The Alpha Plague 7

by Michael Robertson

  A thud and squelch shook the ground above Flynn, a damp spray of sewage splattering the top of his head. When he looked up, he saw another rock had been hurled down from the crowd. Like the one thrown before it, the huge stone had fallen so far that its momentum buried half of it into the soggy slope.

  Slow progress for the next few metres, Flynn got to the rock and reached up for it. He tested it by pulling to see if it came loose. His legs shook from trying to hold his position with the strength in his toes. The rock remained in place.

  Once he’d climbed up and had both of his feet on the rock, Flynn looked behind him to see Rose down to his left. Shit coated her forearms and she climbed with her mouth spread wide from where she clearly tried to catch her breath. She looked to be in pain from both the physical exertion of the climb and the overwhelming stench she had to endure.

  When Flynn looked back up the hill, he flinched to see one of the front-running prisoners hurtling down towards him after having slipped. Legs and arms flailing, the prisoner screamed and looked set to crash straight into him.

  The crowd followed his fall with a loud and unified, “Wooooooooooooooooooo …”

  Fortunately for Rose, Flynn had checked her position beforehand. When the prisoner got close to him, he braced himself against the rock, took the impact of the man, and shoved him to his right, away from him and Rose.

  The prisoner reached out to grab Flynn on his way past and missed, his ratty face twisted with rage and fear.

  Flynn recognised him as the man who’d squared up to him in the dungeon. Any guilt vanished as he thought about the way he’d behaved. Better to see him fall than any of the others. Well, the brute could have gone first and then him.

  The ratty man gathered momentum and spun as he slid, his arms and legs swinging away from him. He caught one prisoner with a loud clop, and then another a second later. All three slid down the hill towards the spikes.

  The crowd’s shout increased in volume the closer they got to the bottom. “WooooooooOOOOOOO.”

  The three prisoners crashed into the stakes one after the other and the crowd erupted into cheers.

  The ratty man took a spear to the face. It protruded through the back of his head and he hung limp from it.

  One of the prisoners took two spears through their torso.

  The third prisoner took one through the chest.

  The one with the two spears twisted and moaned while the other two remained motionless. Dead.

  Flynn looked over his left shoulder to see Rose staring up at him. She dipped a nod at him. He returned the gesture, his legs shaking from adrenaline and the effort of perching on the rock.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  The crowd erupted again, but Flynn couldn’t see why. Someone must have said something to them because they’d been whipped up into a frenzy. A bunch of giddy primates, they threw a meteor shower of rocks down at the prisoners.

  Each rock landed with a squelch and threw shit into the air. Flynn closed his mouth as he felt the mess of it patter his face.

  One of the final rocks to be hurled down spun as it fell. Flynn watched it land on top of a prisoner no more than a metre away from him, the ground shaking with the impact of it.

  The size of a car’s wheel, the rock pinned the prisoner’s head into the muddy slope and turned him instantly limp.

  Flynn looked at Rose again, her wide eyes a reflection of his own disbelief. They needed to get off the slope as soon as possible.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Still on his rock, the dead person still pinned to the slope next to him, Flynn remained stationary as he watched several of the prisoners pass him on their way up the steep hill. Although reluctance sat as a dead weight in his muscles, he couldn’t stay there all day. One last check behind him and he saw Mistress walk over to the impaled prisoners on the stakes.

  A wide strut, her leather apron hanging down in front of her, and Mistress shouted out, “Eight, twelve, and nineteen.”

  A section of the crowd booed and it snowed slips of paper for a second time.

  The fierce dominatrix looked up the slope and at what Flynn assumed to be the body next to him. The sun must have been in her eyes because she squinted as she clearly tried to see better. When one of her guards handed her a pair of binoculars, she pressed them to her face. The shirt of the pinned prisoner had lifted at the back, revealing his number.

  “Number three,” Mistress called out.

  A slightly quieter “Boo”, and more slips of paper rained down.

  At no more than five metres up the slope and with over four times that amount to go, Flynn looked up the hill again. No one in front of him looked like they’d slip. Not that he could predict it; he could only react when it happened. He had to keep going. Fuck knew what they’d do to him if he ended up as the last one to reach the top.

  A mixture of exhaustion and fear shook Flynn’s legs as he climbed. Sweat ran into his eyes, but he dared not wipe it away. Better to have eyes stinging from his sweat than rubbing the disease from a stranger’s waste into them.

  Every step Flynn took could be the one where he slipped. If that happened, the spikes would be the only things to stop him. He couldn’t think like that though. Instead, he watched the slick ground and continued his climb. One step at a time, he stabbed his right toe into the mud, paused, and then repeated the process with his left.

  The brute climbed on Flynn’s right. Red-faced and sweating, he pulled himself up at a slow and steady pace.

  A woman who looked to be in her thirties climbed just ahead of the thickset alpha male. Despite the size difference, he gained on her with each step. Where she had a slight frame and little body weight as her advantage, she looked like she struggled for stamina.

  When the brute grabbed her ankle, Flynn gasped to watch him pull on it and drag her back.

