by Kolin Wood
The woman had called it right; he knew it deep in his gut. The animals that stalked the dark halls in the prison were never going to be part of a solution to anything at all. Whatever deluded ideas the General had about society, however pure his original intentions, the moral compass he used had become corrupted. Their ship floated unmanned and adrift in a sea of shit. They no longer had any way to tell where they were, or in which direction they were even pointing. He knew it to be true and yet, the million pound question remained… who was going to be brave enough to tell him that?
CHAPTER FIVE
The man’s head slammed into the wall and the rest of his body offered no resistance. Tanner pulled back his arm and struck again, this time feeling the collapse of an eye socket in a splatter of blood. Three assailants lay strewn at his feet, none of them moving. He straightened, his breath labouring, a hand clasped tightly over the shallow knife wound in his side. He had been lucky considering he had not seen them coming; this could have been so much worse. He bent down and pulled the man’s jacket open with a tug, exposing a dirty green shirt. The rank smell of unwashed human hit him, but he did not turn his face—there was no point; the same smell was everywhere.
Slowly and methodically, he patted the pockets. The first attacker yielded very little; as did the second, barring a half pack of smokes. The third, however, gifted a much greater prize. Strapped to an old, worn leather belt was a pouch made of black material; the kind of thing you might find a pair of binoculars in. It was shut tight with a snap and worn around the sides and corners. Tanner pulled at the pouch, cupping his hand underneath it and upturning the contents into his waiting palm. A heavy round object appeared, and he recognised it immediately as a grenade. Surely a weapon of that calibre would be worth something. He couldn’t imagine there being many explosives of any sort for sale within the city. After setting it back in the pouch, he then gently dropped it into the inner pocket of his jacket; at least this little treat had made the altercation and stab wound worthwhile.
Standing over him now, the man at his feet looked pathetic. He was skinny and dirty with a wiry, grey beard that was flecked with food, curled and unkempt around his lips. His greasy hair was thin on top and long around the sides, making him look like an alligator hunting hillbilly who'd have a bowl full of pig’s feet and a quart of moonshine. Tanner turned him over, avoiding the blood pooled around the shattered skull, but found nothing else of use.
The clothing on the bodies was useless for him, but he stripped them of it anyway, tying the laces on their boots and shoes and slinging them around his neck. The jackets he draped over his arm and the rest he tossed into a pile on the side of the road. Maybe somebody more deserving could find use for them. He set off.
It was late—or rather early morning—he guessed, and most people were either still asleep or drunk. The miscreants and junkies huddled around small fires, while the family men used their bodies to shield wives and children from the elements and the unpredictability of the road itself. This part of the city was an over-crowded maze of prefab shacks and makeshift dwellings. The whole complex was set in a large park, dwarfed on every side by high rise towers with smashed windows that blocked out the sun. The district surrounding it had once been a business centre, filled with opulence and dreams of the future. Now, it seemed that those dreams had been realised, and the filth flowed freely in the man-made streets. The New Capital was not the utopia he had imagined whilst queuing for days to get in; not even close. The streets were slim with the overcrowding of tents and coverings spilling into the pathways, making traversing the community a strain—especially in the mud; he had never seen so much mud.
A harrowing female wail was suddenly cut short from somewhere not far away, but he ignored it as he had on so many occasions recently. It was impossible to help everybody. If someone was not strong enough to look after themselves at this stage in the game then perhaps they really did not deserve to still be around. He had tried to tell himself that it was survival of the fittest, but the guilt rose up anyway and he struggled to push it aside.
To his right, the foreboding shape of the trading block stood, angular and tough. Once an old office block on the edge of the parkland, the building had long since been emptied and turned into the hub of business for the new city. As luck would have it, it was market day tomorrow. Time to trade his final wears and move on. The New Capital was a place of death, masquerading as a glimpse of the future. It was where all but the shrewdest and most dangerous of people unwittingly came to die. Tanner was not going to become another number, ending his days face down in the bloody mud, of that much he was quite sure. His time here was done, and he would never return.
