The ground floor of the building that served solely as a bar had become affectionately known as “Beer Here.” None of the Allies knew the place’s actual name, but as that was the only English sign outside, the name stuck. Apparently, a single sign reading “beer here” was enough of a welcome to Americans for them to overlook the barrage of propaganda glorifying their enemy.
The building’s location--in the middle of the forest between the opposing encampments--was its only redeeming quality. The walk reminded Moto of his days driving to back country liquor stores scattered across the county line. The comparison was lost on his friends that weren’t raised in the dry counties of the South.
The most unique feature of Beer Here was its glaring lack of females. Most all Puerto Rican women were aware of the reputation the bar had quickly gained and elected to steer clear. Moto often blamed the behavior of the Chinese men who weren’t used to having so many women to choose from, but, in truth, the behavior of the Americans, including Moto, was not much better. The Chinese men had perfected the art of mitigating their sexual lust as the number of potential mates in their home country dwindled, but it took some getting used to for the Americans in the recently evacuated region. Currently, bloodlust and alcohol were their substitutes of choice. As it was, most men on both sides of the line had given up on their expectations to make it back home, and Beer Here was the perfect place for a man to blow through his accumulating wealth, as well as quench the demands of his ever accumulating testosterone. For how unappealing the place was aesthetically, John knew that a great deal of wealth must pass through the doors, and he had every intention of getting his earned share.
As they entered, the muscular bartender glanced up from his hunched-over position as he continued adding water to the half empty liquor bottles behind the bar.
“Hey, uh, we were hoping to…” the speech John had practiced in his head wasn’t coming out as confidently as he’d hoped. He was glad when the large man pointed them with his funnel toward the stairs behind the bar.
A voice rang out from behind the closed door at the end of the brief hallway upstairs, “Wait there for just a second, and we’ll get this thing over with.”
There was a hint of an accent, but the Chinaman’s English was surprisingly smooth. The brothers could partially hear his conversation but could only understand the voice coming from the man in the next room.
“We don’t need to explain why. Just let them know it will work out for both of us in the long run. He doesn’t get a say in the matter,” the man’s voice commanded with authority. “There’s no time for slow playing this any longer than we already have. The estimates are well over seven billion, and if we want some say in how that decreases fourteen fold, we’d better get started,” the man spoke into a wireless phone as he nudged the door opened with his foot. He motioned over his shoulder for the brothers to enter.
The two walked into the room as the source of the voice had already turned his back and now walked behind his desk and began rustling through maps and diagrams with an annoyed look on his face. A face that, from the new angle, the brothers could see was grotesquely scarred. There was a small circular scar on the right side of the man’s head which appeared to be a gunshot wound. In the area where you would normally expect to find an ear, there was nothing more than a hairless crater of unnatural, wrinkled skin. The brothers found themselves looking at any inanimate object in the room that could be used to avoid eye contact with the monstrous man as he spoke into the phone. “It shouldn’t be a hard sell. Just explain that most are a peaceful people, and that this union will only ensure peace for future generations. Listen, I’ve got company, we’ll have to finish this later.”
The man hung up the phone without waiting for a response and sat behind his large, cedar desk in an impressive leather chair. It was centered in front of a wide window with the curtains drawn. The gaudy furniture didn’t at all match the rest of the room’s décor, much less the rest of the building. Water stains littered the white ceiling, and carpet had been had been carelessly cut to cover the original rickety, wooden floors. Atop the immaculate desk set a laptop, and several ancient-looking books. John recognized a bible, the Quran, the Torah, and a few others he couldn’t distinguish. The book that sat atop the pile was an impressive, leather bound book with golden, unfamiliar text and an owl insignia on the spine, marked 5778. He looked up and realized that the man was waiting for him to refocus so that he could begin.
“I’m not actually here very often,” the disfigured man began. “You’re lucky you caught me. I understand that you expect you have some money coming to you.”
John and Moto exchanged an uncomfortable glance, but remained silent. The man was well-informed.
“Take a seat, gentlemen. You’ll have to forgive my behavior, but I knew that the best way to get an American’s attention was through his finances, and since that theory proved true for you, then what I have to say should really capture your full consideration.”
The two brothers sat uncomfortably on the front edges of the two chairs facing the man’s desk.
“Listen man, I just want my money,” John feebly offered as he shifted his weight to lean his elbow against the narrow, wooden armrest.
The Asian grinned, “Oh, I can do you one better. Why settle for a small percentage of each fight’s winnings when you’re the one that has to wake up the next morning with the broken nose?”
John realized he had been rubbing his index finger across the swollen crest of his nose. Trying to look casual, he stiffly lowered his elbows to the awkwardly arranged arm rests and cupped each of his palms over his kneecaps.
The man grinned and continued. “I propose that you fight for me, and I can assure you that the increase in compensation will be considerable. You will fight who I say, when I say, and most importantly, how I say.”
