by Sara King
Rat stumbled. “What the…”
“It’s gotta be that fucking dildo,” Tyson muttered, shielding his eyes with one arm. “Come on.”
Indeed, as they crested the small hill overlooking the scene and came to a halt, they saw Sam’s dildo lying on the ground, electrified like something from the bowels of a Lethian megastorm, arcing lightning fifty digs up and down the trunks of nearby trees. Sam was nowhere in sight. The kreenit itself was rearing back, roaring and thrashing as if it had eaten something bad.
Which it probably had.
With the kreenit distracted, both of them dropped to their stomachs to survey the scene, which could have been taken right out of a Jahul horror-vid. Men and women, a lot of whom Rat recognized, were ripped apart en masse on the glossy, blood-soaked ground—an indication that the kreenit wasn’t hungry, and was simply playing with its food to pass the time.
“Shit,” Tyson whispered, barely audible. “You know how to kill that thing?”
“I need it to be facing the opposite direction,” Rat said, “but yeah.”
“Define facing the other direction,” Tyson said warily.
“I need a shot at the back of its head,” Rat whispered back. She would have given anything at this point to be protected by Max’s heat-cancellation technology, because she knew at any second, the kreenit was going to notice them and then both she and Tyson would follow in Sam’s footsteps.
“Okay,” Tyson whispered. “Say I get its attention. How much time would it take to kill it?”
“Too much,” Rat replied. The kreenit continued to scream and shake its head, almost as if whatever it had just swallowed was fighting back.
“Twenty bucks says he’s still alive in there,” Tyson said.
“No way,” Rat whispered back, but she wasn’t so sure…
They waited, but the kreenit swallowed whatever it had been struggling with, then started to stalk around the electrified dildo, snarling, jerking back and howling whenever the arcs of energy hit its muzzle, knocking down trees with its angry thrashing. The kreenit was getting dangerously close, one of the trees hitting the ground only a few digs from them, and Tyson looked about ready to get up and run.
“Hold on,” Rat whispered. “He’s gonna give me a shot.” It wasn’t ideal, because the rifle she currently held was two grades lower than the plasma weapons she was used to using, but it was going to have to do.
Tyson tensed, but she was surprised when he remained motionless in position, waiting. She knew that most, when faced with such raw animal power, would have bolted mindlessly on sheer adrenaline and terror. “Where?” he whispered, sighting on the animal.
“Behind the horns.” Rat waited until the kreenit, snapping and snarling at the dildo, had walked in a semicircle, then, once the bald spot at the back of its head was within sight, she fired.
Tyson fired with her, and the beast jerked as one of their rounds struck home. “Go!” Rat cried, jumping up. “We’ve gotta get at its chest!” She raced down the hill, Tyson close on her heels, and dropped her rifle to pull out her laser knife. She reached the unconscious kreenit’s front quarters and began cutting away scales, both the oil-on-water, silky-smooth outer scales and the gold, glassy-feeling underscales, revealing the purple-tinged flesh underneath. She started hacking away at that to expose a pathway into the creature’s chest…
Already, it was starting to twitch and wake.
“Fire!” she cried, jumping out of the way. Tyson took aim and started emptying his plasma rifle into the creature’s innards.
Before she was fully satisfied it would die, Rat grabbed him, ducked to retrieve her gun, and started running out of range. “Come on!” she cried. “It’s gonna get ugly!”
And indeed, when the kreenit regained its feet, it shrieked and starting clawing at itself, then began shredding the land around it, throwing pieces of trees, bodies, and rocks into the air in its death-throes.
“Whoa,” Tyson whispered, once the house-sized, rainbow-scaled beast had finally gone still. The place where they had been standing was a churned, splintered mess lit up in the continued electric sizzle of Sam’s device. The land had been pulverized for a five-rod radius, all except for its car-sized piles of crap, which it seemed to have avoided on instinct even in its death-throes.
It was then that they heard the muffled groan coming from the kreenit’s body.
Rat and Tyson glanced at each other. Cocking her head, Rat said, “Could he…”
The sound came again, more desperate this time.
