by Goforth, Jim
Nate rounded on him and slugged him with the gunless hand, not quite a punch, not quite a slap, but some bastard hybrid of both, and Dax was knocked sideways, almost triggering a domino effect that would have capsized Tempest and anyone in his slipstream. Instead, Tempest caught the falling blonde man in his stumble and managed to keep him on his feet, albeit unsteady and wobbling.
“Second rule. Nobody says jack shit. Especially you, sunshine. You don’t say a fucking word. No questions. No bitching, no fucking words, nothing. Nada. From nobody. Simple. Straightforward. Shut it. Everybody.”
While Jazmyn sashayed on ahead down the hallway, swinging her hips in an exaggerated motion that had her buttocks rhythmically grinding up and down, flapping that filmy cloak she wore around them, Nate swivelled so he was walking backwards, his eyes lancing into the marching captives.
“If all of you like living, and judging from all the various efforts you’ve gone through so far to remain alive, I’m guessing you do, I suggest you take what I’m saying on board and pay pretty close fucking attention to it. This is not open for interpretation, there is no leeway, or room to move. Do what I fucking ask or stop living. That’s all I have to say, and all I want to say.”
With that point hammered home, he returned his attention to the front, walking stiffly behind the deliberately pulchritudinous Jazmyn, and the entourage traipsed in fearful silence to whatever fate sought an audience with them.
It rolled up on them sooner than Seth might have expected, or been hoping. Again, fervently wishing inside his head that this hallway, which felt remarkably like the green mile, the long walk to the executioner’s chair, would somehow morph into an incredible never-ending thing spanning out forever, or at least long enough for his ensnared company to figure out some kind of master plan to get them the fuck out of this terrible predicament, he suddenly found Jazmyn cutting right, disappearing from view, into another region of Kathaarian, not one he was familiar with. In fact, none of this seemed overly familiar to him, it was almost as if they were in a completely different establishment, aside from the same subdued lighting, which had shrouded the place last night. Then again, they were all in the rear portion of it, clearly back in realms beyond the lodgings and rooms of accommodation.
Nate halted, turning himself back around again so he was facing the oncomers, his gun brandished, his other hand waving in a gesture for all to follow the vanished Kathaarian proprietor wherever she’d departed. His smug, faux, apologetic expression decorated his hairy visage once more, and while he might have looked like a bearded biker version of a friendly joker, the unwavering stare of the pistol in his grip did not.
“Keep on moving,” he suggested, addressing both the prisoners and his men, advising the latter to continue shepherding the bunch inside. They did so, perhaps more brutal and enthusiastically than required, but their attentions got the job done. Some prodded cruelly with the noses of their firearms, others groped and clasped at various female body parts, serving as wonderful incentive to keep moving. In the centre, thankfully shielded to an extent by the presence of Seth, Scarlett wasn’t subject to much more than a few failed brushing attempts by hands trying to cop a feel or two of her delectable parts, but seeing it occur to some of the others, especially those unfortunate enough to have been rolled up in the snowball that Subversion’s whole mission had become, Seth felt physically sick to his stomach. The same sorts of nausea which afflicted him before, notable whenever the hideous Zombie Trigger was unleashed, roiled like something particularly nasty and imbibed in the pit of his stomach.
What hell was waiting inside this room they were being herded into? Was all of this attempted groping, inappropriate sexual contact, and crude torrents of suggestive remarks just a precursor to some horrendous mass rape and slaughter session inside? Were the ‘prizes’ alluded to by Nate going to be distributed in here? After all, gals or guys, Nate made it clear that some of the Renegade Masters mightn’t have any real sexual preference, as long as they got to stick their cocks in something.
With a plethora of gruesome, graphic images playing a terrible montage in his head, tormenting him beyond belief prior to even having any clue what the outcome was going to be, Seth, still clutching Scarlett’s hand so tight he was sure either one of them, or both, were going to be suffering broken bones shortly, entered the latest area they’d been directed to.
