[Demonworld #1] Demonworld

by Kyle B. Stiff

  Wodan stopped. If someone asked “Why don’t they?” then he would have to answer that Haven was an isolationist state. In short, they didn’t care that these tribals were being pushed around by raiders. And worse than that, what if someone asked him why he was several thousand miles from home? Would they accept his explanation that Haven was the most peaceful place in the world… except for a shadowy cabal of evil men that nobody knew anything about, and that had the ability to exile citizens at random? Or maybe not an entire cabal; perhaps there was one sinister mastermind pulling the strings from a hidden location. Would they like that explanation? They would laugh in his face!

  “Is there decent farmland there?” said one man, a skinny creature with a face lined with worry. “Can they grow enough to last through winter, or do some folk have to go hungry?”

  The question struck Wodan at his core. He looked over their heads and saw the torchlight of the Ugly surrounding the camp. He knew that even if he gave them a list of every injustice that ever occurred in Haven, it would add up to nothing compared to the situation they were in now. So he spoke. He told them of Haven’s technology, its medicine, its system of electing leaders, the free time people had to devote to art and leisure, the justice system where people who broke the law were judged by their peers and then sentenced by respected officials, the freedom of religion, the military force that didn’t turn on its civilian populace at every opportunity, and the opportunities for education that were available for everyone. Though he was exhausted, speaking of Haven gave him strength.

  Finally Wodan paused. At once, he heard his own words echoing from multiple sources.

  They repeat what I say! he thought. It’s not just a few dozen listening to me. They’re all listening!

  There was a disturbance. Voices cut short. The slaves looked up, saw torchlight above them, saw scarred faces, heavy boots, bare tattooed arms of the Ugly walking among them. They did not carry sticks or whips, only black guns.

  There were several groups of them, and the same scene was repeated. “That one,” one among them would say. “That one, that one, that one.” Then others, delighting in their work, would wrap their arms around one girl, then another. Eyes wide, screaming, and any time a mother or young man rose to stop them – gunshots put them down and silenced any opposition. Wodan kept his head down in the sand, along with all the others. He could see the smoke from the guns hanging over them, drifting around the raiders like demons from Hell.

  Rachek was jerked into the air. Wodan saw a pack of black clad killers towering over him. A fat Ugly held Rachek by her neck and waist. His face was a hideous mass of pockmarked cigarette burns. The Ugly stood casually with their guns, watching and waiting for any disturbance.

  “Brad! Brad!” Agmar shouted, holding onto the young man’s arm. Wodan saw the youth’s muscles writhing like snakes. His face burned with rage. “Brad! Brad! Brad!” Agmar continued, a litany of control, a desperate plea that the boy not throw his life away. Wodan stared at Rachek while they dragged her and several other young women away, impotent to do anything.

  Wodan felt eyes on him and turned. A tall, skinny Ugly stared at him.

  The man was bald, pale and sickly, and the line of scars across his bare scalp were so deep that the skull beneath shone brighly. Black-dyed scars spiraled around his eyes. He smiled and showed gaps between yellow teeth.

  Wodan sat on his knees and glared.

  The sick gland in the Ugly’s throat bobbed once, twice, and he croaked before he said, “I remember you, little mountain flower. And probably your head remember me. Eh? Sit tight, relax, we bring your whore back to you.”

  The Ugly stared at him for a moment, then turned and followed those who carried women with them.

  When the slaves were alone, they occupied themselves by tending to the dead. One old man fumbled with a dead woman’s arms and Wodan mechanically picked up her legs. Together he and others carried them outside the circle. The corpse’s legs were still warm and Wodan thought for a moment about his mother standing to protect his sisters if the Ugly… Wodan pushed the thought from his mind, then found himself helping to dig graves with his bare hands. He saw Brad working beside him. He saw the muscles in the young man’s arms, then heard laughter from the faraway tent and knew that physical strength could not help them on that black night. They dug harder to blot out the distant noise.

  By the time the bodies were laid in the earth, the entrance to the large tent opened and a bright light from within cut across the sand. Wodan was reminded of a story from wasteland myth where some monstrous god was carried across the desert by refugees; the god was placed in a tent at night and fed blood, and in return the divine creature washed the world in a sea of violence, a slaughter to feed the hunger of the people. The young women were led from the tent, stumbling and crying, escorted by a few smoking Ugly. Wodan could hear Agmar praying loudly. Wodan could not look down on him for what seemed like superstition in the eyes of many Havenders, for it was a fact that they were in the hands of terrible, godlike forces.

  The slaves parted for the women, who covered their faces as they walked to an empty spot on the sand. Wodan went and sat near Rachek, then noticed that many of the slaves turned away from the women.

  The Ugly stood and watched for a while. “Food’s tomorrow,” said one, then they left to return to the tent. Wodan watched the backs of the shuffling apes and he wanted more than anything to wipe them from the face of the earth. What did they lack in them, he wondered, that freed them from any sense of remorse? Did they really have no sense of empathy? Could they be that empty inside and still be considered human?

