by K. L. Savage
No one is coming.
No one knows where I am.
And poor Tongue. Goddamn it, he didn’t see it coming like I did. I went down as the tranquilizer made my head fuzzy, and I saw Tongue launch at the stranger who took me down. The intruder was too quick with that tranquilizer gun, and Tongue fell right beside me.
I relax my head and go under water for a second, letting my neck relax. I’ve been stretching my head above water for the last few hours, and I’m starting to get tired. Giving in sounds real nice right about now. I can’t feel my arms, the rush of the water flows around my ears, ready to take me with it.
I don’t deserve less than this. Torture is something I know too well. And this guy, whoever he is, he is a professional.
My lungs start to burn, telling me to lift my head to take a breath, but my neck hurts so goddamn bad. My arms tense, and it helps elevate me out of the water.
When my lungs can’t take another second without air, I lift myself up and clench my teeth around the gag, groaning when my arms and neck feel like they are about to snap off my body. I squeeze my eyes shut and let the pain roll through me. My chest burns. My lips are cold. All I can think about is tomorrow, a day I’ll never see.
When the crick in my neck starts to throb again and my biceps start to quiver, I sink under the water and give myself another break.
Eventually, I won’t be able to lift myself out of the water.
And I’ll have to die.
I hope Tongue is okay. I hope he isn’t in this river too. One of us has to survive, and it might as well be him. He’s better than me, not as cold-hearted as people think—he gives a damn.
While I don’t.
Death, it doesn’t scare me. What scares me is knowing I did something for the last time, and I’ll never get to do it again. That is a hard thing to wrap my head around. I try tugging on the ropes again, but my wrists are raw, and I can’t fight anymore. I’ve been fighting for hours.
I lift myself up, my arms shaking from trying to hold me above the surface of the rough water, and with one last look to the sky, I close my eyes and come to peace with my fate. I sink under, letting the water engulf my face. I open my eyes and can see the sky, a beautiful moment in the last seconds of my life.
This time when my lungs start to burn and the pressure in my head tells me to open my mouth, to let air in, I do.
But it’s filled with water instead.
I never thought drowning would hurt, but my body is on fire, and after a few seconds, everything stops. I can’t feel the struggle, the water, the need to breathe. Everything fades, and the darkness creeps along the edges of my vision.
I remember when I was a kid and had a normal life. I remember running in the backyard with my sister, and my mom was chasing us. My dad was on the phone, like he always was, but he tried to be present. He wasn’t a bad guy. He tried.
Our dog barked as he tried to catch us too. The same feeling of euphoria takes over in my heart, the feeling of complete happiness. I can feel the sun shining down and the slight burn I had on my shoulders from swimming in the pool too much. The familiar taste of a cherry-flavored popsicle bursts in my mouth, and the hug I got from my sister wraps me in its hold.
My life didn’t flash before my eyes, but that was the only time I ever felt true happiness. It’s like I’m there, reliving it all over again. The tickle of the grass beneath my feet slides through my toes, and my sister’s laughter is high-pitch, slightly annoying, but I loved her anyway.
I smell the BBQ ribs cooking on the grill while my dad speaks on the phone.
I won’t give the bastard the satisfaction of seeing me suffer anymore. I’ll die on my time, not his.
It’s the biggest fuck you I can think of.
And in the meantime, I’m going to get lost in my favorite memory before life drags me to hell.
Chapter Twelve
TOOL
I have my screwdriver in my hand at the ready as Boomer walks up.
The field looks like an abandoned amusement park. Everything is eerily quiet besides the movie playing near the stack of hay. The smell of funnel cakes still linger in the air along with deep fried everything. The Monster Mash was a great idea, but if we all had listened to Reaper and hadn’t pushed him, two of our best men wouldn’t be MIA right now.
“I’m real sick of fuckers getting through the gate. Why the hell isn’t the electric fence on?” Reaper growls as he points to the obvious cut in the iron rods that protect the compound.
