We were taken outside by the basketball court, where the two deer were suspended on spits over a fire pit. Their heads were obscenely displayed on stakes stuck in the ground nearby—wide-eyed and tongues lolling out.
Copperhead emerged from the building and moved through the crowd to great acclimation for his magnanimity—not that any of them would've known to call it that. Two of his flunkies walked behind him, carrying a huge pot of the hideous fruit liquor, Copperhead's generous offering to his faithful subjects.
He cut the tongue out of one deer head and roasted it himself on the end of a knife, making a big show out of suspending it lewdly above his mouth and licking it before devouring it, bloody grease dripping down his chin. A cheer went up, and he raised his hands to speak.
"That's how I'm gonna do this fine sister tomorrow night!"
A bigger cheer went up.
"But don't you worry—every man who can afford it will have his turn, once I break that fine ass in! It ain't like the old days—race don't make no difference here!"
There was another big cheer.
"But tonight, boys, enjoy this feast! It's the Fourth of July! God bless America!" He gave a mocking salute to the barely recognizable, tattered flag that still flew on the flagpole outside. The biggest cheer of all rose up, from a bunch of goons who I felt sure had never celebrated the Fourth in any normal way since childhood, and who were now free to indulge their own sadistic, hedonistic version of freedom to their sick hearts' content. The whole scene made The Lord of the Flies look like Little Women.
After Copperhead kicked off the festivities, we were treated to the spectacle of men devouring as much bloody flesh as they could, like animals in the wild, they ate in descending rank. Copperhead ate first, like the leading male lion of the pride—even though, exactly like the chief male lion, he had done none of the work of procuring the feast.
Then it was the turn of the other lions of the pride: Copperhead's immediate henchmen and those from the hunting party, who lived on the prison's topmost tier, called "Park Avenue." Those others who lived on the second and third tiers—which I learned were called "Uptown" and "Downtown," respectively—came next, like the hyenas that descend on the lions' kill. Then the Pit crew was allowed to eat, like jackals, not wanting to offend or anger the more dangerous carnivores.
Finally, when there was no danger and all had torn off their share, the six of us who were the prisoners of the Pit were allowed to feed, like vultures, from the most unsavory scraps.
Starved as I was, in the presence of the first cooked meat I'd smelled in nearly a year, the barbaric feast tasted like the best thing I'd ever eaten, as I'm sure it did to the others as well. Gnawing on a bone as I looked at the inmates lolling about in a blood- and meat-gorged stupor, I again thought of how frighteningly little separated us from the other carnivores, staggering about outside the prison, with stupefied looks on their still-human faces.
* * * * *
Sitting on the ground in the twilight, once our hunger was sated, all we could feel was complete dread and helplessness at what was to come. And what could we say, especially to Popcorn? "I'm sorry," was far too meager and vague, while, "It'll be okay," was a lie. "Don't worry—it'll be our turn tomorrow night," was probably the most grimly honest, but wouldn't offer much consolation to him or us. Assuring him that we would fight would be true, up to a point. But we all knew eventually we'd have to stop and let it happen, or we'd be beaten to death, and then it would happen anyway.
Oddly, it was Frank who spoke up; he'd been silent almost since we left the museum that morning, which seemed a lifetime ago. "I think you guys are going to make it," he said. "And when you do, take care of Zoey for me. Tell her how much her mom and I loved her."
I think right then, we might have thought it was a little callous of him—making the situation about him, when it was obviously Popcorn who was going to suffer the most, at least that night. But Frank rubbed Popcorn's shoulder, and we just took his words to be an awkward expression of hopefulness for us. And for one of the few times I'd ever seen, Popcorn let someone other than Tanya express tenderness for him, so perhaps he knew what Frank meant, even if those of us who were older and supposedly wiser did not.
They rounded us up at that point and took us back inside. The men who lived in the tiers above ascended their ladders, and the Pit crew was now more vigilant in guarding us in our separate cells. Torches were burning, and the light from a nearly-full moon shined through the skylights, making it possible to see a little in the gloom of the Pit.
They tried to conduct things as quietly as possible, maybe out of some slight fear of unnecessarily provoking us to violence, maybe out of some tiny shred of vestigial humanity and shame at what they were about to do to an innocent child. I suppose they would've said they were being civilized or merciful about it, but words lose all meaning when stretched to such grotesque extremes.
A man came down the rope ladder to be Popcorn's first visitor. He went in the cell, with two guards watching from outside. One guard was standing right outside the door of each of our cells, with more in reserve. I stood up, and I'm sure Frank and Tanya did the same.