  “I can’t wait,” Rachek said suddenly. Wodan turned to her and she looked at him fully. “I can’t wait to get a gun and kill one of those sons of bitches.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  The Inquisition

  Days passed. Every morning the slaves woke up sore and hungry and the Ugly woke up hung over, cursing at the sun. Large bowls of gruel were passed around that the slaves dipped into with their hands. Wodan saw the older slaves counseling the young during breakfast, and he was always surprised that no one took more than their fill. He saw not one single squabble during breakfast, even though the young watched the bowls intently as they were passed around to others who were hungry.

  The younger Ugly drank all day as they rode. At night, when the slaves were finally allowed to collapse, all the Ugly partied. Though the Ugly rationed the gruel like a supremely precious commodity, it seemed the truck would never run out of alcohol or bullets that the Ugly fired blindly into the air, howling and shrieking their strange prayers.

  The slaves watched their oppressors. There were less than eighty Ugly and over five hundred slaves. There was one horse for every Ugly and the diesel truck was filled with guns, bullets, food, water, alcohol, and tobacco. The elite Ugly stayed around the large tent at night while the younger Ugly, or those who had lost at games of chance, were made to stand in a wide ring that stretched all around the camp. It was their job to watch for demons coming in and slaves coming out while they nursed hangovers years in the making.

  No demon ever bothered them. This was a continual shock to the slaves, for they spent their lives either running from demons or feeding them. A few believed that the Ugly were part-demon themselves. Based on their appearance and behavior, this was a difficult thing to disprove.

  Wodan lost weight. His feet were wrapped in rags. He went through an awful stage of blisters and sores and, as the days passed, his feet turned into cracked, red rocks that could pass over anything. He walked through ages and miles of pain that could cripple anyone in Haven. He simply learned how to shunt the awareness of pain into closets of the mind that went unused back home.

  One night they gathered a group of men, then the Ugly formed two lines armed with clubs and chains. Laughing and boasting they prepared to send the men through a gauntlet while the others watched, praying and near panic. Then one of the elite Ugly came and chastised the other
s violently. Wodan recognized him as the great blond beast he’d seen on the mountainside. He sent the male slaves back to the others, then ordered the Ugly youths into the tent. “You think we’re in the business of hurting people?” he shouted. He turned to the slaves, then said, “Nobody is trying to hurt you. Soon you’ll be given warm beds and good food. I know you might be sore at what goes on with the girls, but just you remember that we feed them when they come to the tent. They probably never told you that, did they?”

  The Ugly left them. The males that had avoided running the gauntlet shook their heads and laughed nervously, grateful that they had been spared.

  “You hear that?” said one slave.

  “Yeah!” said another. “We must be close to the end!”

  A few others smiled, then Wodan said, “It was staged.”

  “What?” said Agmar.

  “They know we’re getting tired,” said Wodan, “and they know that a few people are reaching their breaking point. They rape the women continually, then force them to walk the next day. Haven’t we left several old people behind to die in the wasteland? Haven’t they shot anyone strong enough to stand up to them? None of the Ugly cares if some of the young punks want to hold a gauntlet and knock any of us around. Believe me – they staged that so we would feel relief and come away from the breaking point.”

  “Come on,” said Agmar. “You said it yourself, they’re brutes, they’re bullies. That’s way too clever for the likes of them!”

  “And you said yourself that they’ve been doing this for a long, long time. They’re full of all kinds of tricks. Aren’t they?”

  Agmar turned away, then Brad said, “I bet he’s right. Look at you dumbasses! We just got threatened with a beating, and now two minutes later you guys are feeling grateful!”

  Debate began in earnest, then Rachek said, “You heard what he said about them giving food to some of us girls. He did that so you guys would look down us! They try to get us drunk every time we go in there so we won’t fight back, but I sure don’t remember getting any free meals. That’s for damn sure!”

  Fuel was thrown on the flame and scores of slaves argued back and forth. Some wanted to rise up immediately and kill their captors, others wanted to continue the hellish trek in peace and see what the fates had in store for them at their destination. Some argued that they outnumbered their captors so much that a fight might not even be necessary, others argued that as soon as they were sold at Sunport they would no longer have to worry about the Ugly anyway. Some argued that it was shameful for their ancestors to look down from the heavens and see their sons killed and their daughters defiled, others argued that this was their fate and it was their lot in life to endure it. Wodan said nothing; his new friends Brad and Rachek argued for him. Agmar stayed close to Wodan, but he argued against violence.

  A whistle blew and everyone fell silent, then backed away on their hands and knees as a troop of Ugly walked through them. They were led by the tall, bald, sickly Ugly that called Wodan a “mountain flower” earlier. He picked Wodan out from the crowd, smiled as if recognizing an old friend, then approached. The troop remained behind, smoking and watching for trouble; one of them angrily tossed his cigarette onto a crouching slave, who backed away on his knees.

  “You!” said the sickly Ugly. “You’ve been invited to speak with our lord Barkus.” He waited for a while, then said, “Isn’t that wonderful?”

