He Runs (Part One)

by Owen Seth

  And now he likes the darkness. Accepts it.

  It’s what he is.

  ************************

  A booming crash throws him from his placid slumber, the scraping of wooden dresser legs on a hard floor.

  ‘HEY! GET OUT HERE! BOSS WANTS TO SEE YOU!’

  The shrieking voice is not recognised by Man. That is not a good sign.

  He stands up slowly, pulls on his bottoms and acquires the crescent blade from beneath the mattress.

  ‘HEY, DID YOU HEAR…’

  ‘I heard you,’ says Man. ‘I fucking heard you!’

  He pulls the dresser back and the door opens slowly. He stands back, blade readied in his hand, the stainless steel feeling like an extension of his being.

  The yellowed, scarred dome of a shaved head pokes through the gap in the door, eyes black as midnight coals, a mouth full of browned teeth smiling ludicrously.

  ‘Hello,’ says the intruder, ‘and how are we this morning?’

  Man recognises him as one of Mick’s vanguard, a minnow in a school of barracuda.

  ‘What do you want?’ asks Man, his grip flexing on the handle of his blade.

  ‘Boss is down stairs,’ says the thug, ‘has a surprise for you.’

  ‘What kind of surprise?’

  ‘The delicious kind,’ says the thug as he licks his lips, strains his eyes in a crazed fashion. ‘Now hurry up! Or we’ll come in and get you.’

  ‘What if that’s what I want?’

  ‘There’re fifteen of us, and in such a small room. Doubt you’d be able to use that Paki-knife of yours. Now, hurry up. Boss doesn’t like to be kept waiting.’

  Man nods, sensing the lion-pit that’s formed down stairs, and the yellowed head disappears.

  Man stretches as he gets dressed, his back arching like a cat, loosening himself for combat. He’s not sure as to the nature of Mick’s visit but understands that it could very well be an elaborate scene, a poorly played parlour trick used as a deterrent. The karambit sits nicely in his waistband, the miniature sickle poking his flesh, reminding him that he is alive. He moves the dresser from behind the door and steps out into the hallway. A tribe of thugs greets him, a medley of shirtless, beaten savages eying him up like a choice cut of steak. He walks into the encompassing body of predators and feels strangely welcomed by them. As he moves to the top of the stairs he sees that Rose’s bedroom door is wide open; from downstairs a whirling aroma of searing meat invades Man’s nostrils like a Mongol horde, the smell of bacon evoking a storm of sensory reactions.

  Slowly, surrounded by an unfriendly entourage, Man descends the stairs.

  ************************

  Mick sits at a table near the mucky windows, the faded sunlight struggling to reach his rotund face. He is surrounded by more of his thugs and next to him, sitting back, eyes half open and skin paler than usual, sits Rose. Man cannot see the child.

  ‘Ah, if it isn’t my new captain!’ says Mick, a wide smile spreading under his thick moustache. ‘Come, join us! You must be hungry after last night. You were in a bit of a state! I find that nothing beats the hangover better than a full English breakfast.’

  ‘I’m a vegetarian,’ says Man as he moves to where Mick is sitting. He turns briefly, sees one of Mick’s thugs behind the bar, cooking the delicious smelling meat on a camping gas burner.

  ‘Not anymore,’ says Mick. ‘Not anymore.’

  ‘I told you,’ says Man looking at Rose, ‘it isn’t happening. Unless you’ve found some bacon which I doubt you have.’ A flash of light throws Man off balance, a searing revelation that cuts through his brain like a molten cleaver. ‘Where’s Lily?’ he manages. ‘Where’s the baby? Rose, where’s your baby?’ He moves to her, lifts her head up and sees nothing. She is alive, her skin is still warm but those green eyes have turned black, their fires seemingly extinguished. ‘What have you done?’ asks Man, his face turning to challenge Mick. ‘WHERE IS THAT FUCKING CHILD?’

  Mick sits back, his belly poking out from under his shirt, pink flesh mired with stretch marks and intermittent clumps of thick, black hair.

  ‘ROSE!’ screams Man. ‘ROSE!’ He puts his hand on her shoulder, shakes her hard and she looks at him, her facial expression blank, her body locked in a catatonic state.

  Man turns quickly, slips the karambit out of his waistband and lunges at Mick. Before he can close the distance and slice the intended arteries he is hit by something hard, something blunt, and falls with a dead weight through the table.

  Before he can arrange his thoughts he is pulled from the floor, the blade stripped from his hand and sat on a chair facing the tyrant he was unable to kill. Zip ties bind his hands together and two large, meaty mitts rest on his shoulders.

  His world is a blurred swirl of lights and patterns, a primordial mash of savagery. Slowly his eyes start to focus and he can make out his captors, stood around him like carrion birds, shoulders hunched, arms attached to an assortment of blades and clubs, ready to cut him into strips of meat should Mick order them to. His eyes focus fully just as the horror show begins to unfold, the thumping realisation of a fate deserved by no human being; a large pan is placed on the table, its fleshy contents sizzling quietly. The smell is as strong as ever and as it climbs up his nose the sputum quickly follows.

  He looks down at the shirt, sees the yellow chunks of unidentifiable digestion sliding slowly down. He cannot bear to look up.

  ‘Breakfast,’ says Mick slowly, ‘is served, my friend. After yesterday’s events, after I saw that mutinous look in your eyes I thought I would pay you a visit, test your loyalty to me. And now, swiping at me with weird fucking knife, you’ve shown me your true colours. I’m afraid you are demoted, lad. You will not serve as my captain. You will not leave this village. You will not beat me at my own game. You will only die. But not before I get my satisfaction. Will you join me?’

  Man spits the remnants of vomit across the table in an attempt to contaminate the dish, but misses by a fair distance.

  ‘There’s no need for such barbarism,’ says Mick, ‘especially not at my table. We are civilised, after all, and we are in the company of a lady.’

  ‘You’re the furthest thing from civilised I have ever encountered!’ spits Man. ‘You are sick, well and truly sick.’

  ‘I thought I was a psychopath, like you. An adaptation of sorts. Now I’m sick, you say. Isn’t that hypocritical. Surely we’re sick together, part of the human virus.’

  Man does not respond and is struck hard by one of Mick’s thugs.

  ‘I can see you don’t want to talk, lad. That’s fine. Just eat. Rose is joining us, aren’t you my dear?’ He puts his arm around her shoulder, pulls her in and kisses her head.

  ‘Where is the baby?’ asks Man, his voice trailing off in a monotonous drawl.

  ‘Lily? The little one?’ asks Mick.

  ‘If that is her in the pan, I swear to whatever power I have left in this universe I will murder you.’ Man raises his head, looks at Mick’s face with vacant eyes. He sees his target in black and white, colours having left his world upon the arrival of a gut-turning rage.

  ‘My granddaughter is fine,’ says Mick.

  Man’s face contorts in bewilderment at the bomb that has just been dropped.

  ‘Wha…what are you talking about?’ he stutters.

  ‘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 t
hat?’

  ‘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…

  Table of Contents

  Spring

  EARLY SUMMER