by Peter Liney
He squealed in agony, like I’d cut him in two, and finally I knew that, no matter what I been telling you about being a changed man, about hating violence now, I was back thirty years, through that fine wall that shores up humanity. You don’t think about blood then. Nor pain. You’ve no regard for the flimsiness of the flesh, the scant protection offered by the body to its organs, the foolish vulnerability of the human face. You just got to destroy whatever’s in front of you, irrespective of what it is and whether it screams or cuts or looks like it might damage you in return. I started swinging and slashing at everyone—and mean, drugged-up sonsofbitches they may have been, but it didn’t take long for that look to come into their eyes. The doubt. The fear. This old bastard was crazier than any of them. One panicked, ran for the door, and immediately the others followed.
As they sprinted out into the fog they were silhouetted against a series of explosions. Bailey and his team of old soldiers were throwing their Molotovs, trying to mop up as many as they could down on the second level. It was mayhem. Carnival time. Adrenaline was punching at the inside of my head like hot air filling a balloon. But we still hadn’t achieved our prime objective.
I turned to Lena. “Where is he?”
She didn’t answer, just ran through to the bedroom and I followed on behind.
I tell you, the sight of it almost stopped me dead. Amongst all the shit of the Island, to be suddenly confronted by antique furniture, a four-poster bed, gilt and chintz, red satin draped around the walls, seemed like the biggest obscenity of all. But there was no sign of De Grew.
“He’s not here,” I said, making a quick check of the wardrobes and under the bed.
“He must be!” Lena cried, furiously biting her lip.
“He’s not!”
I went back out into the main room, searching through everywhere, throwing open doors, going crazy. Where the hell was he? Then she called out to me.
“Clancy!”
I rushed back into the bedroom. She was standing in exactly the same position but had the most terrible expression on her face. Pain, revulsion, I don’t know, but I knew I’d seen it before.
“What is it?” I asked.
She sniffed the air a couple of times and for a moment I thought she was going to burst into tears.
“Lena?”
“He’s here.”
“What?”
“He’s here! In this room!”
Again I looked around. “No!”
She started sniffing once more, slowly making her way over to the corner. I thought she’d gone crazy. There was no one there. The damn room was empty. Then she began pulling at the red satin curtains, trying to tug them down, and a concealed door swung open in front of her.
It was him, of course. Standing there wearing just a pair of striped briefs, grotesque in his near-nakedness, holding up a metal club, ready to take a swing. But it wasn’t him my eyes fell upon. It was something that sickened me probably more than anything ever has in my life. He had this little garbage urchin with him. She couldn’t have been any more than ten or so. Thin, naked, her body twisted in humiliation, a long trail of dried blood down her legs.
I guess he heard the commotion and hid. Probably had this secret hideaway built as a precaution against someone ever coming for him. Whatever, he sure looked relieved when he saw it was only an old man and a blind girl.
“Lena!” he sneered, like he was determined not to appear surprised. “Welcome back.”
It was too much. After all this time, all he’d done to her, to find him like this. The little girl started to whimper and it pushed Lena over the edge. She leapt at him, screaming at the top of her voice, swinging her club with all her strength. I hesitated: this was her moment, I couldn’t just wade in. She got in a couple of good shots, on the shoulder and arm, but the rest of the time she was so out of control she was just swiping and missing. He waited till she began to tire, till she swung herself off balance, then stepped forward and cracked her on the back of the head, and Lena fell to the ground, unconscious.
Never in my life have I felt such rage, such hatred, toward anyone. I swung that big metal bar at him so hard that when I missed, it shattered the doorframe from top to bottom. I ripped down the curtains, I put holes in the wood-paneled walls, but he was so quick I never got in one telling blow. He just kept blocking and dodging, doing all he could to survive, knowing I couldn’t keep this up for long, till I was forced to back off to get my breath back.