  Wodan sat in silence. Everyone but Brad and Rachek backed away from him.

  “Well?” said the Ugly. “Would you like to meet our master?”

  Just as Rachek gripped Wodan’s arm, he rose and said, “That’s fine, I will.”

  He moved to leave but Rachek gripped his arm fiercely. “I’ll be back,” he whispered to her. “I promise!”

  She released his arm and he approached the Ugly, who put an arm around him and led him through the crouching bodies. Wodan stared into the eyes of the young goons that waited for them.

  Suddenly the sickly Ugly leaned into his ear and whispered, “You are surely the most beautiful young boy here! Do you know that? Is that why they like you?” His mouth smelled like a rotting corpse and his blackened teeth were filed down to sharp nubs. Wodan’s face was a mask but he felt panic coursing through him. Even in the valley, fighting against hundreds of monsters, he had never felt fear as on the quiet walk toward the tent.

  The night was dark and torchlight glinted off the green tent. It was large, much larger than it seemed from the slave area. The racket of Ugly laughing and drinking grew so loud that when Wodan’s captor leaned on him again and whispered something, Wodan could not hear him. A large group of Ugly stood outside guarding the entrance, swaying and spitting. One of Wodan’s escort approached these with a strange jig and produced a handful of dice, then the rest of Wodan’s escort broke off and joined the guards outside, already arguing about the possibility of cheating during their games. The bald Ugly raised the heavy tent flap; light and smoke poured forth, and Wodan entered.

  Many Ugly stood about, smoking and playing scarring games with knives and cigarettes. Several black capes were near the door, and one of them was saying, “... like to just keep one of them with us, all the time, tied and gagged. Just shit on ’em, screw ’em, cut an eye out. We did it before, but you can’t sell em after that...” Boxes of ammunition were stacked in piles and used for tables. He saw an Ugly’s knife dance about his hand on one table, gouging chunks of flesh and wood, while others played cards and took shots of black juice. A wide, thin table dominated the center, and Barkus sat in the middle of it. He wore a black silk shirt unbuttoned to show the rat’s skull stitched to his chest. He leaned over a pale brown map etched with red and black, and two Ugly stood over his shoulders. Wodan grew cold when he saw them, for it was the short dark-haired man and the tall blond-bearded man, whom he hated.

  The bald Ugly led him gently by the elbow, and Barkus lifted his head when they neared. Wodan choked when he saw the black sun ground into his face and the upturned smile beneath his beard. The man’s charisma was overpowering. Wodan stood before him and, even though he was elevated above Barkus, he felt very small.

  “There’s the boy I wanted to see,” said Barkus. Wodan could hear him clearly even in the constant noise of overlapping conversations; in fact, he could hear nothing but Barkus. “I have a question to ask you.” He paused as he looked Wodan up and down, then said, “Have you been saying anything bad about me to your little friends?”

  Wodan breathed deep, then said, “Never. We all speak well of you, even when we’re squatting and crapping side by side every morning.”

  Barkus laughed loudly and leaned back in his seat. The two Ugly beside him chuckled.

  “I’d like you to meet my teammates,” said Barkus. He paused again. His aura and charisma were so intense that Wodan had the sense that the entire world waited for him to speak. In his presence, every breath only came by great effort. Barkus pointed to the short, dark man whose eyes were surrounded by runes, and said, “This is Adem. He’s a strangler. He was born under a Skull Moon.” Adem tilted his head back; Wodan recognized the gesture as the result of a cultivation of an image of toughness. Barkus threw his thumb to the tall blond. “This is Wallach. Brick Hands Wallach. He’s my strategist.” The giant with a checkerboard face stared at Wodan, unmoving, full of malice. Wodan looked away.

  Adem cleared his throat with a sound like gravel being churned, then said, “You’ve met us before.”

  Barkus ignored him and pointed to the bald Ugly, said, “That’s Fachimundi. He’s a snake.”

  Fachimundi smiled by licking his lips and parting them to reveal his black stubs. There was something shy and childish in the gesture, as if the man was an undeveloped, gross shadow of a human.

  “Fachimundi is a faggot,” said Barkus, “but we don’t allow sodomites into the Ugly. Show him what a team player you are, Fachi.”

  Still smiling, the man pulled down his pants. A small, scarred flap of skin flopped about u
nder a mass of pale tattoos in the shape of a smiling beast. Several of the younger Ugly laughed, and one stumbled up to him drunkenly. Without concealing himself, Fachimundi hissed and spat at him. The Ugly stumbled away and his friends laughed at him.

  “This is our family,” said Barkus. “Now I want to know about yours.”

  He paused, and Wodan said tentatively, “You want to know about me?”

  Barkus nodded amiably, said, “Please. Speak! In the spirit of brotherhood.”

  Some of the Ugly laughed into their bottles. The menace in the air was palpable. Though Barkus tried to appear friendly, Wodan knew that they were crossing swords. Wodan decided to hide the truth in a web of deceit so that he would not be caught lying outright.

  “My people live in the earth, away from demons and… raiders. I was cast out with some others. None of us know why.”