“He bleeds a lot,” the toddler said, yanking. “It’s stuck.”
“Let me show you on this leg,” the mom said. She grasped the knife, pulling it free. I screamed again.
I watched in horror as my health points actually rose. I eyed that second cleric, the one who’d disintegrated my pants, his hands aglow.
The mom pinched a handful of skin on my upturned thigh, the one still raised in a frozen kick. “Don’t cut it. We want the skin, nothing else. It’s like peeling a fruit.”
I screamed anew as the mom filleted a 10-inch strip of skin off my thigh.
“Gimmee gimmee,” the girl said, clapping her hands, reaching for the knife.
“So you think you can do it like that?” the mom said, handing back the blade.
“Fuck,” I cried. “Heal me. Jesus Christ.”
The cleric did not heal me this time.
The mother gave me a chilly look. “Language,” she said. “There are children about!”
“I can do it,” the toddler said.
“Okay,” the mom said. “Nice and gentle. Cut down and slow, like you’re peeling the skin of a fruit. Be careful you don’t nick yourself, honey.”
“Okay, mommy,” the girl said.
She plunged the knife in my leg again. It went straight in, but this time it was stopped by the bone. She yanked it out and stabbed again, and again.
“Whoopsie,” she said.
***
My world was pain. It became my life, my religion, my breath, and my blood. It was all I knew, all I would ever know.
After the toddler, older children came. The ones who knew what they were doing were worse than those who didn’t because the clerics did not heal me between each proper flaying. Both of my legs looked like one of those shawarma spits, with bits of skin and fat hanging off like paper streamers. An impossibly large pool of blood cascaded off the pedestal and ran into a channel, streaming downward into the temple and toward the dais at the back of the badger’s throat.
It took almost a full day and dozens of healings for all of the town’s children to get their strip of flesh. I watched, dazed as a group of child groundlings rushed through the streets, waving the skin at each other, shrieking with laughter, pretending like the strips of leather were whips. One child fastened a crude slingshot out of his piece and spent a full hour shooting rocks at my head before one of the mechs finally shooed him away.
I spent this time attempting to break my mind in two. Dr. Metcalf had tried to teach me how to do it when I was dealing with Chris. At the time, I had thought the whole thing was stupid. Mary had clutched onto it like a lifeline though, spending hours meditating. It had never worked for me. But it seemed to help Mary. Not a lot, but during those first few months, anything that eased an ounce of the pain was worth it.
The whole idea—to compartmentalize your mind, to be able to dispassionately look at your own situation—it’d seemed wrong to me. Even if it had worked, it would’ve been like cheating.
I’d deserved that pain. I needed that pain. Like cauterizing a wound.
Besides, Dr. Metcalf’s method was a way of dealing with the pain of grief, not physical pain.
Still, I clutched onto the idea of being able to disassociate myself like it was the last crumb of food in the world.
And it worked. Not like I intended, but by God, it worked.
I thought of Chris. I thought of that day. There was no pain that could supersede that memory. None.
Where are you? I’d asked Ruth. You know you’re not supposed to leave.
Relax, she’d replied. We’re at my boyfriend’s house.
Come home, I’d said. Come home right now. Mary is pissed.
Unwad your panties, dad. Chris is fine. He’s asleep. I’ll bring him back in the morning. Or you can come get him.
Goddamnit, Ruth. Get here now.
It was my fault just as much as it was hers. She’d been drunk and high, not in the right mind. I’d ordered her to come home. Mary was pissed. She didn’t like Chris leaving the house with Ruth.
She’d ended up going the wrong way on State Route 16. She’d collided head-on with another car. Chris. My beautiful little boy. He hadn’t even been wearing a seatbelt.
The driver in the other car had been injured as well. A teacher. She recovered, but I remembered that day in court, her staring daggers at us. I couldn’t look at her.
Ruth didn’t have a scratch on her.