We started circling one another, staring into each other’s faces. Lena’s description fit him pretty well—mid- to late thirties, I guess; longish blond hair, a sculpted beard, the sort of face that looked like you’d break your fist on it, and a big muscular body reinforced with fat—but she’d left one thing out: his eyes. So pale and empty, like someone up there hadn’t done their job properly and he’d come off the production line without emotions or feelings. Babies born with those eyes should be put straight to sleep. They’re from another place, a world where they scream all day and eat each other at night. I remember this hit man Mr. Meltoni had working for him in the early days. Boy, did he love his work. I never knew a guy who liked killing more. Someone got him one night with a car bomb. Rumor had it, it was Mr. Meltoni; that he just got so nervous of this guy, how unpredictable, how unstable he was, he decided the best thing was to just get him rubbed out. What we’re talking about is a madness, a raw emotion that can’t even bear to live in its host body, that can’t abide the restrictions of mortality. De Grew had that look about him. You could take his limbs off one by one and he’d still keep coming for you.
He started to taunt me, sneering in my face. “Hey. Old man. That all you got?”
I rushed him again, swinging with my bar, but I missed and he just laughed. I pivoted around, kicked him on the hip, and when he stumbled back, managed to get in a real hard blow on his shoulder before he could recover.
He glared at me, almost as if he’d been willing to make a concession or two but not anymore. “I’m going to ram that fucking thing down your throat so far it’ll come out your floppy old ass,” he snarled.
If he was trying to undermine me with all that “old” stuff, it wasn’t working. In fact, all those years of feeling bitter and alone were starting to scream out for their revenge. I leapt at him again, swinging my bar back and forth, fending off his club, and managed to put a gash in his wrist. For a moment he stopped and stared at the blood. He had this expression on his face, like he couldn’t believe an old man could be doing this to him. It made me feel even stronger. I swung at him again, giving it everything I had, feeling his defenses start to weaken, more and more of my blows getting through. Then I got him a beauty, right smack on the forehead, and down he went.
I mean, as far as I could see, that was it. It was all over. I raised my weapon, blade downward, ready to drive it into his chest, and the lights went out.
I knew immediately what had happened. One of the buildings Bailey and his gang set fire to must’ve housed the complex’s generator. We were immersed in a darkness almost as total as that of the tunnels. I stabbed repeatedly at the floor, trying to finish De Grew off, but he managed to wriggle away. I swept from side to side, thrashing around, frantically trying to find him, but became so desperate I made the mistake of silhouetting myself against the open door, and with the slight glow of the fires still seeping through, he leapt at me and knocked me over.
I was on the floor with him astride me before I even realized what was happening. He wrenched the bar out of my hands, then rammed it down across my throat. I struggled and kicked, twisting this way and that, desperately trying to breathe, to wriggle free. I mean, I could do it. Of course, I could. I was the big guy. There wasn’t anyone stronger than me. Pushing that bar off my windpipe was going to be just like doing a bench press: get your shoulders back, tighten your grip, then thrust with all your might. The only thing was, the bar just jerked up a little, made the slightest of movements, like a twitch, then clamped firmly b
ack down on my throat.
I tried again. This time going right down inside myself, summoning up every bit of strength I’ve ever known—from the old neighborhood, from the days of Mr. Meltoni when I was the most feared big guy around—I gave that damn thing everything I had. But I still couldn’t get it off me. Again I tried. Again and again, till finally I was forced to realize that the greatest fear of my life was coming true: this guy was too strong for me. All that training, running and lifting weights hadn’t made the slightest difference—I was up against an opponent utterly unrelenting and without mercy. Or to put it another way: De Grew might’ve been about to beat me, but it was Time I was really falling before.
He jammed the bar down even harder onto my windpipe. I could feel it starting to collapse, the sinews of my airway cracking as they were being crushed. Pain was spreading across my chest, my vision was blurring, my head threatening to burst open. Then slowly, like the lowering of the final shroud, I felt my grip loosen, the darkness of the night going down into my soul, and I died.