At the entrance to the trading block, two guards stood smoking cigarettes. They watched him as he strode past, sizing him up. They appeared to be longing for him to turn and comment and give them a reason to attack so they could alleviate their boredom. But he did not bite, splashing towards the shelter that he had been renting for the last few days and, hopefully, for the last night.
The end of the road forked by a large tree, and Tanner kept to the left. Just up the street, a dim light spewed onto the wet, churned mud. The sound of men laughing and drinking could be heard from beyond a partially covered doorway. He knew this place; a bar of sorts, open twenty four hours a day and never empty. It was a hard establishment, tough and unpredictable. Outside, a man was sprawled on his back, blood streaming freely from his smashed mouth.
The wind blew through the tight alley and Tanner thought about the shelter that he rented, about ten minutes’ walk away. There was no proper bed, no furniture. The tarp had been loosely tied to a tree on one side and let in the weather through a series of holes which speckled it. Everything he owned was stashed inside, and he knew that the loosely attached door would not keep the thieves out at all. However, a drink or two might take the edge off a bit and help him sleep before his journey; he decided it was worth the risk.
He turned and ducked inside. The smell of body odour and booze hit him, but the warmth of the space felt welcome on his cold, leathery skin. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the dim light. The room was small and dirty, sparsely decorated with a short, crudely constructed bar to one side. At a table to his right, two huge men sat looking at him. The only other table, in the corner to his left, was inhabited by three men; two of them had their heads covered, but the third was a wiry and rat-like older gentleman who smoked a cigarette while a large dog slept at his feet.
Tanner walked over to an empty spot near the bar. He unhooked the laces from around his neck and set down the pairs of footwear and the jackets in a heap beside him. The wound in his side split as he bent over and he felt the warmth of blood on his hip. The blade hadn’t gone deep, but it would need to be looked at—a stitch or two at the very least.
A dirty pair of boots appeared before him, close enough so that Tanner could smell the stench of human sewage that coated them. He straightened slowly, taking in a thick waist and barrel chest. The black and inebriated eyes of one of the two thugs from the table bore into his own. A scar pulled the corner of one eye down, making the man look slightly simple. It was not old; the skin on either side of it still shone a pink hue, boasting the itchy stage of healing.
A thick, dirty finger shot out.
“You see something you like, princess?” the man spat with an obvious pump of his already large chest.
From the corner of Tanner’s vision he saw the barman move out of sight, wisely predicting the trouble to follow.
“Who told you that you could drink in here, huh?” he continued, projecting thick, foul smelling spittle into his face. “I asked you a question!”
A bulbous, breeze-block forehead pushed aggressively into Tanner’s own, leaving their noses almost touching. Tanner stood stock still, his breathing shallow and his heart rate normal. Regardless of his adversary’s obvious size, he was not fazed by the aggression.
The man turned back to look at his friend, laug
hing and overconfident. “You see this fucking gu—”
The first punch caught him in the stomach just below the sternum; a perfectly aimed blow that smashed into the man’s diaphragm. First shock and then panic crossed over his face as he realised that he could no longer breathe. His mouth opened and closed like a ventriloquist puppet on an over-eager hand. Wide-eyed in astonishment, he looked around the bar and then back, barely in time to see another two punches flash, lightning fast, directly into his face. The first slammed into his nose, causing it to explode in a shower of crimson. Tears flooded his eyes as the last came in from the side; a devastating hook that slammed into the temple and took the last of the man’s consciousness with him on the way to the floor.
Tanner stepped aside as the now unconscious man fell awkwardly forward, hit the floor with a muffled crunch, and no longer moved. Ready to finish the job, he looked over to the table beyond. But the second man did not move to help. Instead, he turned and walked out of the bar without so much as a single look back at his fallen comrade.
