by Mark Gordon
Chapter 71
The Doctor
Deep in the heart of the Delano Caves, as the marauders in Carswell were surrounding Matt, Dylan and Montana, hordes of feeders waited for the return of the night, in a state of silent, suspended animation. The reflex that compelled them to return to the dark each day before the sun rose was strong, and once they were asleep, only the threat of immediate physical danger could drag them from their slumber. The warrior feeders that had survived the encounter with the humans earlier in the day had returned to their lair and lay beside their brethren, sleeping again, the memory of the battle forgotten. For this new breed, life was simple - hibernate during the daylight hours, feed and copulate at night, and protect the swarm. Always. This simple, animalistic regime, combined with the physiological changes, had made the feeders super-predators, and was proving to be an evolutionary success. So these creatures, incapable of experiencing a human emotion like confidence, slept as the dead - unable to imagine that any real harm could befall them. But their sense of security was misplaced because on four small digital, LCD screens nearby, red numbers winked methodically in silence, counting down the seconds to the feeders’ demise.
-
“Where are you taking us?” asked Dylan, trying not to show the fear that was creeping up his spine like a poisonous spider.
The hairy brute in the back seat of the Hummer glared at him but didn’t say a word. He simply smiled and went back to staring out the window. Matt and Montana had been thrown into the back seat of the SUV in front, and Dylan knew that they were being taken to the high school, where their fate would be determined by a bunch of foul-smelling Neanderthals with too much time on their hands.
“Not a chatterbox, eh?” taunted Dylan. “I thought we would could be buddies.”
Dylan almost hoped that his irreverent attitude would elicit some reaction from this barbarian, but his silence was even more unsettling than a punch to the face. As the car turned into the street where the school was located, Dylan saw Montana’s panicked face peering through the rear window of the car in front. Then a large hand appeared, whipping her head back around to the front, as the school loomed up ahead like a ghost ship. The marauder caravan of choppers and SUVs reached its destination, and a large gate was swung open by one of the biggest, ugliest men Dylan had ever seen, and the vehicles rolled into what had once been a car park for teachers.
What happened next was so swift and devoid of emotion that the three captives barely registered what was happening. They were dragged from their SUVs unceremoniously by six marauders, as the rest of the entourage climbed from their motorbikes and wandered away laughing and chatting. Matt, Dylan and Montana were stripped of anything that could be used as a weapon, and marched inside the front doors of the school together in silence. Dylan smiled at his friends, in an attempt to give them some confidence, but it was clear that they were scared out of their wits. Montana was crying, the tears making tracks down her dirty face, while Matt had gone the colour of a dead fish. Neither of them returned Dylan’s smile.
The inside of the school was unpleasant, to say the least. The institution, that had once been a place of dreams and aspirations, now looked as if an insane murderer had decorated it after a bad acid trip. The walls were covered in painted slogans, each more violent and perverse than the last; the floor was littered with empty beer and liquor bottles; food scraps were everywhere, including the walls and ceiling, and some of the more interesting stains around the place looked awfully like blood. Dylan was feeling a lot less confident about their situation as they were pushed up against a wall and told to wait, while one of the marauders knocked on the door of the former Principal’s office.
“Come!” ordered a hoarse male voice from behind the door.
The marauder stepped inside the office while Dylan, Matt and Montana stood beside their armed guards, wondering how long they had to live, and if they would ever see Sally, Bonnie and Gabby again. After a minute or so the marauder returned, followed closely by a man whose face was covered with so much scar tissue that it was difficult to identify any facial features at all. He walked over to the trio and studied them through his one good eye, as a horse trainer might appraise a new prospect, before turning to the guards and commenting, as if speaking through gravel, “You’ve done well. These ones look very fit. The last choices have been useless. Hardly worth the bother.”
The guards smiled and nodded dutifully at their master’s praise, then “Scarface” walked over to Montana and let his good eye wander up and down her body. He reached out and touched her cheek with a withered hand and as Montana cringed in revulsion, Dylan wondered what had caused this sociopath’s injuries. He also wondered was how he would be able to kill this freak and help his friends escape from this hellish prison.
“I like her,” said Scarface, with an expression that might have been a smile. “Don’t put her with the others. I want her with me.”
With that, the guards on either side of Montana took hold of an arm and marched her into the leader’s office and closed the door.
“You fucking asshole!” yelled Matt, “What are you doing...?”
