The Human Zoo

by Kolin Wood

  Pock moved towards the door and stood on his tiptoes. The viewing panel was still open. He looked in.

  The room was bright in comparison to the dark corridor. Candles, situated in each corner, provided ample light in the small box. In the middle of the room, at the back, was a bed. Lex, an overweight and particularly vile creature, was moving forwards and backwards in a steady rhythm. Small, tired cries squeaked from beneath his ample frame.

  Pock squeezed through the gap in the door and moved silently into the room, relishing the power of his invisibility. Below him, the fat back rolled backwards and forwards, a greasy, spotty space that shone like a target between his tightened shoulder blades. Pock clenched his teeth. The handle of the knife felt sticky in his blood-covered hands.

  Time to cleanse, he thought and let out a steady, controlled breath from his dry mouth. He had suffered at the hands of them all. Each and every one had been involved in his belittlement and ridicule in some way. Even those not directly to blame were guilty of spectatorship.

  Pock raised his arm high and plunged the large, sharp blade down hard and fast, striking deep into the upper back of the rapist beneath him. The knife split and parted the flesh, slipping in easy at first before jarring to a stop as it hit something more substantial. Lex let out a weak and pitiful moan. Dark crimson flowed with equal distribution down both sides of the wide ribcage, soaking and staining the filthy sheets beneath. Pock gripped the handle and pushed down again harder to ensure maximum damage. Finally he twisted, yanking the blade a full 180 degrees.

  Lex made a futile effort to grab at the knife handle, and the twisting movement caused his substantial body to tumble from the bed, his erection still evident and stood proudly before him.

  Pock made no attempt to help. He did not know him too well, but from what he had seen he knew enough to know that Lex deserved to die. He stood and watched, stepping away from the growing pool of black at his feet. Only once the body had stopped moving completely did he lean down and pull the blade clear. A spurt of hot blood, like a newly discovered geyser, hit him squarely in the chest. Panting, he turned back to the bed.

  The girl was sobbing. Her scrawny and horribly bruised body glistened with sweat and the shiny crust of dried saliva. Her head, a mess of sweaty matted hair, was bowed to the side in scared subservience. Her eyes, moving to the freshly ordained blade, sprung wide with fear, expectant of further torture or death.

  “Please?” she begged with trembling lips.

  Pock felt saddened. Nobody deserved this, no matter what was going on in the world. He leaned over her and carefully took hold of the frayed rope that had burned nastily into her right wrist. Then, as gently as he could, he slipped the tip of the knife under it and began to cut through her restraint with an eager sawing motion.

  It took about a minute to free both of her arms, and the same for her legs. As soon as he had finished, the girl curled up in a tight ball on one side, looking away from him.

  Poor thing.

  Pock grabbed a dirty blanket from the floor. One of the corners was wet and dripping with fresh blood, but he paid it no heed, laying it gently across her and trying to cover her modesty as best he could.

  “Shhhhhhh,” he said. “There, there… it’s all okay now… shhhhhh.”

  He sat down; laying his palm flat on the blanket, lightly taking her thin shoulder in what he thought was a reassuring grasp. She flinched, trying in vain to flatten herself farther away from him into the mattress.

  “Hey… come on now. I’m not gonna hurt you” He set the knife down on the floor by his feet.

  She really was beautiful—too beautiful for this cruel world. His mind raced. Maybe she could come with me? I’m going to need a companion on the road, and she needs somebody to protect her. We could help each other.

  As gently as he could, he pulled down the blanket a little, running a hand again through her knotted hair. “How ab—?”

  By the time he realised what had happened, Pock was on his back and looking up from a pile of musty clothes and other decaying rubbish on the other side of the room. The shock of the attack had dazed him, and it took a second or two to realise that the once meek and shaking girl was now standing up and pointing his own knife at his face.

  “Get UP, motherfucker!” she said, baring her teeth and snarling like a rabid dog.

  Pock resisted the temptation to wipe the spittle from his face. He held his arms out as passively as he could, trying to force a smile.

  “NOW!” she screamed, flashing the blade with menace.