That memory, reminding myself of that moment when the state troopers came to the door, of Mary falling to her knees, clutching her head, screaming. This is too much, this is too much. That was seared into my mind deeper than any brand, any scar, and it burned harder than any physical pain could.
But this flaying, the peeling of skin off my legs. This was nothing compared to what was to come tomorrow.
Amplification.
Damnit, Clara, I thought. I wondered if she knew what was going to happen. If not, I wondered what she was thinking right now, speculating why I hadn’t shown up. She’d had to have figured it out by now. Maybe they were on their way back to me. Maybe they’d come and save me at the last minute, guns a’blazing.
Maybe I’d wake up any minute and realize this was all a dream.
It took me a while to realize my legs had been healed and the jeering crowds were gone. I opened one eye to see young Gulch sitting cross-legged in front of me. A single cleric and a single mech stood respectfully back. Gulch rocked back and forth, praying silently.
I became acutely aware of my left hand. Assuming my grappling hook worked, I could effortlessly grasp the child, crush him.
I dove into my menu, searching for the folder that held my debt notifications. There. I read it several times.
In exchange for a branding, multiple cybernetic enhancements, and 5,025 teeth, you agree to allow Gulch, the child of groundlings Jazz and Stonegate to perform the Sacrament of Amplification upon you during the next Hidora at the base of the Temple of Moritasgus in the town of Kinnegad.
Note: the debts recorded here are binding and must be fulfilled. Only through breach or inability to perform by the NPC members of this agreement may the debt be canceled.
Madame Throb had immediately returned when I killed her. If I killed this child, would he come back right away? Could I kill him? Some games wouldn’t let you harm children.
They already hated me. How worse could it get? Earlier, I watched as the proprietor of a store across from the temple had appended “And Worm Surgeons” to his “No Shade Gremlins Allowed” sign.
I paused. What if I did it, and they decided to remove my cybernetics? That would be worse. Then all of this would be for nothing. Still, I had to try. Could they remove my new hand? It was something I bought with actual skill points. Did that make a difference?
I decided to wait. It seemed they were done with the flaying for now. All that was left was the amplification. I would wait until the start of the ceremony, and I would kill the child then.
I spent the next twenty-four hours in a constant state of terror and pain. When my mech guard wasn’t looking, I attempted to use my powerful left hand to break the rod and chains that held me. It felt as if I was almost strong enough to break the pole, but not quite enough. I devoted some time to reading the menus, and I realized my left hand actually had a 2X strength bonus, so my strength of 15 was actually 30 in that hand only. I still had four attribute points from leveling up, and I tossed all four into my strength, bringing it up to 19, making my left hand a god-like 38.
I tried again, and I felt the pole start to break under my fingers. But then it stopped.
Self escape is not possible until your debt is paid or canceled.
“Fuck you,” I screamed out at the air, startling the mech, cleric, and boy, who had been sleeping at my feet.
Gulch looked at me with wide eyes.
“You said a bad word,” he said.
I took a deep breath, remembering. Chris said the same thing to Mary all the time. I ra
rely swore. Mary swore like a sailor with a splinter in her eye.
“I’ll try to be better,” I said at the boy.
Gulch nodded solemnly and went back to sleep.
A few hours later, I received a strange notification.
Banksy Hook Slayer is now Level 14.
Your familiar is full.
A few hours later, I received a similar notification. Then another.
Whatever was happening, it looked like Banksy and Clara weren’t just sitting on their figurative hands waiting for me. Also, it was clear that because of the distance, Banksy couldn’t talk to me. I wondered how close one had to be before our telepathic link started to work.
I clicked over to my experience, and sure enough, it was slowly ticking its way up.
My health points in the meantime siphoned away on their own, but the clerics seemed to be aware of the nature of worm surgeons, and I received random healings from my guard.
The morning of the ceremony came. Gulch disappeared. Pastor Broc wheeled out what looked like a harness device from some sex dungeon. “You will be strapped into this for the ceremony,” he said matter-of-factly, and before I could react, he cast a paralysis spell on me, surprising me. No. Not now! A pair of mechs unhooked my neck and started strapping me into the harness.
