The Roaming (Book 3): Haven's Promise
Page 47
“I told you she would come around!” Imogen clapped her hands in fast succession up close to her chest.
Todd rolled his eyes. He tried to act impressed for Imogen’s sake. He plopped down in his favorite chair and turned on the TV. Beside it was a DVD player, one of the few on the ship. With it, he had a library of recorded DVDs; they were loaded to capacity with news coverage from the earliest days of the crisis. He watched for hours a night. It usually took him a few weeks to get through his collection, but when he did finally finish, he would start over at the beginning. His favorite segments were of frightened people with nowhere to turn; he often paused the show to contemplate the confusion in their eyes. Light from the TV cast shadows around the room, and once more, Todd was possessed with the spectacle.
From across the room, Samantha begged Todd to help her. He was indifferent to her plight.
“Since you finally talked, I have a treat for you,” Imogen said playfully.
Samantha only repeated “please” in hushed whispers.
Imogen unlocked a nearby cabinet. As she turned the handle, a male torso fell from the container, where it writhed on the floor and moaned. Its arms had been severed and cauterized just below the shoulder. The same had been done to his legs, just below the hip. The thing fell dangerously close to Samantha. His eyes fixed on hers. This was no carrier, his eyes were aware; they knew her, and she knew them. Samantha screamed.
Imogen jumped on her in a flash. She covered Samantha’s mouth and held a knife to her eye. “Do that again and see what happens.”
Todd yelled from his side of the room, “Shut that thing up or I’m getting rid of it!” He barely glanced in their direction.
“See what you’ve done!” Imogen slapped Samantha’s face.
The man’s jaw was irreparably broken; he was missing an eye, and his tongue had been cut out. What was left of his body was littered with scars on top of scars. His one good eye cried; so did Samantha. It was Bernie.
“He screamed one time too many,” Imogen whispered. Her lips brushed against Samantha’s ear.
Imogen jammed the knife handle into Samantha’s mouth. “I want you to squirm over to your friend and cut him. No play cuts, either. I want him to feel it.”
Samantha gave up any desire she had to hold herself up; she let herself crumple to the floor. The knife bounced away on the carpet.
“Cut him or I cut you.”
One oddly long patch of hair remained on the front of Samantha’s shorn head. It fell across her eyes but was in no way large enough to block her vision; she wished it was.
Bernie nodded that it was okay.
“I won’t do it,” Samantha whispered.
“Touching.” Imogen’s upper lip curled. “Every day is a lesson for you, isn’t it? Here’s today’s lesson.” She grabbed Samantha’s foot. “Do as you’re told.”
Imogen wrestled Samantha’s foot to her mouth until she got her teeth around Samantha’s little toe. She bit down hard, writhed around for better purchase, then bit down again. On the third bite, and with a little persuasion, the toe came off. Samantha flopped around. Imogen grabbed her by her bonds. She forced Samantha’s arms so far up behind her that they were nearly ripped from their sockets.
Imogen spat out the bloody toe; it bounced off Samantha’s forehead. “You were smart not to scream.”
~~~
Thus far, life aboard Haven had not been kind to Donald Lancaster. Each day was a struggle to fit in—a constant reminder that his days of influence, of being the man in charge, were far behind him. If he could just find an in somewhere, anywhere, then just maybe he could put that forked tongue of his to use. He would need someone to give him a chance, an opening. Perhaps working his way up the food chain—literally—was his next logical step. He had come to accept that ruining his place in the kitchen was a mistake. He was even lower now and would need to ascend back to Sweet Lips’s kitchen before he could continue his journey upward. Lancaster had it all planned out. From the kitchen, he would use that position as a waystation on his rise to perhaps a position at Presence.
Lancaster had many weeks, perhaps even months, of backbreaking labor in his future, but if he could only reach Presence, then he could begin to form the right connections. From there, he aspired to slide into one of the cliques within the ranks of the Elite. After months of observing their habits, he felt confident that he could fit right in with Dolores Merriweather and her small but obviously influential group. He imagined himself standing side by side with them and watching Marisol and the other Pepperbush survivors wallow at his feet. In time, he would return to greatness, but for now, a long, slow climb stood before him.
He found himself alone at the stern side of the ship, watching Haven’s wake disappear into the night. This was his time to be alone, to contemplate where he had been and how best to achieve his goals. Lancaster stood at the rail with a bottle in hand, rotgut he’d procured from Underworld. After his little stint as a thief, the pool bar was locked overnight. He gazed to the upper decks and listened intently to the sounds of the Financiers and recalled the day when he would have been counted among them. He would begin his climb tomorrow; it would take time to earn their favor.
Suddenly and without warning, he jumped back and nearly fell onto the deck. “Oh, you startled me, my dear,” he gasped as he grabbed the rail to steady himself. In his fright, he nearly lost his bottle. It was no secret that Lancaster wandered the decks alone at night, though he rarely had anyone approach much less join him.
Isabelle stood silently beside him. For how long and why, he hadn’t a clue. She gripped the railing and leaned far over its edge; she was as stiff as a board. Her center of gravity had her teetering up and down. Her head went farther forward, and her feet rose until she was parallel with the deck and the sea.
“Careful now,” Lancaster warned. “If the ship lists, you could go over.”