Before Matt could finish his sentence, however, the closest marauder punched him in the side of the head, sending him to the floor where he lay semi-conscious, while Dylan was restrained by the remaining guards.
“Easy there young friend,” said 'Scarface', laughing as if they were old acquaintances. “You shouldn’t get my comrades here all fired up. They love a bit of gratuitous violence. If you do as you’re told you might just survive a little longer. I do love that feistiness, though! Very commendable! You’re going to need that soon.”
Dylan strained against the hold of the guards, but their bulk and strength was too much for him. He stared down Scarface, and tried to maintain control of his emotions.
“Hey handsome, how’d you get to be in charge here? It couldn’t have been by winning a beauty contest, that’s for sure.”
The leader stared back and didn’t speak. For a moment Dylan thought he might have pushed the man too far, as a malicious glare nailed him to the wall. Then the freak reached into his pocket, and Dylan feared he was about to become the latest victim of the marauders after all. A twisted smile appeared on the leader’s face.
“Yes, you might be a bit of fun, I think,” Scarface leered, as he held the object up towards Dylan’s face.
As Dylan tried to twist his head away, though, the guards gripped his skull with large, powerful hands and pushed him back hard against the wall. A strong chemical smell assaulted Dylan’s nostrils and it was only after he felt an unusual, soft sensation of pressure on his forehead, that he realised he’d been drawn upon by a permanent marker.
“You’re number eight,” Scarface boasted happily. “Your friend will be number nine,” he added, as he crouched down on the floor where Matt lay, before inscribing a large '9' on his forehead.
A couple of minutes later, Dylan and Matt were standing outside a locked room, being held by four marauder guards, while a fifth unlocked a heavy steel door. Matt was still a little groggy from the blow to the head, but had been able to walk to length of the corridor alongside. As soon as the door was opened, their captors threw Dylan and Matt into the room, where they landed on the floor with a painful jolt. They scrambled to their feet as the door slammed shut behind them, and realised as they looked around, that they were not alone. Sitting dejectedly on the floor in the pale afternoon gloom were seven more survivors, each with a large, black number marked clearly on their forehead.
After they had spent a few minutes making very basic introductions, Dylan tried to get as much information from his fellow prisoners as he could. Matt tried to ignore a pounding headache and had difficulty keeping up with conversations, so Dylan made him as comfortable as possible, as he tried to assess the seriousness of their situation. The most gregarious of his companions was a middle-aged man named Peter from Sydney, who had been captured after heeding the siren song of his dr
eams to head west. He had stopped at Carswell a week ago to refuel and replenish supplies, but had been taken by the marauders and locked in this room.
“Number Three is the only one left, since I was first here,” he informed Dylan ominously. “The others have been captured more recently.”
“What’s happening here?” asked Dylan. “What happens if they take you from this room? Do they let you go? What about the numbers on our forehead? What are they for?”
“Firstly, I doubt very much they’re letting us go,” answered Peter sadly. “Secondly, the numbers are how you get picked.”
“What do you mean?”
“Each afternoon, at about four o’clock, the scar-faced chap makes an appearance here with his goons and picks a number out of a hat. If it’s your number, they take you out of the room and that’s the last time we see you.”
Dylan stared at Peter, “Does anyone come back?”
Peter’s stood and went to the barred window, s into the distance. “What do you think?”
There was such a defeated mood in the room that Dylan didn’t even attempt to make conversation with the others. In all likelihood they would not be spending much time together and, unless he could come up with an escape plan, he knew that they might never leave the school alive. He went over to his Matt who was sitting up, and trying to read the time on his watch.
“Hey Dylan,” mumbled Matt. “What time is it? I can’t see my watch properly.”
“Wow man, they must have hit you harder than I thought. You don’t have a watch any more. They took it, along with all of our other stuff.”
Matt forced a smile, “Ooh, that doesn’t sound good. Where are we?”
“At the high school. The ugly prick that’s in charge here has Montana! Why did you want to know the time, by the way? Do you have a hot date?”
“Huh? The time? Oh, I was thinking about the bombs. Do you think they went off?”
“I fucking hope so man, otherwise we’ve been captured for nothing.”
Matt looked at Dylan with an expression that seemed to summarise all of the horrors that the young farmer had endured over the last few months.
“Hey Dylan?”
“Yeah man, what’s up?”
“I want to go home.”
