive to level a small building, I’ve been confident since that evening that the Swarm, an ancient who found physical form in thousands of insects of its choosing, won’t be gracing this earth again.

  “And you speak full confidence on this?”

  “I do.”

  “Then very well. We have heard the statement of the accused. Let us turn now to the wheel and may Fate’s hand guide you to redemption or peril!”

  I’d forgotten how theatrical the Junkers are. If I were in better spirits, it would be more fun to play along, but this loaded gun ain’t pointed playfully. There’s a full clip, hair trigger, and twitchy fingers.

  I’ve never had the pleasure of seeing the wheel of judgment first hand. I’d of course heard about it, that it once belonged to some old gameshow, but now each pinned slot holds some bizarre bobble. A ragdoll filled with pins catches my eye first and I pray I never know what that one is, though judging by the audience, that’s probably the least intimidating. Barren spins the wheel and it moves in a blur at first, then quickly creaks its way down to a halt, narrowly avoiding a toy monkey with a condom covering its face and a collection of small gears arranged into the shape of a dick and balls before coming to a halt on a dead rat. The irony sends a chill up my spine.

  “Fate has chosen the Rat Race!” The audience booms with the most enthusiasm I’ve heard from them all night. It goes on with deafening volume for what drags on like minutes while I stand with a blank expression on my face wondering what kind of hell Fate or whatever deity may have just opened up for me. “Attendees, prepare the gauntlet. Audience, to the colosseum! Tonight we shall have our first rat race in years!” More roars of applause fill the night sky as the crowd begins to move, the younger ones darting this way and that to work their way to the front, presumably for the best seats. I’m just grateful I heard the word, “gauntlet” and not “giant pit of rabid rodents”. Seriously. I have nightmares about that crap.

  Despite the excitement in the air, I’m ushered rather unceremoniously into a tunnel and down dark, winding corridors. We take seven turns, three lefts, two rights, then one of each before we come to a sealed door that looks like it belongs in an underground bunker. I wonder if I’m already in some kind of rat maze, but I doubt it would be something so simple. Lord only knows how much time the Junkers have spent burrowing underground. If memory serves, tunneling is something that would pass as a respectable career in these parts.

  “You will wait here,” one man says. “Further instruction shall come soon. Until then, you are not to touch the door. Understood?” I nod my understanding and watch as my two companions walk away, taking all of the light with them save the red, electric glow of a sign reading EXIT.

  “I am among those who is glad to see you still on this earth, Candyman.” The voice is one of the deepest I’ve ever heard, and vaguely familiar from my last time of crisis. A tinkling of metal on rocks is heard as a figure steps into view from the shadows of an alternate corridor. It takes a moment, then I recognize the weights embedded into his feet and the webbing between his fingers. He’s the diver who served as my caretaker before the Screamer game.

  “Time has been kind to you. I’m glad to see you well, friend.”

  “And you as well, brother,
though it seems misfortune finds you still.”

  I offer a light-hearted shrug, “If you never taste the bitter, how would you recognize the sweet?”

  He quirks his head curiously to one side. “A strange saying. I shall reflect on it during future meditations. Are you aware of the rules of the trial of which you are about to participate?”

  “I’m assuming I run through a maze?”

  “This is not quite accurate.”

  “No? What did I get myself into, then?”

  “It is a test of survival. The gauntlet is a course set with many obstacles and you will not be alone. Starved vermin will wish to feed upon you. Traps will be abundant. And you must reach the end quickly.”

  “So I’m being timed?”

  “No, my brother. You are being poisoned. The antidote lies at the end.” Fabulous. I keep the truth about my affinity to poisons to myself. Besides, there’s no telling what kind of life-ending, misery causing concoction they came up with for this game.

  “Do I at least get a weapon? Or my clothes back?”

  He shakes his head. “The idea is not to give participants the advantage. You are to be tortured for the amusement of others.” He scratches his chin. “I believe they will douse you in fish guts to draw the rats to your smell, but it has been many moons since I have seen this trial.”

  “Any advice?”

  “Do not be eaten by the rats.”

  “Thanks.”

  His voice lowers to a point it is barely above a hum, so soft that I can barely believe it to be words while standing next to him. “The true enemy is your self. Trust your instincts, not your senses.”

  I don’t reply, only nod my understanding as we wait in silence for my next instructions.

  There’s a good stretch of time before more lights come down the corridor, this time in larger numbers. The Barren himself has arrived with a full camera crew in tow. They quickly set up lighting and sound, then dust the Barren’s face to avoid glare from the lights, though there’s no avoiding the reflections from his excessive body art.