“Mr., um, Nancy?” Bryn asked. “Why did you do all this?” She indicated the tray.
“Oh, Sweetie,” he shook his head, features suffused with compassion. “Cooperate and you’ll be back home before you know it, I promise.”
It was a non-answer, but it gave her the first hope she’d had since this nightmare began. Nurse Nancy offered her a final reassuring smile before sashaying out the door.
The tears she’d been holding back would no longer be denied, but now they were tears of relief.
Chapter Six
In basic training, there’d been a lecture or two about keeping things in perspective when in combat. Scott knew he’d have to kill people, knew those people had families, friends, lives that if Scott was lucky, he’d cut short before they cut his short. He’d been told to forget about all that; keep his distance, stay focused on the goal, which was to shoot the target. If you sympathize with a target, you’d better hope your body armor holds up.
Bryn Vega seemed to be doing everything in her power to become more than a target to him. After Nurse Nancy told her she’d be going home, Scott almost said, “Yeah, in a box,” but he didn’t because she began crying like her mom just died all over again.
It was one hundred-percent essential that he show no weakness. ‘Bestia’ was Latin for ‘animal,’ an apt name for a gang of animalistic criminals. Even alone in the exam room with her, he couldn’t risk appearing soft in any way. She cried for ten minutes, and he bit back maybe a dozen comments his traitorous brain produced to make her feel better.
When her wet sniffles got to be too much for him, he opened one of the drawers under the exam table and handed her a paper gown. She blew her nose several times and wiped her eyes. To Scott’s surprise, she left no black smears of mascara on the paper. Her lashes were really that thick.
The door opened and Barney stuck his head in. “Hey Cougar, you still combustin’ tonight?”
“I’m on duty. Tell the Viscount I’ll kick his ass some other time.”
Barney gave a little, “heh,” and focused his attention on Bryn. He started to come into the room, but Scott shoved him out, said, “Later, dude,” and shut the door. As soon as he did it, he knew what she’d say.
“What is that? On your hands?” Her voice was thick from her bout of crying.
Scott had kept his hands hidden in the pockets of his jacket because he didn’t want or need her questions. “None of your business.”
“Is that your alteration? You got fur put on your fingers?”
“Yeah, sure,” he said. Cougar fur and the claws that came with it.
“Why?”
“Why’d you wear that dress today? ‘Cause you like it, right?” He’d said too much. He was not ignoring her very well.
“No,” she replied. “I wore it because my dad asked me to.”
Bryn was sitting with her lower legs hanging over the side of the exam table. The dress had a fitted bodice and flared skirt straight out of the 1950’s. Almost a poodle skirt, like the costume his sister had worn for Halloween when she was six. Bryn’s dad had good taste; she looked great in the dress, but he doubted Harry Vega had picked it because it made his little girl look hot.
He blew out a frustrated breath. “Whatever.”
“What does ‘combusting’ mean?”
His brows dropped. “Seriously?”
She looked at him expectantly, the rims of her eyes so red they clashed with the green of her irises.
“A fight. We were supposed to fight tonight.”
“Why?”
His shoulders came up. “Because we want to.”
Her mouth opened slightly, but she didn’t pursue the line of questioning. After a moment, she asked, “How long am I going to be here?”
He knew exactly how long, but wasn’t about to tell her. “No idea.”
“Do you know anything?”
The question and the scorn with which it was delivered was designed to get him to open up and he knew it. “I know you talk too much.”
“So…what? Are you going to shut me up?”
She was getting bolder as he continued to do nothing. He wasn’t a threat to her, and she was figuring that out. “If I have to. Think about whether you’d like to spend the next few hours with or without duct tape over your yap.”
She turned her head to stare at the wall.
Standing there, he was just regretting having kicked Barney out without asking him to bring back a chair, when the door opened again.
This time, Abel entered.
“Lupus has money on tonight’s fight, so get greased up. You better win, for the little lady’s sake. Ain’t no one else I trust enough to keep their grimy mitts off her, not even me.”