  Pock did as instructed and pushed himself up the wall. He could now smell her femininity mixed with stale sweat and blood. The knife flashed dangerously close to his jugular, and he lifted his chin.

  “I… I… mean it,” he said.

  His mouth was dry and his tongue was sticking to the roof of his mouth, making the words a challenge. He searched her eyes. They bore nothing but hatred. The smile fell away.

  “I… I… can help you,” he managed as he raised his eyebrows and tried to make his face as un-hostile as possible.

  “I know where the key…”

  The last word trailed off, stuck forever in eternity. Blood sprayed her face. He had not seen her move, but it felt as though she had just punched him and knocked the wind from his lungs. He only began to panic as he looked down saw that the handle of the knife was now lodged firmly in his chest.

  “Wha—?”

  He tried to call out, but was unable to summon anything but a gargling half-cough. His eyes locked on hers again, his expression one of complete puzzlement.

  Did she really just stab me for trying to help her?

  He groped blindly at his front. The knife was lodged in deep, but the stickiness of the wooden hilt helped as he found purchase and clenched his teeth. His chest itched and burned as he pulled. It seemed to take forever as the large knife came, an inch at a time, from his chest bone. By the time he pulled it clear, he had lost all strength in his arms. He dropped the knife at his feet, clamping a hand around the spurting wound in an attempt to stem the free-flowing claret which was now spilling down his forearms and dripping off of his elbows.

  The girl saw her chance and did not hesitate. She reached down and grabbed her clothing from the floor, huddled it close to her chest then turned and ran out into the darkness beyond the door, not once looking back.

  Pock took a step forwards, stretching out his free arm in a feeble attempt to stop her. But it was too late. Everything was too late.

  Now alone, panic began to set in. A numbness had started in his hips and crept slowly down his thighs and slid over his kneecaps. It felt as though he was stepping into a warm bath. He fell forwards, striking the side of the metal bed-frame heavily with his shoulder, spraying everything around him with even more blood.

  It was cold where he lay with his head partly under the bed. To his left, a candle flickered from inside half of a cut beer can.

  At least I took two of them with me, he thought, watching as the flames jumped, danced, and swirled around the wick while spitting a faint wisp of smoke into the room.

  Relief and sadness came in equal measures. He had not managed to right all of the wrongs, but whatever happened next, he was done. He would not be a part of it anymore.

  A thin droplet of wax spilled from the small pool at the top of the column of the candle. He watched, wide-eyed, as it crept down the shaft, undisturbed on its journey, moving slowly down… down… down into nothing.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  The bell, known amongst the followers of the Pit as the ‘chime’, sounded loudly, bringing chaos to the crowd. Teddy, dressed to impress in his best suit and surrounded by the New Capital’s richest and finest, watched from the ornately decorated, two tier, private viewing box above his office. Drinks were flowing liberally amongst his guests, and everybody was in a frantic mood, wired and animated in the wake of the most eagerly-anticipated fight in the Pit’s history.

  True to himself, Tanner
—clearly a little out of sorts—had thus far put on a good show. He was wiry and quick, dodging and quick-stepping out of danger with a nimble confidence, all the while shaking his hands up and down, and pulling his arm in to protect his left hand side.

  Teddy pulled at his tie suddenly feeling it to be very restricting on his thick neck. The evening was hot. The cruel weather that had been so inset for the past week had subsided, leaving a dry and bright night, heavy with clinging humidity.

  “Quite spectacular as always, Mr. Braydon… simply captivating.”

  The man on his right, a plump and sweaty fellow with a nose bruised red with booze, leaned in, his breath laden with expensive whisky. Teddy turned to face him, glancing behind at the man’s wife, who was also turned in his direction, her deep brown eyes staring seductively over a champagne flute.

  His neighbour was no other than the great Sir Michael Farringdon, considered by many to be the wealthiest man in the Capital and widely known to be a great fan of the champion, Krane. Very little transpired within their gated community that Mr. Farringdon was not involved in or financing in some way. Teddy knew better than to be caught short staring at his wife, who was twenty years younger and so far removed from his league as to be amusing. Hell, she was young enough to be his daughter.