“You told me to shut them off just in case kids wandered too far,” I remind him, and Reaper mumbles something I can’t understand as he ducks into the hole. One by one all of us follow our leader.
While the adventure is important, I can’t help but wonder how we look to people gazing in from the outside if they saw us. Reaper is Peter Pan, we have a few skeletons, a devil, a goddamn taco, a cop, and a power ranger.
No one would ever guess we are dangerous.
Our boots snap against the twigs, and something howls in the distance. Everyone stops in their tracks when they hear it.
“Is that a wolf?” Slingshot whispers.
“No. Vegas doesn’t have wolves,” Mercy replies in the same hushed tone.
“Why are we whispering? We are the only ones out here,” I say.
“Are we?” Reaper asks, swinging a knife around in his hand. “I doubt it. I bet that fucker is watching us right now.” Reaper spins in a circle, looking at the top of the trees. “We are here, fucker!” he yells, but his voice echoes through the forest, reminding us that we are alone.
Another howl rips through the air, and Slingshot jumps, gripping my arm with his.
“Get the fuck off me,” I yank away from him and see him gulp. “Grab your balls. It’s just a coyote.”
“They eat people!” he says sharply.
Seer touches a tree and stares off into space. It’s fucking creepy when he does that. I hate it. I’m not comfortable with the NOLA chapter at all. Something is off about them, something that isn’t normal, and it rubs me the wrong way.
“He’s dying,” Seer says.
“Who?” Reaper runs through the long grass to get to Seer’s side.
“The man in the water.” Seer wraps a hand around his throat and coughs. “He is drowning. He doesn’t have much time.”
“What are we waiting for? Let’s go.” Reaper begins to move, but Seer stops him by grabbing his hand.
“Let me lead. The closer we get, the stronger my sight becomes.” Seer begins to sprint, and all of us follow. He jumps over a log, and the guy is agile, I’ll give him that. He makes everything seem effortless. When my big ass finally jumps over the log, the tip of my boots skid across it, and I almost fall on my face.
He hangs left, then right, and the rippling of water is like music to my ears.
“Where is he?”
“I don’t know,” Seer replies to Reaper. “All I see, all I feel, is peace and darkness.”
“The coordinates show that we need to head down stream. We are a few degrees off,” Tank says as he stares at the compass in his hand and the GPS in the other.
“What the fuck do you mean you can’t see him? What does that mean?” Reaper grips Seer by the cut and lifts him off his feet. “Tell me!” he yells, scaring a few birds from the trees. The wings flap, and the leaves shake, adding to the spookiness of it all.
“He is dead,” Seer says with regret and sorrow filled eyes. “When I feel nothing, that’s usually the case.”
“No,” Reaper looks away from Seer and lets him go.
Slingshot sniffles, and I hang my head.
“No!” Reaper pushes Seer. “We can’t be too late.”
“Let’s bring him home,” Seer advises, and the pain in my heart can’t be justified. This … this can’t be it. This can’t be happening. We can’t lose a brother, not like this—not after everything.
I’m not going to add a Ruthless Kings soul to the cursed night.
In
silence, we follow the river, and my eyes burn from the unexpected loss. Slingshot is crying, and Boomer has a grenade in his hand, ready to launch it into the sky.
“Here! He’s here!” Tank says from a few yards away. Tank jumps into the river and pulls Knives’ head above the water. “Come on, come on,” Tank shakes him, but Knives doesn’t move. His lips are blue, and his eyes are closed.
Mercy takes his knife out and cuts the rope on the left side while Reaper works on the ropes on the right side. My boots sink into the mud by the riverbank as I get ready to jump in and help Tank carry Knives out of the water. The ropes finally give, and Tank picks Knives up and walks to the side of the bank, careful to keep his head above water. I hurry down the embankment and lift Knives up from Tank’s arms.