“Take my knife!” Rat cried, tossing Tyson her monomolecular hunting blade. She yanked her own laser knife free and rushed down to the kreenit’s stomach and began prying away scales, cutting them free from the purple skin as quickly as she could. Tyson got in beside her and soon they had enough of a space cleared to start hacking at the creature’s belly itself. The muffled grunting sounds, however, had stopped. “Hold on, Sam!” Rat shouted as they cut the creature’s abdomen open, spilling rancid guts everywhere. The stomach, a white balloon of fetid flesh the size of a van, became visible after they pulled intestines and other orange and purple organs away. Climbing up into the mess, Rat stabbed her knife through the inch-thick wall of the stomach lining, then tore downward. Human body parts—as well as tree branches, stones, and roofing tiles—slid out in a wet wave through the slit she had created.
The bodies that came out, however, were unmistakably dead.
“Sam!” Rat called, climbing into the stomach cavity with a flashlight to look for him.
“You think he’s lodged in the esophagus?” Tyson cried, wading into the creature’s innards with her.
“Maybe,” Rat said. “Sam!” When she got no response, she tossed the flashlight to Tyson. “Here, hold this.” She grabbed a pair of booted feet that were only halfway inside the stomach and started yanking on them, throwing her full weight into it. “Sam! Saa—”
The legs came off at a truncated torso, leaving Rat tumbling backwards amidst the stomach acids and body parts.
“Mothers’ scales,” she whispered softly. “Sam…”
“I think I’m going to be sick,” Tyson said. He put his hand to his mouth and started to turn away.
“Hey guys,” Sam said, cocking his head and looking in at them from just outside the abdominal cavity. “See? I told you I’d make something useful with all my late-night tinkering!” He was carrying his dildo in his pocket again, the pink device deceptively quiet, no longer emitting the fifty-dig arcs of electricity that they had unmistakably seen earlier.
Sam glanced at the insides of the creature’s ribs, then at the pile of bodies they’d climbed atop, then back at them. With a little frown of confusion, he said, “Why are you guys crawling around inside a lizard’s stomach?”
Rat, who was covered in viscera both Human and alien, found herself unable to reply.
Tyson, who was similarly doused in gore, said, “We saw you get eaten, Sam.”
Sam gave them a confused look. “Obviously, you didn’t.”
“Well, then how the fuck did you—” Tyson started.
“I threw my lightning weapon at the dragon’s face and buried myself in its hot shit as it was distracted, using the ambient heat to blind it to my presence,” Sam said, as if Tyson was a furg for asking. “I figured if it was like most creatures, it would hesitate in nosing through its own crap to find me. Parasites and all that.”
Indeed, he seemed to have several wriggling black intestinal worms stuck to his crap-soaked shirt, each about the length of his arm.
Rat felt her fists tightening on the wet fluids that now coated her gloves, arms, legs, and every other part of her body. “Sam…” she started, trying not to seethe.
Sam glanced over his shoulder. “Hey look, our wayward flock is back!” Grinning, he turned and waved to the bedraggled groups of people filtering out of the woods towards them. “Come claim your dragon scales!” he called loudly. “These babies are what heirlooms are made of, folks! Tell your grandkids you w
ere part of a dragon slaying! They’re useful as anything from frying pans to riot shields—completely non-stick! Tithes will be made to the main camp in the form of vegetable seeds, cannabis, or survival gear.”
Totally disgusted, Rat climbed out of the beast’s stomach cavity with Tyson. And, as soon as the two of them emerged, a ragged cheer and applause burst out from the little group that had gathered around them—approximately half the size that the Guild had been before the night had started.
Rat blushed, never having liked the limelight, especially after going to work for Mekkval. She bared her teeth in what she tried to make a smile, hoping they would stop. Tyson, too, just gave their gathered supporters a disinterested grunt.
“Great!” Sam said, turning back to her. “Our minions have been properly rebuked for their errant ways. Now we can go find that pole!”
“Sam,” Rat said, brushing past him in such a way that she didn’t touch his stinking, crap-covered body, “you want a pole, you’re gonna carry it. I’m going to go clean off.” Then she turned and started trudging back to camp to sluice the blood and entrails from her hair and clothes.
“Your disobedience is noted and will be addressed later. Can you do the splits?”