  “I was wondering,” he continued. “This new fellow… Tanner, is it?”

  Teddy smiled, taking a sip on his own brandy. “Yes, sir. Tanner… that’s correct.”

  “He moves like a pro fighter, very light on his feet. Not much in the way of attack, but defensively he is really quite masterful, wouldn’t you agree?” The undertone in his voice hinted at sarcasm.

  Teddy did not rise to the bait, glancing down into the Pit where the two fighters were staring at each other hatefully across an expanse of blood stained boards. He agreed that the first round had been slow. He had hoped for a far more satisfying beginning after the fervour surrounding the match. Tanner had ducked and moved, dancing around a visibly infuriated Krane, who simply could not find his rhythm, causing him to swing and miss. For once it was his wish that more blood could be spilled faster, not less. The crowd had taken it in stride, but Teddy was sure that the next round would need to be bigger—much bigger—if it was to keep the attention of the audience and prevent a full-blown riot.

  “I wonder if you would care to stake a little more on your interesting new fighter?” Farringdon enquired. “How about we make the stakes more interesting and… double the bet?”

  Teddy looked over at the man, whose fat-laden features were shiny with sweat and heavily creased at his eyes. A small, slimy smile had crept onto his face. He knew that Farringdon was playing with him. It was no secret that even if the rich man lost the bet, it would not keep him awake at night, such was the extent of his fortune. In truth, Farringdon disgusted him. It was a well-known fact that beneath the shiny exterior of the happily married man lay a far darker truth, one which had seen countless young boys, lost and separated from their families, ferried on a one way ticket into his big house, never to be seen again.

  He glanced down at Tanner who was rolling his shoulders and cracking his neck from side to side, all the while keeping his eyes trained on his opponent. A doubling of the bet could mean investment in the Pit for the next two years. It would allow him to make the arena bigger, much bigger, the stuff of legend. If he lost, however, he would lose a huge stake in his empire, perhaps even the lot.

  “Well?” The fat man pushed him for an answer.

  Had Sal been misguided in his faith in this man? So far he hadn’t seen much. But something inside him told him different. The chime sounded again, signalling the start of the next round. A thunderous cheer arose from the crowd.

  Teddy nodded to Farringdon, swallowing hard. He leant forward, and the grumbly tone of his neighbour faded in his now-throbbing ears.

  Come on, you son of a bitch.

  ***

  Tanner stood slowly, clenching and unclenching his fists. His left eye was almost swollen completely shut from a lucky swinging left in the early round. The fuzziness that had wrapped his brain in its warm cocoon was finally beginning to pass. He had been drugged twice and, judging by the after effects, the second dose had been a heavy one. The fact that he had been so easily duped again annoyed him, but, sedative or not, it had meant food in his belly.

  Opposite, Krane stood too, kicking his stool at one of the corner boys, who gathered it up and scurried up the ladder beside him. Both ladders were then pulled out of the Pit and the chime sounded.

  Krane, untouched in the first, came out charging, pumped up on his own misguided confidence. He roared as he ran, crossing the splintered boards quickly, his right fist raised, not even wary of a guard. Tanner ducked and spanned to his right, easily avoiding the clumsy attack, straightening again as his assailant crashed into the cracked and crumbling concrete wall with his shoulder.

  “You’re fucking dead, Tanner!” Krane shouted above the noise, pointing and running his finger across his throat; obviously playing to his crowd who lapped up his theatrics.

  Tanner shook his hands in front of him again, forcing a worried frown of concern across his brow. Noticing the gesture, Krane raised both his fists jubilantly as if he had already won. He brought both hands down in a crushing motion in front of his body, tensing his muscular torso as the veins popped in his neck and temples.

  “Krane… I can’t fight you. My hands–,” Tanner called out, holding his hands up in a passive way, revealing the black and purple lacerations around each wrist.

  Krane laughed, spitting in his direction, the glimmer in his eyes obvious as they sparkled with impending victory. He did not care for the excuse. He stalked forward, a hand out to either side, trying to make himself bigger and back his victim into a corner.