John raised his eyebrows in response. “I’m guessing the guy I fought last night was one of yours?”
The Asian leaned back in his chair and offered only a brief exhale to serve as his laugh. “As far as you’re concerned, every man in this building who’s worth a damn is one of mine.”
“Listen man, I’m not trying to step on any toes or anything, I just wanted to come get what I’ve already earned. I appreciate the offer, but I think you’re confused as to which side I’m on.”
The gruesomely scarred man stood and walked over to his personal, un-diluted bar. All John could see was the man’s back, but he could hear the clinking of ice cubes falling into a glass.
“This Russian stuff is fantastic,” the man commented. “Though, nothing compares to the stuff those Cambodians drink. You boys ever had that? I suppose you haven’t had much reason to go over that way. I spent some important days out there a few years ago. Ended up leaving with a little keepsake,” he said as he turned and indicated the gruesome scars. “It worked out, though. I also acquired my Owl of Athena book you were admiring. Anyways, as I was saying, out there they drink the venom sacs of a viper with a glass of cognac. It beats the hell out of those tequila worms you guys are probably more accustomed to.” He held out another glass, rattling the ice as a question.
“No thank you, I’m still feeling last night,” John replied.
Moto stood and nodded to take him up on his offer and, after catching a scolding look from John, asked, “What? Hair of the dog that bit ya.”
John also stood, but in protest. “Look, sir. Nothing against what you’ve got going on here, but I’m not interested in winding up like your other fighter from last night. There’s always someone bigger and stronger… and when it comes to fighting, I don’t take orders. That’s it. If you could just give me my share, we’ll be out of your hair, and in all likelihood, be right back tonight to spend the money in this fine little establishment you’ve got here.”
The man’s body language stiffened as he stared down the much larger American. “Believe me when I tell you that the little establishment I’ve got going here is just a drop in the
bucket. Son, I hate to be the one to let you know, but you’ve ignored one of the most important rules of war and grossly underestimated me.” He took a gulp of his drink, and continued in a raspy voice, “Understand that the sole reason my face is not the one plastered on all of these walls is the lacking marketability of my profile.”
“I’m sorry if I’ve insulted you. I can see that you’re a religious man,” John said, acknowledging the bible on the desk.
“This Bible? This is for research, not your feel good stories. I’m not a pawn like you. We have nothing in common. These aren’t my rules to live by. They’re my guides for shepherding,” the disfigured man scoffed. “You pawns. You like to preach on the teachings that make you feel warm inside. You ignore the prophecies where a third of your people perish from pestilence and with famine, and another third fall by the sword, leaving the rest to scatter into the winds only to be pursued by the sword. Your emotions are tossed around with every ebb and flow that your leaders dream up. You don’t know what you believe. They tell you what you believe.”
The grotesque man’s watch beeped.
The man signaled with a dismissive wave of his hand. He muttered something as he waved, but John only recognized one word. “Adhan” was a word his childhood friend had used, but John couldn’t recall its meaning. The brothers turned to check the exit when they heard the squeak of a floor board behind them. The most imposing soldiers that they had yet seen were entering the room.
“You were right. There is almost always someone bigger and stronger. But you are wrong when it comes to following orders. What I say goes. Soon enough, even the people that have been leading you around by the nose will be eating out of my hand.” He re-directed his attention to the soldiers behind them. “They’re not willing to do this the easy way.”
The two brothers turned back again and saw the largest of the soldiers approaching with shotgun in hand. The glanced at each other and raised their hands in surrender, each carrying a baffled expression for what had unfolded.
John pleaded, “Whoa, man. This isn’t gonna gain you anything. What do you think this is gonna accomplish? If this is my other option, I’ll happily fight for you.”
The disfigured man walked over behind his chair, glass of New Stolichnaya in hand. “The time for talk has come and gone. I appreciate the offer, but rest assured that I’ll get what I need from you. Unfortunately, I may have not been entirely truthful with you earlier about what exactly that is. Please accept my apology.”
The man inhaled as he slid a coaster under his glass with his middle finger. He then turned his back to the men and tore open the central window’s curtain to reveal a large area at the back of the building and what appeared to be dozens of dog kennels hidden from the outside world by ten foot fences and camouflage netting atop the entire yard. He motioned to the nearest of his men, and the soldier gestured with a jerk of his shotgun barrel for the brothers to head back down the stairs behind a leading guard.