Relieved, Tanner picked up the bounty from the floor at his feet and moved over to the vacated table. The light wood top was heavily scarred with cigarette burns and rings from the bottoms of bottles. The barman walked over and stood by the table, a bottle of brownish cloudy liquid, indiscernible as anything, in his hand.
“Whatcha got?” the barman said with a greasy smile.
Tanner opened his jacket and pulled out the newly-acquired, crumpled half-pack of cigarettes. He tapped, shaking four slightly bent but intact smokes out onto the table; cigarettes were considered ample trade anywhere, and four sticks was more than a fair transaction. The packet was slid away from him, and Tanner didn’t move to stop it. He needed the drink and was in no mood to haggle. Besides, he had more stashed away. A dirty jar was placed on the table before him and some of the cloudy liquid, sloshed into it. The barman tried to retract the bottle like he had done with the cigarettes, but this time Tanner grabbed his arm by the wrist; it was the whole bottle or nothing. Accepting the trade off, the barman offered a slight nod and hobbled away across the room.
With the jar set under his nose, Tanner breathed in. The pungent scent infiltrated his nostrils and stung hard at his sinuses, causing him to wince and pull away. He was certainly no lightweight, but the brew was strong and evil smelling. Acutely aware that he was being watched and not wanting to stand on ceremony, he closed his eyes, raised the jar to his lips, and gulped, sinking it in two swallows. The burn came immediately, spreading like a forest fire across his heart and scorching into the depths of his stomach.
“Takes some getting used to, huh?” came a voice from extremely close by.
Tanner opened his eyes to find a face looking right back at him from across the table. Instinctively, he reached into his coat and gripped the handle of the knife in his belt.
But the man didn't flinch; he only smiled, allowing smoke to escape from the gaps between his nicotine-yellowed teeth. “Easy there, fella. No need for the shank; we’re just talking here.”
It was the older, scruffy man from the table of three. The two hooded fellows had both stood up behind, and were poised to attack, like police dogs waiting for a kill signal. Tanner maintained his grip on the knife.
The old man stubbed the remains of his cigarette on the table in front of him. Yellow staining also evident on his thin and gnarled fingers, the crow-like hand then extended in his direction. “Folks around here call me Sal. Don’t think I’ve seen you in here before Mr…?”
Tanner did not reply or reach for the hand. He could feel the prickle of violence underlying the calm of the bar. All eyes now on his table, he could sense their breaths held in anticipation of the outcome of the exchange. Without taking his eyes off the man—nor his hand from the knife—he dropped his head and gave a slow nod, extending only the smallest amount of courtesy at the unwelcome introduction.
Sal shrugged and pulled back the skin and bone hand, instead reaching behind his ear for a crudely rolled cigarette. He lit it, sucking hard, and then blew the smoke at the pitted and crumbling ceiling of the shelter.
“Suit ya’self,” he said, puffing the cigarette until its end was glowing a healthy red and he was surrounded by a warm yellow cloud. “You like to drink alone, huh? I dig that, the loner vibe; it’s cool, man.” He leaned back, setting his hands behind his head, leaving the cigarette hanging limply in his lips.
Tanner reached for the bottle and poured himself another, half filling the dirty jar with the noxious, cloudy libation. There was a reason for his being there, and that was to get as drunk as he could so that he would be able to sleep through the night. It was certainly not for the quality of the liquor or the company. Lifting the cup, he drank it down, closing his eyes against the burn once again. He heard the man opposite him laugh. A bench scraped noisily on the floor. When Tanner opened his eyes once more, Sal was back over the other side of the room; a crushed and partly extinguished cigarette was all that still remained of him.
The joints and tendons popped and rubbed stiffly against each other as Tanner rolled his neck. The cold and damp was deep inside his bones; the sooner he got his gear sold and got out of there the better. Battery hens lived in better conditions than people did in this shit-hole.