Normally, Scott would take that as a compliment, but among the XBestia it was dubious praise. He thought about suggesting one of the tougher gays or trannies watch her, but he knew just because they wouldn’t mess with her themselves, didn’t mean they wouldn’t enjoy currying favor with those that would.
He started to leave, but Abel stopped him. “Gimme your jacket.”
Scott didn’t ask why. He fumbled for the zipper pull, irritated and a little embarrassed when the pads that had replaced his fingertips hampered him. He missed having normal dexterity and sensation in his fingers.
The assistant who’d explained the procedure to him hadn’t sugar-coated it.
“We will be removing your fingers from just above the knuckle and fusing the feline middle phalanx to your bone. This will allow the extensor tendons to function. You will lose significant touch sensation. The pads on a cougar’s paws are for protection much like the calluses on our feet. However, since the donor cougar has been genetically engineered, it’s lived its whole life in a cage and I’m sure you’ll find your new ‘fingers’ to be—soft.”
He got the zipper down, removed his jacket and handed it to Abel, who immediately passed it over to Bryn. As Scott was leaving, he heard Abel say, “Let’s hide some of that glaring wholesomeness, shall we?”
Chapter Seven
Bryn was several inches shorter than Scott even with low heels, which meant his jacket was way too big. Since the jacket would serve to disguise her, it was a good thing—to heck with just covering up her ‘wholesomeness’—she was all for covering up her entire body. Abel suggested she pull the hood up and cinch it tight.
“I don’t want to miss this fight,” he said, “so you get a little treat. Not many outsiders see our humble community and live to tell about it.”
Bryn’s heart had been tripping nervously ever since the devil-man had rematerialized. She didn’t know his name and didn’t want to. But as frightened as she was of his appearance and demeanor, she was grateful to him for confirming she was going to live through this.
He opened the door and waved her to precede him. “Stick close. I’m sure I don’t have to tell you what will happen if you try to run.”
Beyond Exam Room Three, the roof of the warehouse rose to maybe thirty feet. Columns supported a framework of beams and corrugated metal roofing. Diffuse afternoon sunshine came through dozens of dirty skylight domes spaced in three rows along the ceiling. Bryn estimated the size of the place to be about as big as a football field. The prevailing odor was the same chemical smell that permeated everything, but interwoven with smoke from wood, incense and cigarettes. There was food cooking somewhere, too, a pungent garlicky dish that made Bryn’s empty stomach growl.
In orderly rows spanning the entire length of the place stood tents of all shapes and sizes. Most were the kind you could purchase; the camping variety, from small one-person domes to elaborate family-sized versions with more than one ‘room.’ Others appeared to be homemade, mishmashes of canvas cloth, rope, bricks, wood and cardboard. The poorly constructed ones stood side-by-side with the better quality tents; there was no segregation here. Most of the tents were drab, brown or tan or camouflage. Other than a row of light green portable toilets along one wall, there was a distinct lack of co
lor. No growing things; no potted plants or trees or brightly colored anything. The whole place, from the grey of the cement floor, to the primarily black attire of the people, was dull and dingy.
People were everywhere: hanging out in front of the tents, strolling aimlessly or with purpose, talking, laughing, smoking, eating and drinking. Some hawked wares, either from their tents or from carts or from packs on their backs. As the devil-man led Bryn down the center aisle, the widest boulevard in the place, people nodded to him or waved. A few said hello. Bryn got the impression this man commanded respect and even fear.
None of the people looked normal, of course. Bryn had seen plenty of xenoalterations, but mostly in holos—advertisements for edgier products like alcohol and hard music. She’d glimpsed them in real life on the street and in the news. Most of the denizens here had common tattoos mixed with grafts in various designs and skins—snake and fur from multiple species. A few had tails or wings or ears, like the girl who’d distracted Bryn so her cohorts could more easily subdue her.
Here, a person would stand out if their skin was unmarred, like Bryn’s. She kept her hands in the pockets of Scott’s jacket, trying not to think about his furry fingers having been in the same pockets only minutes before. She knew the jacket looked incongruous combined with her girly skirt, smooth tan legs and strappy sandals, but most of the people they encountered seemed strangely incurious. Probably, no one questioned devil-man.