CHAPTER TWENTY
I guess it was only for a few seconds, but it might’ve been for longer. I slowly became aware of life again, of a further unnatural dawn and this heavy dull weight being dragged off me. Not death, nor a man, just a burden. As I struggled out from beneath it, I felt a warm, wet handle sticking out of it.
Really, he hadn’t stood a chance. Not in the dark. Not up against her. See, while he’d been so busy choking me, Lena had been recovering, finding one of the machetes the Wastelords dropped earlier, stalking up behind him.
Despite the pain in my throat, this feeling that it was ruptured somehow, I grabbed hold of her and hugged her for all I was worth. I mean, literally—she just saved my life.
Lena called out to the young girl, told her it was all right, that she could come out from her hiding place, but the poor kid was so frightened she bolted past us and out into the night. Lena shouted after her, even went to follow, but it was too late. I mean, you didn’t have to be a genius to figure out that that was the major reason why she did it. Why it was so personal. All those things he’d done to her, that she’d been festering over ever since, and now finding them being done to someone else. It wasn’t only my life she saved.
I don’t know how long we stayed there like that, squeezing each other as tightly as we could, binding our strength together, feeling a surge of relief coursing between us, but suddenly someone called to us from outside, begging for our help, and we realized this night still had a long way to go.
We both rushed out. It was Bailey and half a dozen or so of his old soldiers. Jesus, were they in a bad way. Beaten, bleeding, Bailey’s arms slashed all the way up, I guess from trying to fend off blows from a machete. Four more came tottering up through the fog, two of them carrying another, her leg almost severed just above the knee.
“There were more than we thought,” Bailey gasped, desperately trying to get his breath back. “They’re right behind us!”
No sooner had he said it, the first of the Wastelords came bounding out of the murk bearing a blood-smeared machete, howling like the leader of a pack of wolves.
We didn’t have a great deal of choice, there was no way out other than the way they were arriving. All we could do was stand and fight, try to exchange blow for blow. More and more of them appeared, running straight at us, the old soldier with the severed leg, left on the ground while her companions tried to make a stand, was killed with a single blow to the back of her head.
Again I started swinging that big metal bar, managing to down the first Wastelord but aware that I was tiring, that the odds against us were multiplying by the second. It was as if the fog had ruptured and blood was gushing out of it, that by killing De Grew we’d somehow made them stronger. And in that moment I realized what maybe a more intelligent man would’ve realized all along: things weren’t going to get better, they were going to get worse. Any of these Wastelords could take over and make this place even more of a hell than it’d been up till now.
Bailey got cut off. Three of them chased and hemmed him in over by the woodpile. I did everything I could to get over there, to help, but there were just too many bodies in the way. Through the fog I saw him fall, gallantly struggling as they were hacking at his prone form, over and over, till he finally stopped.
One by one we were being overwhelmed. More by instinct than anything, Lena and me were standing back-to-back, her swinging her club, me that big-bladed bar. Looking out for each other. I mean, we knew it was all over, that she’d only given my life the most temporary of reprieves, but sure as hell this foolish old big guy and brave blind young woman were going to keep fighting till we felt the other fall and knew there was nothing left to do but follow. That there was nothing left to live for.
Then suddenly, above all the noise around us, the cursing and threatening, the cries of pain and distress, we heard an old familiar sound. A terrifying shrill scream that, even in that moment, made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. For so long it had haunted our dreams, brought terror to our lives, and now it was approaching up the hill.
The moment we heard it, everyone, Wastelords and old folk, stopped fighting and turned in the direction it was coming from. As if we all knew that our efforts to settle this were as nothing compared with those who were about to arrive. Some of the Wastelords started sniggering, jeering at us, relishing what they were sure was about to happen.
They came bursting out of the night like the children of hell, all shrieking and wild-eyed, dressed and made up in their insane fashion. And despite everything that’s happened, despite getting to know some of them well, they still frightened the hell out of me. I tell you, it’s something else. Something from the forbidden area of your unconscious that no one ever dares enter or talk about.