  The woman screamed on her way down and spun in circles. She flapped and slapped her hands against the ground as if it would slow her down. It sprayed up a wave of muddy water, but did little else.

  Like the ratty man had, she clattered into a prisoner on her way to the bottom. The collision drove an “oomph” from one of them and they both hurtled towards the stakes.

  Flynn flinched at each wet pop as the stakes impaled the two prisoners.

  The crowd erupted again and Flynn saw the slightest smile on the brute’s face.

  “Ten and fourteen,” Mistress called out and more paper fluttered down onto the slick hill as Flynn continued to climb.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  By the time he’d reached the halfway point, Flynn’s muscles were on fire. It felt like he’d been climbing for hours and he had to cover the same distance again before he reached the top. The heat had turned his throat dry, and every time he gulped, he tasted shit. Either the thick stench had flavoured the air, or some had gotten into his mouth during the climb. Probably the latter, not that it bore thinking about.

  No one had slipped since the brute had dragged the woman back.

  A look up the slope, the bright sun bouncing off the slick surface, and Flynn saw Rose about three-quarters of the way up.

  But he had to focus on his own progress. A jab of his right toe into the muddy ground and he checked it for purchase. When satisfied, he pushed up, his leg shaking from the effort, and jabbed his left toe into the ground. Each push farther up the hill robbed a little more of his strength, but he kept going. He had to.

  The first Flynn heard of the next person sliding down the hill came just a little bit too late. When he heard a wet whoosh, he looked up to see a spinning mess of limbs. A second later, it clattered into him.

  The collision sent a sharp pain through Flynn’s forearms first and then his shins as they wiped him out.

  Just as Flynn lost control, he looked up to see Rose staring down the hill at him, anxiety twisting her features.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Flynn lost sight of Rose’s worried face as he joined the momentum of the sliding prisoner. He m
oved down the slope like a tea tray over ice, the slick surface rushing past him.

  In the split second he had, Flynn quickly shoved away from the man who’d knocked into him. It altered his course slightly and pushed the man away too.

  Flynn spun out of control, his arms and legs flailing away from his body with the momentum of his spin.

  The wet rushing sound of the sewage grew louder and surrounded Flynn while the ground shook. Fuck knew how many rocks had been launched down at him, but they were still coming. Over the sound of the wet slope, he heard the crowd going crazy.

  In an attempt to control the spin, Flynn tried to sit up. He lifted his head just about enough to see him: the prisoner who’d been crushed beneath the rock. He remained pinned to the slope like a dead butterfly in a glass case.

  The sloppy ground kicked up from Flynn’s feet and hit him as if fired from a muck spreader. The spatter of wet clumps clopped into his face and he pressed his mouth tightly closed. Even with the onslaught of fecal matter, he kept his attention on his intended target. One chance. One chance to save his life.

  Flynn reached out for the rock. He caught it, but only with his fingertips. Slick with shit, they slid straight from the rock’s abrasive surface, the jagged stone sending streaks of fire where he made contact. It felt as if he’d sheared the tips of his fingers clean off.

  However, it slowed him down just enough to give him time to grab the dangling legs of the pinned corpse.

  His damp hands slid down the dead man’s wet trousers, his fingertips throbbing from the pain of catching the rock.

  Flynn squeezed harder, gripping on with all he had.

  Just before he slipped from the bottom of the corpse’s legs, he stopped with a jolt at the man’s ankles.

  Flynn exhaled hard and held on so tightly his arms ached.

  Confident he wouldn’t slip, Flynn looked down over his left shoulder to see the prisoner who’d clattered into him slide from the slope into the sharp stakes at the bottom.

  The crowd cheered again as a stake popped through the man. It sounded like it shattered his ribcage.

  While still holding on, Flynn listened to Mistress at the bottom of the slope. “Number thirteen!”

  The crowd booed and slips of paper rained down.

  A few seconds later, Flynn recovered his breath enough to do something more than just stay put. He looked back up the hill. He’d lost about half of the distance he’d climbed. He watched a couple of the front-runners, including Rose, climb the ledge at the top to safety. He couldn’t do it. Then he looked down at number thirteen. “Come on, Flynn,” he said to himself, “you don’t have a choice.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  What felt like a lifetime had passed before Flynn reached the top of the slope. His entire body trembled from the effort of the climb. By the time he’d reached the halfway point, his limbs shook beyond control, but he kept his tense frame locked and inched up the hill, thinking only about the next step.

  It had taken him so long, even the crowd had fallen silent as they watched him climb.

  A sheer wall ran along the top of the hill. No more than two metres tall, it stood between Flynn and freedom. Or at least freedom from the shitty slope.

  After Flynn reached up and grabbed the ledge, he looked down to check his footing and a stream of hot liquid rained down on him. Had he been more alert, he probably wouldn’t have looked up again. Had he been more alert, he wouldn’t have ended up staring at an exposed penis as one of the spectators pissed on him, half of the stale urine running straight into his eyes and mouth. Several more men stood on either side of the pissing man and then they too emptied their bladders on his head.

  The crowd had picked back up again, and they whooped and hollered as if geeing the pissing men on.