Once out back, John realized that the kennels weren’t intended for dogs at all, but people. The faces of those entrapped were alarmingly stoical. The victims were covered in what appeared to be their own blood, and most of them lay completely still, save for the rising of their chests from an occasional breath. Their eyes carried the glazed, emotionless look of a dead fish that sent a chill down John’s spine. Once closer, John could see that the pupil of each person was piercingly white. The sight froze John and Moto who could do nothing but stare. The guard shoved the brothers forward, but their shock remained. The unblinking prisoners appeared as if they were strung out on drugs, and only when John walked past a cage too closely did a prisoner begin to show any further sign of life. Instead of the expected acknowledgment of his existence, their dull eyes jolted into awareness with an animalistic look of rage. Those nearest to John began to feed off of each other’s anger and excitement, and the group grew more and more vocal and violent. Grunts spread throughout the yard and progressed into moaning and high shrieks of growling displeasure. The voices multiplied and grew into a symphony of animalistic aggression. Some of the imprisoned grinded their faces so forcefully against the bars that their thin, dry flesh began to peel back. Their disregard for their own well-being reminded John of the way a Siamese fighting fish would slam its face into a glass bowl attempting to attack its own reflection, even to the point of death.
The odor lingering in the dirt yard was unbearable, as the prisoners hadn’t even a coffee can for their excrement. The distinct odor that only death can produce lingered mercilessly in the breezeless yard. Even the nearest soldier had trouble stomaching the aroma and reached to his back pocket for his handkerchief.
The guards’ radios simultaneously erupted in chatter. The soldier that appeared to be in charge pressed the call button and began attempting to speak to someone on the other end, but there was no pause in the broadcast that was now escalating into screams. The unoccupied soldier tried to keep the brothers at gunpoint as he slowly began to lose his composure and gave in to a relentless coughing fit, struggling to cover his mouth and nose to avoid the putrid aroma with each inhalation. The other soldier scolded the younger man and shouted out some unknown orders before rushing back inside the building as he yelled into his radio. John realized that the young, coughing soldier was now the only one watching them. The screams of the other guard’s conversation were still ringing out loudly on the young guard’s radio. The man finally controlled his breathing and lowered his shotgun to his side as he reached with his free hand to lower his radio’s volume.
John had been anticipating that this might occur and that the guard would temporarily have only one hand on the heavy shotgun. For a brief moment, it would be impossible for the man to raise, aim, and fire the weapon with any sort of urgency. Apparently, Moto had the same exact thought and was already in action. Moto’s donkey kick backwards into the soldier’s right knee sent the man straight to the dirt. The joint was severely hyper extended and completely mangled, his lower leg pointing in an impossible direction.
In a flash, Moto scooped up the shotgun and had it pointed squarely at the young soldier’s face.
“No shoot--no shoot!” the man begged repeatedly in his best attempt at English and between his sporadic gasps for air. His attention would wander temporarily to his knee as he rolled around, writhing in pain, before looking back to make desperate eye contact with Moto.
John turned his head, anticipating what would happen next. He knew how hotheaded Moto could be and fully expected a deafening blast from the gun at any moment. Instead, though, he heard just a thud of the stock slamming into the man’s head and a slap as his sweaty back clapped against the compacted dirt. Pleasantly surprised, John noted that the upstairs shades were once again drawn on the office windows, and he passed some nearby cages in search of anything that could be useful in tying up the unconscious soldier.
With all of the commotion, the men in cages grew hysterical. One became so worked up that he had actually begun to spew vomit through his cage’s bars. John despised vomit. The lingering smells were already enough, but hearing the splatter as a person disgorged was always too much for him, and he instinctively turned back. Looking up, he noticed that Moto was looking past him with concerned bewilderment. Turning again, John noticed that the vomit was very odd looking, almost like spent coffee grounds. Then he saw it. The man who had just vomited was the same man he had fought the previous night. The man’s skin had lost its color, and his eyes now carried that same hate-filled, animal look as all of the rest, accentuated by the absence of color in his pupil.
“What do you think could have…?” Before John could finish his thought, a blast rang out behind him and echoed across the yard.
∞∞∞∞∞∞∞
John turned in disbelief to find that it was not Moto who had fired. A loud voice rang out from above them, and Moto dropped to a knee as he swung around, taking aim at the balcony above. It was the disfigured man, accompanied by several Chinese soldiers with t
heir guns drawn.
“I had feared that trying to do this the polite way would cause more trouble than you’re worth,” the man was saying. “A mistake I won’t make again. Lock them up for testing.”
Moto surrendered his gun to the numerous approaching soldiers and again held his hands up in surrender. A soldier forced each of the brothers to their knees with a forceful kick to the back of the leg. John turned as he heard a brief yelp from his brother, and then everything went black.
John awoke to the chill of a bare, concrete floor underneath him. He was trapped behind bars, and his head throbbed mercilessly. He looked through the bars to see what appeared to be a make-shift lab filled with primitive chemistry equipment in a windowless, cinderblock room. He realized that Moto was already awake and sitting upright on his cot in the separate but adjoining cell. John was used to thinking himself out of predicaments, but the current situation didn’t leave him much to work with. All of the room’s lab equipment was well out of reach from the two cells which were surrounded on three sides by sturdy walls. The cells held nothing but an aluminum framed cot and a small bucket. He even noticed that the lock on each gate was tamper proof, and there was only one door into and out of the lab.
“What do you think?” John asked, “What do they have planned for us?”
And the Blood Ran Black Page 3