***
None of the torture chambers, rape dungeons, or any of the horrific things conjured up in Seth’s fevered mind in those few transitory moments he’d had to dream up such terrors that existed inside. For the most part, the room was swathed in total darkness except for a few long rows of chairs underneath a glow of light, perhaps fifty in total. Certainly enough to accommodate a small crowd like the one which had just entered the room, discounting their gun-laden Renegade Masters captors.
Jazmyn swept on up past these chairs, her heels clicking on the floor, which unlike the carpeted hallway outside, was cold, bare concrete. She strode up where the light failed to reach, standing just inside the glow border, and then pirouetted with a flourish, her movements still exaggerated to the point where she might have believed them sensual or seductive. Seth just saw a sinuous viper’s motion.
“Sit!” She barked, and the playfulness of her voice was gone, supplanted by a harsh tone that suggested her true nature. The hard set of her heavily mascara and eyeshadow laden countenance provided further evidence of that.
Shepherded in by the pack of overly grope-happy Renegade Masters, there was little choice but to do as they were bidden by the turncoat proprietor of Kathaarian, all of them shunted down onto the basic chairs arranged with the clear intention of expecting a relatively large amount of company.
Seeing none of the horrible things steamrolling through his head in a deluge of ugly visions, didn’t ease Seth’s mind in the slightest. It was what he couldn’t see that worried him, made him sick with fear.
The light here was scant, minimal, deliberately illuminating only certain areas in order to keep others shrouded and hidden, and it was what might be in those unseen dark shadowy recesses that presented a concern to him. His terror train of cogitations didn’t cease as he took his chair alongside Scarlett, who had Miranda on the other side, with Mark seated next to her. They’d all opted for the second row, almost instinctively; Seth’s own paranoia telling him that nothing good could come of taking seats in the front row. He guessed it was essentially a foregone conclusion that nothing good was going to come out of this, regardless where any of them elected to sit.
Black, Tempest, even Dax, all had no issue with choosing to sit down in the front row of seats, either because they were maintaining their head of the clan, dominant alpha male statuses, or were of the same mindset as Seth in believing it wouldn’t really matter where they sat. In essence, most of them situated themselves in seats that corresponded with the order they’d been marched from the car park and then down the hall to arrive at this destination, though a handful of others who’d been clustered in the middle picked front row seats as well. Maybe with the hopeful idea in their mind that being close to the Subversion duo meant they stood a better chance of escaping what calamity was about to beset them.
In what was possibly one of the first indications of Heather displaying there was anything going on between her and Tempest that Seth could recall, was among those front row selectors, seating herself next to him.
Renee and a few of the other women were also among these intrepid—or terrified—souls, while Lilith, Gavin, and the fear crazed duo escorted from the tunnels picked the second row.
Keeping his eyes to the front, fixed on the traitorous Jazmyn, Seth didn’t see where Blizzard and Roxana ended up, but he presumed the pair of them were located somewhere behind him. The others, from either the Stage Four congregation, or those randoms swept into the undertow of the running collective on the bloodied field, took up residence in remaining seats. Most were sure to stay in knots or clusters together, whether they actual
ly knew their companions or not. Nobody especially wanted to be sitting on a seat all by themselves, alienated from the remainder of the people, even if they were just as much strangers to them as the gun-packing horde of fearsome bikers who’d accosted and kidnapped them all.
None of the Renegade Masters seated themselves, they all remained standing, and though Seth expected them to crowd in close around the whole seated ensemble, they didn’t. Instead they spread themselves out in a wide rough circle, which he guessed presented a better safeguard to keep watchful eyes on everybody, and prevent any sudden breakaway those in the seated positions might contemplate. He didn’t like that too much, but then again, right now there was fuck all he did like about the situation.