  Despite his rage sending his pulse hammering and winding his shoulders tight, Flynn could do nothing but take it. If he let go of the ledge to grab one of them, he might slide back down the slope. He’d remember the men and he’d make sure they paid when he got the chance. He’d make sure every one of the vicious fuckers in the fucked-up community paid. He spat on the ground several times, but it did nothing to rid his mouth of the taste of piss.

  When the streams of urine stopped, Flynn looked up again to see the men put their shrivelled dicks away. Many of them stared down at him, sneering as if proud of what they’d just done. They’d get theirs. He’d make sure of it.

  The men turned away to be replaced by one woman. She had a bucket in her grip. She appeared to be struggling under its weight. Flynn looked down just in time for the cold splash of it to hit the back of his head rather than his face.

  From the smell, consistency, and what he saw of the bucket’s contents before it slid down the hill, Flynn assumed it to be excrement, rancid animal guts, and some kind of rotten food. His stomach flipped in response to the acrid reek. A second later he vomited bitter-tasting bile on his shoes.

  A shake of his head and Flynn spat again. “So this is what happens to the last one up the slope.”

  Despite the assault, Flynn kept his grip on the ledge. The ground had turned slicker beneath his feet because of all the liquid they’d poured on him. If he let go now, he’d be screwed.

  A searing pain then burned through the back of Flynn’s right hand. He managed to hold on and looked up at the woman who’d held the bucket. The words came out before he’d a chance to hold them back. “What the fuck?”

  The woman hissed at him while twisting her foot. Much more and she’d break the bones in the back of his hand.

  Before she could stamp on him again, a guard rushed up behind her. Flynn continued to hold onto the ledge but ducked.

  The vicious woman screamed as she flew over the top of Flynn. She hit the slope hard enough for the impact to drive the air from her body. The sound of her shrill cry raced down the hill with her.

  The woman’s scream ended with a now familiar wet squelch. Flynn looked behind to see her impaled like the prisoners had been. He also saw rope ladders had been dropped down to Mistress and the guards, and they were currently climbing up one of the sheer walls to the top of the pit.

  “That’s not on,” the guard shouted at the people as he pointed down the slope at the now dead woman. “They may be prisoners, but we don’t cheat.” He pointed his thick finger at Flynn. “He deserves to be here. From what I’ve just seen, he’s more than earned it.”

  The crowd didn’t respond, but they backed away as Flynn pulled himself up over the ledge. He couldn’t see any of the other prisoners.

  Just as Flynn opened his mouth to thank the guard, someone dropped a sack over his head and his world turned dark. Maybe his gratitude had come a little too soon.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  A rough grip clamped around Flynn’s right bicep and stung where it clung on. Clearly one of the place’s many guards, but fuck knew where he planned on taking him. It would serve no purpose to fight it. Not at that moment. He let the guard lead him wherever they were going.

  After a few minutes of walking over what felt like a broken road—the long grass pushing up through its uneven surface—the acoustics of Flynn’s surroundings changed. The path sloped downwards and both his and the guard’s footsteps echoed off what sounded like the enclosed walls of a tunnel.

  At a guess, Flynn would have said they walked about one hundred metres before the sound of his environment changed again. The echo stretched away from him where the enclosed space clearly opened up.

  The grip on Flynn’s right bicep eased and the guard behind him grabbed the top of the sack on his head before ripping it off.

  Before Flynn found his bearings, a powerful rush of frigid water smothered him in an icy blast, forcing him to inhale hard. Every muscle in his body snapped tight in reaction to the chill, and his pulse ran off the charts.

  When Flynn tried to back away from the water—his arms folded protectively across his body—a pole of some sort jabbed straight into his brand and he arched his back in
response. He rushed towards the icy assault again. The message seemed pretty clear: stay the fuck still and take it!

  The aggressive and frigid soaking cleaned all the shit from Flynn’s body and damn near ripped his skin off too. The chill wound him so tight he felt brittle.

  The water stopped and the place fell silent. Flynn looked around. They were in the centre of what looked to be an underground car park. It looked like the kind of place that would have an old commercial building stretching above where they stood.

  Several guards stared at Flynn and one of them threw a towel at him. It hit him in the face.

  “Take those disgusting clothes off,” the guard—a large man with broad shoulders, a bald head, and a sword in his hands—said.

  Flynn stripped, threw his clothes down, wrapped the towel around himself, and tried to dry off as quickly as he could.

  Thank god he had cropped hair; the sewage would have been a nightmare to get out were it any longer. No doubt they would have turned the hose on him for longer too.

  Once Flynn had dried himself off, the same large guard picked some clothes up and threw them at him one item at a time. Briefs, tracksuit bottoms, and a T-shirt.

  Flynn put all the clothes on.

  Even though he’d gotten dressed, Flynn continued to shiver. They were far enough underground it made the June heat redundant.

  For a few seconds, the guards—six of them in total—stared at Flynn and he stared back. So occupied with the motley crew in front of him, he didn’t hear a guard approach from behind. He jumped as the whoosh of fabric turned his world dark again. By the smell of things, they’d used a different hood because any trace of shit had gone. Silver linings and all that.