He reached down and grabbed one of the jackets from the pile on the floor by his feet. The wet garment was filthy, and as he rubbed at a stain on the collar, blood smudged under his thumb. Shit like this was not worth the effort to carry it anywhere. Even in such dire circumstances, people were still quite squeamish about things like puke or blood. He tossed it aside.
Loud shouting came from somewhere over by the entrance to the bar. Tanner watched as the man that he had just knocked unconscious, was helped to his feet. Uninterested, he picked up the bottle on his table and transferred some more of its cloudy contents into the jar in front of him before once more raising the dirty receptacle to his lips. It was definitely getting easier; the burn in his chest was subsiding and the sharp edges of his consciousness were beginning to blur a little.
A group surrounded his table, blocking out the dim light. Tanner drained the jar, not allowing the slightest strain to show on his face as the evil liquid burned its way down his throat. Unseen, he dropped one hand to the pouch under the table.
“We wanna word.” The voice was deep, not overly threatening, but straight and serious all the same.
As far as he could tell, there were at least six of them. They circled him like a ring of hyenas; their rasped breaths audible in the almost silent room.
“I said, you’d best get up and come outside, or else we are gonna open you up where you sit… Do you understand me, boy?” The leader was fat with a thick black beard and a trucker cap bearing a faded logo perched on his head.
Without saying anything, Tanner brought up his hidden hand to join the other. In the dying light of the smoky room, it took a few seconds for his assailants to compute the situation. In his hand was the grenade; his finger curled comfortably in the large ring which acted as a trigger. Tanner’s face remained dead-pan, no expression betraying his emotions.
The ring of men suddenly balked, their confidence gone in an instant. The slight shuffling of feet, which would have seemed almost unnoticeable to most, held the same symbolism as a white flag waved aloft of a tall pole to Tanner. The leader raised his hands and took a step back into the comforting surround of his gang. All eyes stayed fixed on the explosive.
“BANG!”
Tanner shouted the word loudly, and the group surrounding him dived backwards, every man raising their arms in a futile attempt to protect themselves from the non-existent blast. Laughing, he removed his finger from the ring pull and retracted the grenade under the table, back out of sight. Then, with a slight shake of his head, he set his sights back on the chipped bottle and poured another healthy shot, completely unfazed.
The circle of would-be aggressors did nothing, each of them looking to the next for initiative and finding none.
Eventually, their leader stepped forward, more cautious this time and maintaining more distance than before. He was aware that his men were barely holding rank.
“Listen,” he coughed, clearing his throat; his steady, deep voice failing him. “Either you come now… or…”
A high-pitched whistle whipped through the fugue of the room. The leader looked back beyond his tribe, and Tanner followed his stare. There, with two, yellowing fingers in his mouth, sat Sal; the same weasel-looking man that had interrupted his peace before. Sal looked at Tanner and nodded before turning back to his drink.
And, just like that, the pack of trained goons-for-hire was gone and Tanner was alone once again. Around him, the room fell back to its usual, dingy-yellow ambiance, all piss, stale beer, blood, sweat, and shit, but the ambiance had lost even the small modicum of desirability that he had felt walking in there. It was time to go. The next time he may not get away with such an easy blag. Christ, he didn’t even know if the incendiary device worked!
He drained his glass and slid the half-empty bottle into the large pocket of his jacket without bothering to look over at the barman. Then he stooped, picked up his bounty of assorted items and moved across the room towards the door. The pack watched him from a table by the bar; each and every one of them gorged and inflated on male brashness, wary but ready to strike at a hair-triggers notice. He walked slowly and confidently, maintaining eye contact with Sal who was returning the look intently, ignoring the hounds on either side of him. This guy Sal was obviously the boss. Tanner knew better than to show any weakness to him now.
Almost there.
Once by the door, Tanner flashed a smile in Sal’s direction and ducked under the low frame, out into the rain soaked street. He did not notice as two men, their faces covered, slipped out of the bar behind him, easily following him in the wet and murky night. And even if he had, he wouldn’t have cared anyway.