Then Jazmyn, still shimmying around to an extent in her movements as she stalked back and forth in the limited space before the front row of seats and the darkness beyond abruptly ceased and stood still, apparently having been waiting for all those told to sit to do so, and the Masters to take up their sentry vantage points. At which point, she then clapped her hands, the slap of her palms ringing abnormally loud in the room which was otherwise filled with a deep, forbidding silence, bar the random noise generated by one or two of the Masters shifting around.
Whether by design, or due to the fact her handclap signalled for somebody to hit the lights, whatever the case, immediately the area behind her was flooded with radiance.
Momentarily Seth wondered who was running this show now, whether it was this venomous bitch or the friendly psychopath, Nate, sucking them all into the web like an overgrown hairy motherfucker of a spider, but in any event it didn’t matter. Both of them were in the incredibly deep pockets of Global Death, the insidious organization evidently with moles, eyes, and spies in every corner, ensuring their apocalyptic vision was carried out regardless of simple speed bumps like Subversion and Hunters rearing up in its path.
Then, like every single other seated captive, he paid more attention to whatever was going to be revealed behind Jazmyn, who promptly moved aside, making for where Nate stood, big arms folded across his barrel chest, gun held almost nonchalantly in one great fist.
Seth shouldn’t have been surprised.
A stage was spotlighted in this new flood of illumination and spread out across the expanse of it were the five members of Undead Fleshcrave.
The bulky figure of SamEdi stood in the centre, looking like a bald brick wall with eyes, a grim, triumphant expression on his visage. To his left stood SkinCarver and GatlingGrinder, to his right FaceGnawer and The Deadwalker, all of them sans instruments.
That didn’t come as a surprise either, considering attempting to beat a hasty retreat and escape down through the tunnel network would have been something of a monumental task, lugging all their gear, especially all pieces of Grinder’s enormous drum kit. Seth, Blizzard, and Tempest had been equipped with the Subversion items, which were necessary weapons, but in order to span the gap ahead of their pursuers the Undeaders would have abandoned everything to get into the underground passages as soon as possible.
However, were the band actually fleeing at all? Or were they really just intentionally baiting their chasers, suckering them into following, knowing full well that the Renegade Masters, acting as apparent allies to the Subversion crew, would be able to keep them from advancing too close to cause any trouble? Making the deceased member of the biker clan, Burt, an expendable pawn. Did he know he was going to get chopped down in the gun battle, and were any of the other bikers firing back at the Sentinels supposed to do that, or what? Perhaps the Sentinels too, were merely a means to an end, useful to achieve a purpose, replaceable by the Masters once their practicality was exhausted.
Or maybe Global Death and the Fleshcravers hadn’t foreseen the Hunters and their associates eliminating every last Sentinel.
Seth’s mind reeled with a whole barrage of unnecessary tormenting shit that he didn’t need cluttering up his head. There was too much to think about, and the only real thing he needed occupying any space in his thoughts was how in the holy fuck they were going to get out of this.
Then he noticed the stage wasn’t free of instruments. A comprehensive drum kit was in existence, back behind the row of death metal monsters, and guitars were reclining against stacks and amps.
SamEdi stooped and picked up a microphone from off the floor in front of him. In his confusing state of being surprised, but not surprised, by the presence of the band, Seth hadn’t noticed it before, but it was pretty damn obvious now.
“Well, Hunters, it’s been swell, but all good things have to come to an end, and while I commend you black metal hordes for being fucking persistent and relentless, everybody’s patience with your dogged pursuit has worn pretty threadbare. So, in all good sport, we’ll let you go out with a bang, one final hurrah, if you like,” the brawny frontman grated, his gravelly voice a guttural sludge that sounded like somebody was pouring wet cement over the mic. “What do you say to one last show?”
On that note, the rest of the band stepped away from the front of the stage without anything to add, clearly the ogrish SamEdi was the mouthpiece here.
Seth didn’t quite see the point of it, as the foursome assembled themselves in their usual various stage positions, strapping on guitars, or in Grinder’s case, seating himself behind the drum kit, which was potentially a mirror image of what he’d left behind in Blackwater Park.