I was brought from the pole to the center of the pavilion. The entrance to the temple loomed even closer.
I tried to remain calm. I could still talk. “Will I remain paralyzed until the ceremony?”
“No,” Broc said. “But you will be paralyzed again for the first half of the amplification. By the time it wears off, you’re usually too weak to move on your own.” He grinned at me, revealing dirty, sharp teeth. “Young Gulch will work his way up your body. By the time your testicles are amplified, most don’t have much fight left in them.”
I swallowed.
As I was placed in the harness, a crowd formed around me. Stonegate and Jazz emerged, sitting in giant chairs atop a litter carried by a group of children groundlings all wearing badger masks. The litter was placed awkwardly on the ground, and the children stood back.
The paralysis wore off while the clerics started to chant. The harness left me hanging in the air, a strap around my chest and waist. I could be turned and twisted about like a pig on a spit. I bounced idly up and down on the bungee-like ropes.
My vest was removed along with my boots, leaving me in nothing but my loincloth. The moment my vest was removed I received a notification that my pack lost 50% available storage space. I hadn’t enough stuff in there to fill it up anyway.
Pastor Broc appeared from inside the temple, holding a glowing red knife in the air.
Half the groundlings, including Stonegate, stood and turned, walking into the temple, chanting. I realized it was almost all the males. Those who remained were the children, the women groundlings, and a handful of clerics—both male and female, and a few mechs as well, though all the mech drivers were women. Pastor Broc sat on the dais next to Jazz in the chair Stonegate had abandoned, still holding the electric knife in the air.
The badger-masked children stepped forward and picked the litter back up.
The children chanted as they raised the dais even higher. The platform wobbled under the weight, and I watched as one of the mechs surreptitiously reached forward to help. From underneath the podium another child appeared, in a red robe and wearing a badger mask. He pulled off the mask, revealing himself to be Gulch. He took several steps toward me and turned to face his mother and the head cleric.
He bowed and started to say something.
I had to act now. It was now or never.
I reached toward the boy, my left hand outstretched. I clicked my fingers.
Bam! I fired my hand, and it clamped hard onto the back of the kid’s head. He screamed. I crushed. He screamed again, his voice a terrifying wail as the crowd around me erupted. The dais came crashing to the ground as the children scattered. Pastor Broc and Jazz both tumbled off and away.
He’s not dying. His head is strong as a diamond.
I retracted, his body heavier than I expected. I pulled the child ruthlessly against the ground as I pulled him to me.
He continued to scream. He did not die.
Damnit. Children are indestructible.
A mech guard was screaming, aiming a gun directly at me. A few clerics cried as well, their hands glowing. Nobody cast or fired anything, afraid they’d hit the child.
Children are indestructible, but they don’t know that.
I finished retracting my arm, pulling Gulch up to my chest. “Unbind me,” I cried. “Get me out of this thing, or I will pop his goddamned head off!”
Mechs and clerics welled closer and around, surging like hornets out of a nest.
Pastor Broc stepped forward. “Put the child down, Duke. If you do not, I will cast Sleep on both of you, and while you are asleep, I will cut your arm off to free the child. And then I will allow you to remain alive until the next holy day to be amplified again and again.”
All of the clerics surrounded me, their hands crackling with spells.
This was a bad idea.
Gulch wailed. I looked down at the boy, his eyes wide with terror. I thought of Chris, of those moments when Ruth drove the wrong way down the freeway. She said he’d been asleep, but was he really? Had he awakened in those last moments. Did he look up at his sister with eyes like that?
Gulch ceased his screaming and looked up at me. He sniffled. “My dad says people do bad stuff when they’re scared. I’m scared too.”
This is not a real person. This is a computer-generated NPC. But it felt like a real person right then. Guilt washed over me, like someone had dumped a bucket of cold water on my head.
“I’m sorry,” I said, whispering it so only the boy could hear. I loosened the grip, and suddenly I was hugging the boy. “I’m sorry. You’re right. I was scared. We do stupid things when we’re scared.”