The jacket was also quite warm. The air was stagnant; no breeze freshened the place, which meant the ambient temperature inside the warehouse on this hot July day was sweltering. Most of the people wore sleeveless shirts and shorts that showed off their grafts and did nothing to disguise their body odor. She wondered where they bathed and imagined what fun could be had with dousing the lot of them with a fire hose.
Devil-man walked with authoritative purpose, spurs jingling, and Bryn had to practically trot to keep up. They were headed for the center of the place, an open area like a town square, only much more grim. Portable chain link fence sections had been set up in the shape of an octagon and people were milling about, at least a hundred of them in a circle around the cage, mostly men. Smoke rose from multiple sources and hovered in a hazy cloud above them.
“Abel! Your boy’s going down,” a big man in cargo shorts and a black t-shirt called out.
Bryn’s captor said, “He’s not my boy.”
A guy with a flat-top haircut and the rounded ears of some tan-furred animal took issue with the big man’s statement. “Cougar’s gonna shred the Viscount.”
“Ahh, you only say that because you losers share the same donor!” The big man responded good-naturedly.
Devil-man, or Abel—Bryn assumed that was his name—kept moving towards the center. Next to the fence stood the young woman with the cow ears. Gone was the overly-friendly smile and exuberant charm.
“Padme,” Abel said, nodding to her. “Keep an eye on this for me, will you?” He grasped Bryn’s arm and pulled her forward. As soon as he walked away, just about everyone in the vicinity turned to stare. Padme was maybe five-foot four-inches tall and petite as a child. Bryn didn’t think she’d stand a chance against even one of the xenofreak men looking at them like they were prime cuts of meat, grilled and garnished and laid out for their consumption.
“Don’t worry,” Padme said in an undertone. “I belong to Lupus. They won’t bother us out here in the open.”
“Who’s Lupus?” Bryn asked.
Padme’s face turned to stone. As if she were speaking to a child, she enunciated, “My owner.”
Bryn wanted to dispute it, wanted to assert that in America in the 21st century, no one owned anyone, but Padme’s demeanor convinced her any argument would be in vain. There were a lot of things Bryn wanted to ask Padme, but standing in this most surreal environment among the noise and the smoke and the almost palpable smell of testosterone, she didn’t. Instead, she concentrated on surviving each moment.
It occurred to her that her “cooperation,” as Nurse Nancy put it, might simply involve not freaking out, not falling apart. She’d kept her cool and instead of keeping her locked up, Abel brought her out here to meet his people. Did he want her to see how they lived, maybe even connect with a few of them, like Padme? Go back home and tell her father that xenofreaks were human after all? The idea seemed far-fetched even to Bryn, who knew herself well enough to accept that she was naïve, perhaps more so than most girls her age. These people were certainly human, but they also embodied the worst of human traits. Abel knew it, and he had to know Bryn would see it.
Next to them, a skinny blonde kid with a studded collar around his neck lit a joint, took a deep drag and held it out to Bryn. She shook her head rapidly and stepped closer to Padme, who laughed.
“You’ve never smoked pot?” she asked. “I bet you’re a virgin, too.”
Bryn looked around to make sure no one heard. “Why don’t you just wave a red flag?”
Padme’s head tilted to the side as she studied Bryn. “I like you,” she announced. “So I’m going to give you some advice. Stop taking yourself so seriously.”
That’s advice? Bryn thought. But Padme had said she liked her, and Bryn wasn’t in a position to turn down offers of friendship at the moment. “Thanks,” she muttered.
A ragged roar rose from all around. She looked across the octagon cage where the crowd had parted to reveal two muscular, barely-clothed men wearing swim goggles. The older, wider of the two wore a black Speedo and was covered head-to-toe with two-inch-wide wavy grafts in a familiar, scaly diamond pattern. The taller was Scott. He wore black bike shorts, and the only mark on his body, besides his furry fingers, was a plain tattoo on his left shoulder. He was too far away for Bryn to see what it was. Both men were barefoot and were either wet or slicked down with a shiny substance. It looked as if they’d just come from the pool.
“Are they—is that grease?” Abel had told Scott to get ‘greased up.’