Until more light flooded the whole area, and walls literally rose skyward on either side of the rows of chairs, lifting up like big black sheets of curtain. Perhaps that was what they were, but they seemed too solid. That wasn’t important.
What was being unveiled was what pitched a knife blade of terror into Seth, as it became all too clear exactly why Undead Fleshcrave were gearing up to serenade them all with one last blast of ultra-brutal death metal.
It wasn’t just some mocking concert, some sardonic swan song before turning them over for the Renegade Masters to torture, rape, and kill. It was infinitely worse.
CHAPTER FORTY FOUR-CAGED DEATH HEADS
Revealed behind the uplifted walls on both sides, were countless rows of barred cells, or more appropriately, cages, marching from the very back of the room, which disappeared somewhere in darkness, to the front, ending on each side of the stage. These enclosures were all packed with milling humanity. Folks clad in things like shirts advertising death metal bands of note or obscurity, denim patch jackets; the outfits one might expect to see sported by your average death metal fanatic. True death heads.
Apparently the black sections which rose up to reveal this staggering scenario were walls of some description, or certainly some soundproofing element, for once they were clear of the crowded cells, a hubbub of noise rushed in to assail those assembled in the temporary concert hall.
Perplexed exclamations, protests, and querying voices wanting to know the reasons for their incarceration swarmed out, then suddenly switched to cheers and stentorian bursts of applause and whistling as the eyes of the caged prisoners observed the death metal collective onstage.
Seth and his fellows didn’t share that sudden air of jubilation which overtook the caged souls. Gasps and horrified utterances were what swelled forth as the majority of them acknowledged what the fiendish master plan entailed.
Evidently none of those cell dwellers had any inclination of the repercussions, the terrible design of what lay in store for them. After whatever period of time they’d spent incarcerated in the dark, they were overjoyed beyond belief to realise they were actually here as special guest VIP’s, about to be privy to a concert performed by a death metal supergroup, and their raucous pleasure was being made abundantly noisily.
The uncaged souls on seats knew better, but even if they were inclined to attempt to convey the hideous truth to these barred in death heads, the swell of excited noise from between the bars was drowning out everything. What was more, how completely ludicrous would it sound, telling the excited fans the concert they were about to witness w
as a wholly interactive one, and the very last concert they’d ever be a part of? What was more, it wouldn’t even matter if they weren’t all ‘true death heads’ by SamEdi’s definition, there would definitely be enough of those who did fit the bill, that those who weren’t were equally doomed. Trapped in cages with mutating, morphing, undead freaks, they would soon either be part of the zombie brigade, or just bloody body parts.
The fact that the perimeter of the unconfined seating area was brimming with burly, bearded bikers all brandishing firearms seemed to be lost on the cheering inmates, though perhaps they were of the mind that this was some illicit underground death metal gig where the people hired as security for the event were really not going to fuck around with troublemakers, lending a thrilling element of danger and excitement to the air.
The only thing Seth didn’t particularly get was why the cages at all? Then he guessed he didn’t really need to be a true genius to figure it out. As soon as the Zombie Trigger was switched on, those cage doors were coming open and the undead masses would swarm, overrunning the weaponless Hunters and their hapless cohorts consigned to the seats. Possibly there was some switch somewhere that ensured all the cages could be opened simultaneously, which would allow all the Renegade Masters to abscond prior, while the impervious band could continue on stage, unthreatened by the zombie peril.
Some of the more intrepid, boisterous souls with perceived prime positions at the front of their cells, grabbed the bars, attempting to shake them and create some rattling cacophony amidst the din of cheers, whistles, and whoops, looking like a pack of overly excited monkeys. Some were imploring to be let out to properly enjoy the show and mosh and cause chaos down the front, while others seemed to be assuming the time for that would arrive soon enough and waited more patiently.