“Come on, buddy,” I say to Knives’ pale face. I lay him on the ground, arms dripping with water, and remove the gag from his mouth. I expect to hear a gasp of air, but I don’t. He really isn’t breathing. I shake my head and lay my hands on his chest. “No, you fucker! You will not die today. Come on.” I start chest compressions, hoping like hell I’m doing it right, and stop. I tilt his head back, part his lips, and breathe down his throat three times before starting compressions again.
“Tool—”
“No, Reaper. No,” I cut him off and keep trying to start my friend’s heart. “I will not give up on him.” Tears swim in my eyes when I think about waking up tomorrow and Knives isn’t there slinging his damn ninja stars. Life wouldn’t be as interesting. “Come on,” I plead to his dead body, waiting for any sign of life.
Anything.
“Keep going,” Seer urges and lays his hand on Knives’ forehead. “I’m getting flashes of something quiet … beautiful.”
That gives me the energy I need when I start to feel tired.
“What do you see?” Mercy asks, curious.
“It’s hard to say. I’m not seeing it long enough, mon amie. There is sun, grass, and laughter. I can feel his happiness. It is...” He lets out a huge breath and smiles. “It’s almost overwhelming.”
I stop compressions and blow into his mouth again. “Come on, you stubborn fuck. Don’t make me be around Seer longer than I have to.”
Seer snorts, but he doesn’t take offense.
I press against his chest repeatedly. Sweat blinds me, stinging my eyes, but I can’t stop.
Seer grins and takes a step away. I’m about to ask him what’s going on, but Knives starting coughing, and a fountain of water leaves his mouth. “Fuck me,” he gargles through a mouthful of water. He turns to his side and gasps, then lays a hand on his chest. “I feel like I got hit by a truck.”
“That’s Tool’s fault. He only brought you back to life, mon amie,” Seer states, then frowns. “Your other friend isn’t doing so well. There is so much darkness where he is.”
I pull Knives into a tight hug and slap him on the back a bit too hard, and he gags. “Shit, sorry. I’m glad you’re okay.”
Knives keeps coughing violently, until he gags.
“Knives?” Reaper kneels on the ground, and Knives holds up a finger.
He throws up, water mostly, and a piece of paper is floating in the bile. He flops onto his back and covers his eyes with his hand. “I feel so much better. That was so close.”
“You fucking died,” I remind him. “You weren’t close—you were there.” I reach for the paper and turn my head, not wanting to watch myself touch his puke. He shouldn’t have to; Knives did come back from the dead and all.
I unfold it and cringe when I feel slime. I can’t think about it. My friend is alive. That’s all that matters. My arms shake from the exertion of pumping his chest. “It’s another clue,” I inform everyone around me. Boomer throws his grenade down the river, and a few seconds later we are drenched in water.
“Sorry, I needed to get my frustration out,” he says, flicking his lighter on and off. He’s holding a hand against his head and is talking to himself.
Reaper rips the clue from my hand and reads the simple line.
“In the middle between what’s right and wrong.”
“What the fuck does that mean? What does that mean!” Reaper roars and rears his fist in the air. He punches the tree next to him, and the damn thing snaps. It doesn’t break, but I heard the wood splinter. I’m glad it isn’t me on the other side of that punch.
“Are there dots?” Tank asks, hoping he can help us again.
“No,” Reaper says. “Nothing. Just that. I don’t know what the fuck that means. Do you?” He spins around and asks everyone around him. His boots slosh against the riverbank, and he runs his fingers through his hair, forgetting he’s wearing a hat, and it falls off his head and into the river. It’s gone. The water is carrying it downstream.
“What’s wrong,” I mutter, repeating the so-called clue.
“What if we’re thinking too hard about this?” Tank chimes in, surprising all of us again with how involved he is in this. “What if it’s a matter of direction? Not a moral compass, but a location?”
“That could be anywhere,” Reaper says, spreading his arms wide. “Everywhere is damn right.”