“It’s okay,” the boy said. “My dad says…” He trailed off. “It’s coming,” he said. He looked around, meeting eyes with his mom. “It’s coming.”
Even from across the square I could see Jazz go pale.
What was going on?
I looked down at the boy, and his teeth were clenched, his eyes closed.
“Gulch?” I said.
I felt a sudden wave of concern for the boy I’d just tried to murder.
Something changed. He somehow seemed even heavier than before, his body stiff like a metal beam. He made a gurgling noise, spittle and foam coming from between his clenched teeth.
“I think he’s having a seizure,” I said stupidly, looking up at the crowd around me.
Jazz rushed up, ripping him from my arms. “Baby, baby,” she crooned. She looked up at the clerics, eyes wide with fear as she sat on the ground, her child cradled in her arms. “The demon did this!” She glared at me, eyes a mix of terror and hate. “Damn you,” she hissed. “You will pay.”
Pastor Broc kneeled before Gulch, putting his hand against the boy’s head. He whispered a few words to the boy, who seemed now to be asleep. “No,” Pastor Broc said. “This is the Agitation. It is not demon touch.”
Gasps and whispering filled the crowd.
“No,” Jazz said, rocking the boy back and forth. She sobbed openly. “No, it is the demon.”
I watched as Stonegate entered the clearing. He looked wildly about, his eyes focusing on his wife and child huddled on the ground. The man noticeably sagged, a look of defeat overwhelming him.
“The boy is damaged,” a woman called from the crowd.
“Give the worm surgeon to a worthy child!” another called. “My Victus is of age and is free of the Agitation! He is here and ready to perform the ceremony!”
“No,” Jazz repeated, shaking her head. “No, no, no!” She clutched the boy closer to her chest as she sobbed. Stonegate sat on the ground and enveloped his wife and child with his arms.
A silence fell over the crowd as Madame T
hrob stepped forward. Each step hissed with steam-driven hydraulics.
“You know the rules,” Pastor Broc said. His voice was quiet, gentle, but firm. He looked up at Madame Throb and nodded.
“Step away from the child,” Throb said. When neither parent moved, she took another step forward. “Jazz. You know what must be done.”
I watched, fascinated as Stonegate leaped to his feet. The genial, middle-aged groundling held a look of absolute outrage on his face. He had a knife in his hand. It was the same glowing knife Pastor Broc had held earlier. It was the knife Gulch was supposed to use in the ceremony.
“You will not touch my child,” he roared, swinging the knife at the mech. Pastor Broc jumped back, his face registering shock.
Madame Throb sighed, pointed her hand at Stonegate, and skewered him between the eyes. The whole move took less than two seconds. The groundling dropped like a sack of rocks. The knife hit the ground, scattering away. I felt a whoosh of soul power. Jazz screamed.
Throb turned to Jazz. The mech sheathed the bloody skewer, showering the tiles with specks of blood.
The tableau held for several moments. The two groundlings stared at each other. Blood pooled underneath the dead Stonegate.
Finally, Jazz seemed to make a decision. She took a moment to compose herself. She swallowed and stood, her still-unconscious child in her arms.
I thought the clearing had been silent earlier, but it was now dead quiet except for the sound of the engines. I became aware of my own breathing and the whir of the underground machine that powered the city, beating like a heart. The boilers of the mechs all hummed, but the sound was like a distant whisper, as if even they were holding their collective breaths.
Jazz gently placed her child into the upturned arms of the mech. She reached down and kissed him on the forehead, and she turned and slowly walked away, her head held high.
Without a word, Madame Throb turned and walked into the open mouth of the temple, parting the silent crowd.
I allowed a glimmer of hope to fill me. If the kid was gone, then I could get out of this. I felt absurdly worried about the NPC child and horrified at what had just happened. But I was more concerned about not having a different child split my penis into two pieces with a glowing knife.
Kaiju- Battlefield Surgeon Page 20