Rat narrowed her eyes, but kept going.
Behind her, she heard, “You! You look like you’ve got some decent upper body strength. And you. You’re both coming with me—I need a couple of able-bodied young apes to carry something for me…”
The Rat
Next Monday, 55 Days after Judgement…
“You’re missing rhythm,” Rat said as she looked through her cards. “Soul, you know? Stop moaning and give it some more pep.” She played a king of clubs to try and break Sam’s run. “Right now, your ‘singing’ sounds like I skewered something with an ovi.”
“It’s not singing,” Tyson said. The bulky, six-foot, blond hit-man winced at her play, “it’s squalling.”
“It’s cruel and unusual!” Sam whined, dropping all semblance of ‘singing’ with a pout. The lanky, six-foot-seven datasifter was in his thong again—neon pink because it made him easier to see in the darkness—hovering close to the fire because the night had gotten chilly and Rat had refused to let him wear a coat. It was, after all, Monday, and she was enjoying watching her ka-par slave’s newfound shoulder muscles ripple, such that they were. The two weeks of pushups were doing him good. His abs, though, could definitely use work. She mentally added More Crunches to her To-Do list before bed tonight.
“Yeah,” Tyson said, “cruel for us.” He played an eight.
“Tell her that,” Sam said, disgusted. He jabbed his cards at Rat. “She’s the one insisting I humiliate myself.”
“I can see your hand,” Rat said.
“Me too,” Tyson said, looking.
“So what?” Sam said, waving it at them. “I know exactly which cards you have in your hands, so it just makes it a fair game.” The Tesla of the Congressional Era threw his cards down, face-up, and crossed his arms over his chest and glowered at them in petulant disgust.
Rat narrowed her eyes. She’d been keeping Sam singing, juggling, dancing, and standing on his head for the last two hours, and he still continued to win. She had suspected cheating, but she was dealing with a super-genius of headache-inducing proportions. “Fine,” she said. “Which cards do I have?”
“Two of clubs, four of diamonds, seven of spades.” Sam had said it without even hesitating. Like he was bored.
Rat squinted at him, then at her two of clubs, four of diamonds, and seven of spades. “No I don’t.”
Sam sighed, deeply and gave her that look.
Rat blushed. “I don’t.”
“Prove it,” Tyson said, sounding curious, now.
“Yeah,” Sam said, smirking at her. “Prove it.”
“So what’s he got?” Rat demanded, refusing to blush.
Sam heaved a deep sigh. “Jack of hearts, six of clubs, and a queen. Pretty sure it’s a queen of spades, but it could be clubs because of the way he responded to that last club you threw down.” As if he was talking about what he had for dinner.
Tyson’s immediate stiffening was enough to tell her that Tyson did, indeed, have a jack of hearts, a six of clubs, and a queen of clubs.
“I have a headache, people,” Sam said, as if he had simply revealed the time of day. “I need my gum. I’m going to get cranky if I don’t get my gum.”
He can’t read minds, Rat reminded herself. He’s just that burning smart. Still, she could see why the talk around camp was that Sam was telepathic. It was uncanny. Not even Sol’dan had made her feel this exposed, like he was reading into her every tiny action, carefully calculating out every mental pathway she blundered down, psychologically profiling her based on things as simple as her use or non-use of contractions or tucking or untucking her shirt. Worse, he had no concept of personal space. Several times, she’d caught him watching her breathe when he thought she was asleep, or going through her things when she was relieving herself in the woods. Rat put her cards face-down and crossed her arms. “Sing.”
“Twinkle Twinkle Little Star,” Tyson offered. “That should be fun.” He, too, put down his hand. He was chewing a piece of grass again, looking bemused.
“Oh bullshit on that,” Sam cried, jumping to his feet. The triangle of heavy-duty neon pink canvas wrapping his crotch jiggled, leaving little to the imagination. Holding the makeshift ‘thong’ in place were two industrial-strength bungie-cords that Rat had commissioned a seamstress from their group to make into a replacement for Sam’s last three thongs, which got ‘ruined’ when he decided to ‘punish’ wayward ‘evildoers’ of his tribe last Tuesday with running laps through the thickest, most tangled brush in the area wearing the various thongs Rat had found for him until they ‘disintegrated’ due to ‘poor craftsmanship.’