Isabelle continued teetering back and forth and up and down, all with only the strength from her wrists and core. She stared at Lancaster as her head went beyond parallel, down and down. Her feet rose until she was completely vertical and upside down on the wrong side of the rail.
Lancaster averted his eyes. He was torn between helping the woman and some sense of misplaced honor regarding what was happening with her dress during this display. Isabelle maintained eye contact as she slowly returned to a righted position.
“My word,” exclaimed Lancaster. He was breathing heavily. “The strength it must have taken to—”
His words were cut short as a red blade flashed before his eyes. He felt himself gurgle before the warm poured down his neck. His bottle of rotgut spilled and rolled away. Lancaster fumbled for his wound, but Isabelle repeatedly knocked his hands away. She used her forearm to force him into the rail; he wasn’t going anywhere. Salty tears streamed down his cheeks. They mixed with the blood when they reached his collar. Isabelle licked the tears from his face before continuing to his neck, where she tongued the flapping skin of his wound like a loose tooth. He attempted to push her away, but he was far too weak. Lancaster was weak in general, not because he was dying, which he most certainly was.
Isabelle kept her right hand latched over Lancaster’s mouth, and she had her elbow pointing straight down to the water so she could apply enough leverage to keep his head facing skyward. Her hand muffled his desperate cries; no screams would escape into the night. Her left arm gripped the railing behind Lancaster, and with her right leg, she held onto him as a spider held its prey. He was trapped in her clutches.
She playfully continued to lick at the wound and tongue its jagged edges while testing its depth and width. The warm red flowed around her mouth and she furiously lapped as much of it up as she could manage. Isabelle forced her open mouth over the wound; it was slippery and difficult to form a seal with her wet lips. The precious fluid was wasting away down her and Lancaster’s chests. She began to suck on the wound as hard as she was able; she greedily drank as much of Lancaster’s blood
as his body would allow.
Lancaster tried to force her off him, but she was too strong. She batted his hands away with ease as one would brush aside a low-hanging branch. Lancaster’s attempts at escape were pathetic, and she would have laughed at his ineptitude had she not been preoccupied. Isabelle continued to drink until Lancaster tried to free himself again. This final attempt only served to enrage Isabelle, who as a result bit down hard.
Isabelle sunk her teeth deep into Lancaster’s neck and farther into the wound started by her blade. She bit down again and again until at last she tore free a sizable portion of flesh. She chewed and swallowed fast before she went in for seconds and thirds. By this point, she could feel Lancaster’s legs beginning to buckle; he wouldn’t be able to hold himself up much longer. The moment was over faster than she anticipated; she was frustrated, and she wanted more, but it was time to end this.
She bent down and forced herself between his legs, then grabbed behind his knees and leapt in one fluid motion. Lancaster tumbled over the railing. It took less than three seconds before he splashed into the inky waters below.
Isabelle watched the sea. No sign of the old fool at first. Eventually, he popped up in the ship’s wake. As he was quickly left behind by the vessel, she could just barely see him grasp his neck with one hand while reaching pointlessly for Haven with the other. She threw his bottle overboard; he could drink it in hell.
Lancaster’s hat sat atop a pool of blood. Isabelle tried it on; she straightened the covering, then walked for a bit before casually tossing it overboard. She never much cared for headwear. Lancaster’s bowler bobbed up and down on the water, then slowly floated out of sight.
Isabelle—soaked from head to toe in Lancaster’s blood—took her time returning to Underworld. The inhabitants who lived in the bowels of the ship mostly looked the other way when she entered a room—except, of course, for the few brave souls who wanted something from her, though even they tread carefully. She casually walked to her cabin a few scant steps from the River Styx and just across the room from the main stage. A band was playing loudly.
Isabelle flung the shower curtain open. Her prisoner was still tied to the rails. His hands and feet had gone blue from days of bondage. She used her red-bladed karambit to cut him from the sheet. She wasn’t careful, and the blade dug into his skin; he screamed through his gag.
Elias blinked furiously. He had been in darkness for so many days that the light burned his eyes. Isabelle stood before him; she was soaked in red. Her bloody visage caused another round of screams. Muffled though they were, his cries were still loud enough to be heard. Not when the band was playing, though. Isabelle screamed, too, right up next to his face. She walked back to her front door, flung it open, and screamed out of the doorway. She looked back to Elias. He screamed again, and she followed suit. Passersby and those closest to the bar paid them no mind. She slammed the door shut and returned to her guest. Isabelle yanked her captive’s sheet from the tub and tossed it aside before sliding out of her dress and joining him.
Elias’s eyes went wide as he heard the drain close. Isabelle flicked his blue feet, then poked his big toe with her blade. Blood dripped from the wound. He didn’t seem to notice. Her fingers were like a spider as she crawled up his body until she was face to face with him. She held the knife vertically between their lips. Elias pleaded and screamed before the blade even touched him. His cries were muffled by the concert just outside. No one could hear him. Salvation would never come.
Isabelle traced her karambit down his body. She slid the dull side of the blade between his legs and ran it in circles around his testicles and the base of his penis. Elias was trembling but did not dare move as Isabelle continued with the knife in a corkscrew pattern down the length of his phallus. When she reached its tip, she pressed her mouth against his ear and whispered through bloody lips, “You’re not going to like what happens next.”
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The Roaming
Long Way Home
Book IV
Coming Soon