“What? Grease?” Padme lifted one of her ears. “Kind of. Highly flammable.”
“Why do they call him the Viscount?” Bryn asked, nodding at the man in the Speedo, who was strutting for the crowd.
Padme shrugged. “Probably because ‘Snake’ was already taken.”
A man in black leather pants and matching vest over his bare chest entered the ring. He set a cone-shaped metal apparatus in the center and knelt down to fuss with it. When it burst into flames, he fell back and the crowd roared again.
Bryn turned to Padme with wide, horrified eyes, but the cow-eared girl just snorted.
Leather Pants left the ring and the combatants entered. There were no introductions. As soon as the fence was chained together, the Viscount threw a mean uppercut to Scott’s jaw.
He missed. Scott weaved away from the next few punches, faster than the older man. They stayed near the fence, away from the flames but also out of reach of the fingers that poked through the chain link. Scott jabbed with his right, connecting with the Viscount’s mouth, and dodged away. When the older man came after him, Scott jumped up and kicked him in the face with his heel, snapping the Viscount’s head back. Bryn wanted to look away, but couldn’t seem to make herself. The noise of the crowd was deafening and they were all pressing in closer and closer. Her empty stomach cramped and her head spun. The smell of marijuana was thick in the air. She turned and caught the blonde kid exhaling in her direction. She waved futilely at the cloud of smoke. The kid laughed and stuck his artificially elongated tongue out and waggled it suggestively at her.
She looked back into the ring just in time to see the Viscount finally land a punch. Scott was faster and had a longer reach, but the Viscount had power. When his fist connected, it sent Scott spinning into the fence right in front of Bryn. He looked at her, seemed surprised, and then dropped straight down, narrowly avoiding the Viscount’s next hit, which smashed into the fence and sent moisture spraying into her face. From this angle, she clearly saw the USMC tattoo on Scott’s shoulder.
With a fierce yell, He rammed his shoulder into the Viscount’s abdomen, forcing him backward towards the flame. The crowd howled its approval.
Chapter Eight
Scott didn’t have time to contemplate why the girl he’d helped kidnap just hours before was watching the fight like any member of the community. If the Viscount landed another one of his pile-driving punches, he doubted he’d be able to contemplate anything for some time. Grappling with the Viscount was a foolish move on his part, since the older man had been known to squeeze his opponents into unconsciousness in the past. Scott hoped the element of surprise would put him off-balance long enough to get him to the flame.
It didn’t.
The Viscount dug his heels into the cement floor and stopped his backward progress, bent down and wrapped his meaty arms around Scott’s back. With a mighty heave, he lifted Scott’s feet off the ground. Scott let go of the Viscount’s middle and allowed himself to be turned upside down. The Viscount staggered towards the fire, but Scott wrapped his lower legs around the Viscount’s neck and clamped down. The Viscount’s scaled skin-grafts gave Scott an advantage—while Scott’s body was slick as an eel’s, the Viscount essentially had built-in grippers. When Scott suddenly relaxed his legs, his body weight caught the Viscount by surprise and he slipped right through his arms. Scott had been trained in how to fall; as soon as his shoulder contacted the cement, he rolled away and sprang to his feet. The Viscount swung and missed, swung again and clipped Scott’s chin.
“Slash him!” Someone screamed from the crowd. They wanted blood, but Scott wouldn’t use his claws. He’d fought a lot of guys with xenoalterations that gave them an edge in the cage, like horns, or whip-like tails, and in those cases his claws came out. The Viscount had no such advantage. Scott wouldn’t resort to cheating even if Lupus did lose money on this fight.
He continued to lure the Viscount around the ring, dodging his punches. The older man was getting visibly tired, but Scott could do this all day. Finally, the Viscount gave him his opening. Scott’s fist shot out, connecting solidly with the Viscount’s nose. Blood gushed and the crowd responded with a roar of approval. The Viscount stumbled forward and tried to grab him, but Scott danced around to his rear and kicked him behind the knee. The resulting loss of balance made it almost easy for Scott to shove him into the flame.
Xenofreak Nation Page 3