“I’ve had enough of this crap!” Sam gestured at his groin, then at the card game, then at the area in general.
“It wouldn’t be so bad if you hadn’t intentionally destroyed your wardrobe,” Rat said, plucking a half-rotten, bug-ridden orange from the meager pile they had picked off the tree in the back of someone’s yard. She used her knife to slice the skin, then started to peel it.
“I told you, I didn’t,” Sam whined, pointing at the onlookers at the other fires. “They destroyed the thongs. Blame them.”
Rat narrowed her eyes. “You made them do hurdles through bramble bushes and scrub oak.”
“As punishment,” Sam reiterated. “I was punishing them.”
“You were intentionally ruining your wardrobe,” Rat replied.
He made an indignant gasp. “It’s not my fault they didn’t treat my belongings with respect.” Sam gestured to himself in horror. “I am the victim, here. The uncouth barbarians ruined my precious undergarments.” He shoved a thumb through the doubled-over industrial bungie-cord around his waist and pushed it towards her to indicate how tight it was. “This is just ridiculous.”
“That,” Rat said, “is for ruining my favorite thong. I liked the purple one. Until we can find you a decent replacement, you’ll be wearing something of a ‘higher quality craftsmanship’ Wednesday through Monday.”
Sam groaned and released the bungie cord again and tugged at something between his buttcheeks. “It chafes. A lot.”
“Yup,” Rat said, completely unconcerned. “Remember that next time you decide to get intelligent.”
“I am intelligent,” Sam whined, releasing the bungie-induced wedgie with another whine. “I can’t help it.”
“Tyson?” Rat asked, inspecting the orange for bugs. “Was Sam being intelligent when he destroyed my favorite thong?”
“My mom said genius and intelligence were two different things,” Tyson said, skewering a piece of rat from a kebob on the fire with his big hunting knife. “This proves her point.”
Sam gave him an irritated look. “Don’t you have something fabulous to do?”
“On second thought,” Tyson said, fi
nishing his rodent kebob, “Have him sing Old MacDonald Had A Farm.” He snatched up a bruised apple from their pile of plunder and began slicing it with his huge hunting knife, grinning.
Sam purpled. “I am the smartest man on the planet!” he shrieked. He stomped his foot, further jiggling his package. Beyond their campfire, the rest of the survivors clustered around their own fires, watching the goings-on at the leaders’ camp with unconcealed interest.
“Hmm,” Tyson mused, eyes dropping to the neon pink duck canvas over their leader’s groin. “Not bad.” He bit off a chunk of apple from the tip of his blade, taking it all in. “Though I’ve definitely seen better.”
“Abs?” Rat suggested.
“Abs,” Tyson agreed. “Too pudgy.”
Sam actually sputtered.
“Old MacDonald,” Rat ordered, though more due to the vehemence of Sam’s reaction than because she had any idea what song it was. “It’s Monday.”
Sam narrowed his creepy white-blue eyes at Rat. “For another three hours and twenty-two minutes.”
The look Sam gave her actually gave Rat tingles.
“Sing, girly-man,” Tyson said.
“I am not a ‘girly-man,’” Sam whined.
The big blond gestured with his big hunting knife at Sam’s pink thong. “Girly.” Then he made a vague gesture at the rest of Sam’s mostly-naked body, “…man.” He sounded dubious of the second part. Then he used the impressive blade to skewer a browning apple slice. “Sing.”
Sam jabbed a big, accusatory finger at Tyson. “You aren’t in charge of me.”
Tyson raised a platinum brow at Rat. “So she is?” For some reason, Sam still hadn’t explained to the rest of their group what had happened that afternoon in the woods after Sam had challenged Rat to ka-par. He’d abided by her every command, but rather than tell the people who thought he was suddenly off his rocker that he was wearing a thong because he had lost a duel to an assassin who would kill him if he didn’t, he just let them believe whatever they wanted. Like he didn’t care.
“Yeah, Sam,” Rat said. “Why are you wearing a thong again tonight?” She grinned and tossed a mostly-fresh piece of orange into her mouth.