“Not if you consider what’s wrong.” Tank points his finger and shakes his head. “What if this was wrong? What if he considers Knives being alive ‘wrong’ because we got to him in time? Then, that,”—Tank points to the right across the river—“that’s the way we need to go.”
“That’s a stretch…” I say with disbelief. “I need to be more convinced, plus it says between what’s right and wrong. So, what? We keep walking until … when? It isn’t enough!”
“We don’t have a choice unless someone else has a better idea; let’s get to walking,” Reaper says.
I stab a tree with my screwdriver.
“Maybe we will know it when we see it,” Mercy says.
Yeah, let’s hope that’s the case, or we’re going to be too late to save Tongue.
Maybe it already is.
Chapter Thirteen
TONGUE
The air is getting thicker. I’m gasping for breath now. I’m not sure how much longer I can stay conscious. The crack in the lid is slowly getting bigger from the weight of the dirt. Every time I move, the casket shakes, and more dirt falls on top of me. From trying to find a way out, I might have ended up killing myself. Only time will tell. Right now, time doesn’t seem to be on my side.
I’m scared. I’m not afraid to admit that to myself. Everyone thinks I’m afraid of nothing, that I won’t blink when it comes to cutting out someone’s tongue, but that isn’t the case at all.
I’m more than what my actions have painted me to be.
Death has been within reach every day of my life, but I’ve made sure not to grab onto it. I’m not the kind of man who doesn’t go down without a fight, and whoever is doing this is unleashing a killer beast. They have no idea who they have fucked with.
When I get my hands on him, and I will, I’m going to cut his tongue out of his mouth, cut his cock from his body, cut his limbs off one by one, and leave him as a fucking stump. But before all of that, I’m going to cut out his eyes and make him blind. I want him to see nothing but darkness as he bleeds to death.
Then, I’ll throw what’s left of him to the vultures.
I sneer and growl, wanting to feel his blood in my hands. I feel like a rabid animal needing to sink my teeth into my prey. I pat my body, searching for my knife. The one strapped to my hip is gone, but I doubt he searched my entire body. I always keep a few spares. I have one blade tied to each ankle, and one strapped to the inside of my left thigh. I’m not going to wait to be found.
I’m going to claw my way out of the dirt even if it kills me. I swear to the fucking devil, the darkness that owns my soul, I will come back and haunt the asshole who did this. I’ll make sure he lives a life of misery, and when he least expects it, I’ll push him into his own grave.
No one fucks with me and lives to tell the story.
No one.
&nbs
p; “If you’re looking for your weapons, you’re going to come up empty,” the voice says again, mocking me with a slight laughter in his tone.
I don’t say anything back this time. The initial shock is wearing off.
“Your friends have two hours, and then I’m afraid you’re going to run out of air. Such a shame.”
I press my lips together to keep myself from threatening him. It won’t do anything for me. It won’t get me out of here.
“Oh, nothing to say? Cat caught your … tongue?” He snickers, and my fists clench. Anger is shaking my core. I want to rip him in half with my bare hands. Fuck the knife. I want to hear his flesh tear and feel his blood spatter across my face.
Just the thought has my cock hardening in my jeans.
I pound my fist against the side of the coffin, and it shakes more soil through the crack above me. This time, I open my mouth and eat it, swallowing it, letting it nurture and fuel me. I bang my head against the lid and grunt with satisfaction when I hear a crack.
“You buried the wrong guy, asshole.” I laugh, smashing my head against the wood over and over again until I feel blood run down my face. It flows across my lips, and my tongue flicks out to drink it up. I love the taste. It drives me fucking mad with lust and the urge to kill.
“You’re only going to hurt yourself,” the stranger says, berating me in my attempt to get out of this box.
Oh, he must not know me very well.
Hurting myself is something that’s an everyday necessity. Hurting myself is what makes me, me. I darkly chuckle, continuing to bang my forehead against the box I’m in. There are splinters in my forehead, but I welcome the pain.
Pain means I’m still alive.