  Tanner retreated, drawing him in. A jagged fissure of concrete from the cracked wall jutted painfully into his back, stopping him in his tracks. The noise of the crowd was deafening as some booed and others cheered for the imminence of his death.

  “Time to die, fucker!” Krane growled as he reached forward to gain a hold of Tanner’s jacket.

  BANG! The punch to Krane’s chin was so fast that he could not have seen it coming. It flew in under his line of vision and connected perfectly with the tip of his jaw, sending his teeth crunching into each other, shattering some and filling the corners of his mouth with blood. The big man stumbled backwards, squinting his eyes closed and then open again, obviously in shock and trying to make sense of what had just happened.

  Tanner advanced, closing the gap between them quickly, before throwing a volley of devastating punches. The first hit drove upwards into Krane’s gut and up under his ribcage, forcing the air from his lungs and causing him to topple forwards. The second was a clean cross to the left side of his temple and the third came from the right, across his already loosened jaw, snapping it just below his right ear.

  Krane bellowed as he fell heavily onto his front. His jaw was now twisted awkwardly to one side of his face and blood and fragments of teeth dribbled down his chin.

  Tanner, calm and in control, beckoned down to him, offering him the chance to stand.

  ***

  Teddy sprung to his feet along with the entire VIP section of his office, the pudgy hand of Sir Farringdon tugging eagerly at his sleeve. Around them, the crowd was in a frenzy, jumping up and down and waving betting slips in the air in fury and astonishment. Krane, for the first time since he swaggered into the Pit, was down. And what was more, the unknown man was so cock-sure of himself, that he was willing to give the killer the chance to stand, regroup, and launch another assault.

  Sir Farringdon turned to Teddy, his pasty face alight with excitement.

  “You bloody swine!” he said. His voice was posh in an old fashioned way, plummy and awful. He shook his head, laughing heartily.

  Teddy ignored him. He jumped up on his chair and pumped his fist in the air, all composure suddenly gone.

  “FINISH HIM, TAN
NER! YOU SON OF A BITCH… KILL HIM! DO IT… DO IT NOW!”

  ***

  Krane clambered to his feet. His legs looked wobbly and unsure. He lifted a huge, tattooed hand to his chin and yanked it sideways with a crunch which brought a yell of pain. The jaw, although now straight, hung loose, and Krane wiped the fountain of blood from his mouth with the back of his forearm, staining it red from his wrist to his elbow.

  “Yaaaaawwww fuckin deead,” he mumbled, clearly unable to control his flapping, broken jawbone.

  He came again, barrelling forward with a right hook aimed at Tanner’s head which had the potential to send any but a very few men into an immediate state of unconsciousness. He was still dangerous. Tanner, however, spotting the telegraphed punch with ease, ducked and stepped inside. He threw another uppercut at Krane’s chin and at the same time, he hooked one of the brute’s legs with his own foot then pushed.

  Krane’s heavy, muscular form fell backwards. The wooden boards—long-since deteriorated with the rain and weather—splintered but held fast. A fresh rain of bottles flooded down from above. But still Tanner did not move in for the kill.

  “FINISH HIM! FINISH HIM! FINISH HIM!”

  By now the crowd was all but invading the Pit, and fights were breaking out in the stands. The chanting was deafening both inside and outside of the arena. Tanner beckoned at Krane again.

  The fallen man reached for a hold in a large crack and pulled himself upright once more. As he straightened, a large lump of rock came away in his hand. Groggily, he turned, raising it above his head.

  Tanner looked at the lump of rock. It would surely kill him if it came into contact with his skull and would break any limb if he tried to defend himself against it. Enough was enough; time to end this before he found himself crippled or worse. He stepped in.

  Krane, using what looked to be the very last of his strength, launched the heavy projectile with unfeasible force at Tanner’s face. His eyes opened wide as he saw the smaller man simply step to one side, and it was only then that the easy sale which he had been sold suddenly dawned on him and the severity of his arrogance was suddenly realised.