For one agonizing moment they paused, some bumping into the backs of others, assessing the situation, looking from Wastelords to old folk. One of the old soldiers raised his captured machete, daring them to attack, ready to make his last stand. But as one, all of the kids turned toward the Wastelords and rushed at them.
I tell you, you never seen anything like it—and you don’t want to either. They fought with such ferocity, such anger, all the pain and frustration the Wastelords had channeled at us now being turned back on them. I mean, most Wastelords are pretty big guys, and all of them were armed with machetes, but the kids outnumbered them so heavily they were like bees buzzing around lumbering bears.
I saw Gordie swinging away, making up for his lack of size with speed, winning out time and time again. Little Arturo following behind, picking up the pieces, hitting anyone who’d already been hit and looked like they might get back up. I mean, they might be kids, but this was no game. They were looking to do damage, to do as much harm as they could. I saw Hannah—I mean, shit, even among them, she is one helluva weird kid. She was dancing. Performing a kind of ballet. Wielding that silver bat to deadly effect, hitting anyone she could, like it was part of her routine. Grace and violence. I tell you, I didn’t know what to make of it.
And it wasn’t just “our” kids either. There were hundreds of them. We weren’t even fighting anymore. We got pushed aside, turned into involuntary and horrified spectators.
Jimmy and Delilah followed out of the fog, a look of relief appearing on their faces when they saw Lena and me, which must’ve matched ours at seeing them.
Delilah started to scan the mayhem for Arturo. Soon catching sight of him, so small among all that grown-up brutality, still swinging his club for all he was worth.
She turned to me, an appalled expression on her face. “Clancy! For God’s sake!” she protested. “Do something!”
I looked at her, then back at what was going on. I saw the Oriental guy, the one who’d given me a hard time, and several of his gang, dropping their machetes, trying to surrender, but the kids wouldn’t let them. They just picked the machetes up and carried on fighting, hacking at the very Wastelords who’d surrendered to them. And you
want to know something? As wrong as it might seem, I thought about all those nights in the Village: the drugs, the terrible things that had been done to Lena and others, the bodies going back to the Mainland for spare parts. I thought about everything the Wastelords had ever done, and simply turned away. Tonight would be the last of it. Afterward I’d make the kids burn their killing clothes and we’d face the problems of rehabilitation together. But for now I was going to let them do whatever they wanted. Destroy this stinking evil once and for all.
Why I didn’t notice, I’ll never know. I guess I was just too preoccupied. It was Lena who first realized. Maybe cuz she wasn’t so distracted, or cuz she’s got more of an aptitude for that kind of thing.
“Clancy!” she called to me.
I turned to her. Something about the tone in her voice, the expression on her face, froze my heart.
“What is it?” I asked.
She raised her head a little, sniffing the air, like she had the frayed edge of a smell she feared more than any other. Then she directed her face to the sky, like she was desperately trying to force her eyes to see, and I realized. Oh, God, no!
I screamed out to the kids, but there was so much noise going on, they couldn’t hear me.
“Stop! Stop! . . . Gordie!”
I started to run toward them, hollering at the top of my voice, but I never made it. There was a sudden flash, like they opened the door of heaven and light spilled out, and one of them fell dead. Then another. And another.
Somehow a wind had gotten up, out of nothing and it was rapidly sweeping the fog out of the sky. Lasers were coming back on all over, firing at us from every direction. It was wholesale slaughter. In a matter of seconds there must’ve been a dozen or more kids lying dead on the ground, their legs and arms twitching, as if, even in death, they were registering the shock of what happened to them. I saw Luxurious trying to force his way through to me, like he knew he was going to be next, then there was a flash that scarred right across my eyes and he was gone. Time and time again that light spat out across the night and claimed another child. It was as if this was it. This was the end. After all these years of torment and misery, they’d finally gathered us here together so they could destroy us all. I screamed out to those satellites, over and over, begging them to stop.