The guard at my cell door half raised a piece of rebar and growled. "Sit down before I bust you all up. I don't want to ruin that pretty face before I make you my bitch."
There were any number of witty repartees I could make at that point, but now was not the time. The only one I allowed myself was to think that, after a year of no shampoo, razor, deodorant, or toothpaste, I most definitely was not pretty, no matter in what direction one's tastes ran.
If the three of us rushed our guards at the same time, we could probably get past them. And if we got a weapon away from each of them, we could maybe take out a couple more. Then the rest would beat us to death. Popcorn's inhuman degradation would be postponed maybe ten minutes.
Still, you had to make sacrifices for the payoff that was offered. We all can't die on Omaha beach, winning back freedom for millions of people. Some of us die on a filthy prison floor to defend a little boy, even though it won't make the slightest difference to what happens to him.
As I clenched my fists at my side and took a step forward, I knew how lucky I was. Some people died for nothing at all. I was going to die, smashing this ugly bastard's head into the floor and taking that piece of rebar from him, so I could smash a couple more ugly bastards' heads into pulp. That counted for a lot, in my book; and unless God was a much bigger asshole than I thought, part of me felt sure it counted for something with Him.
Chapter Sixteen
But the guard and I were both stopped, before either could attack, by a hideous scream coming from Popcorn's cell. Some small, wet object landed with a splat on the floor outside the cell, and the man emerged, clutching at his face. "By doze! Son of a bitch bit by doze!"
There was a guffaw from the crowd assembled on the second tier, who had come out to see what the commotion was. The two guards went into Popcorn's cell; one pushed the bitten man out of the way. "You dumb bitch! Can't even do a kid without help?!"
There was more scuffling and yelling in the cell, and more guards went in. I never heard Popcorn's voice, only those of the men he viciously fought. But after a minute, it was still except for the dull thuds of fists hitting a body that wasn't moving or fighting back, but just being methodically pummeled into a bloody, submissive lump. Frank shouted, "Stop! You can't do that!" He charged his guard and tackled him. It distracted my guard for an instant, and I jumped on him, knocking him down.
I got his right arm—the one holding the rebar—pinned to the floor as I punched him in the face with my other hand. His grip slackened on the rebar, and I grabbed it. I raised it up to smash him in the face, but two other guys grabbed me from behind and pulled me to my feet.
I was still struggling, but it was useless at this point. Somewhere in the partial darkness above us, Copperhead shouted, "Go help those assholes in the Pit!"
He sent more guys down the rope ladde
rs from the second tier to help the Pit crew beat us into submission. I could see to my left that they had Tanya restrained similarly to how they had me.
The guard I had originally knocked down was back up. He kicked me in the testicles, then punched me in the face. I could taste blood, my ears were ringing, and spots were exploding before my eyes.
I roared, tore my left hand free, and tried to hit the guy holding my right arm, but my guard pinned my free arm behind me while another guy punched me in the stomach, then two more times in the face.
Now I could barely hear or see anything; my mouth hung slack, to let out a steady stream of blood that that was filling up my mouth, and I wasn't able to draw in breath with the wind knocked out of me. I stopped struggling. It was a reflex. You couldn't will to go on with that kind of pain overwhelming you.
Well, I couldn't. Some of us are made of sterner stuff, under the right circumstances. And that night, it was Frank, for some reason. He threw off one of the Pit crew and grabbed the guy's knife. He slashed the man across the face, and he screamed as he fell back. Frank kept slashing around himself, screaming, "You can't do that! You can't! Leave him alone!"
The Pit crew hung back, afraid of getting cut.
I could see now why he had told us to take care of Zoey. It was because he'd had enough, and he knew he was going to die defending Popcorn. I should've seen earlier that he'd reached his own breaking point and was having his own thousand yard stare. Fighting zombies, killing his own wife, living on starvation rations for ten months—he'd somehow managed to survive all that for Zoey's sake.
But ironically, being safe with us had made him less able to carry on in the face of absurd and dehumanizing cruelty; he knew Zoey would be taken care of, so why should he turn his back on Popcorn's suffering and try to survive himself? I tried to yell, "No, Frank!" but I don't know what came out. Probably just a gurgling sound from a mouth full of blood.
Then there was that whistling and thwack sound as an arrow sank into Frank's back. He groaned and staggered. One of them tried to grab him, but he slashed again, and blood flew off of the guy's hand. There was another thwack, and Frank was hit with an arrow from the front. He staggered and finally fell.
The Pit crew descended on him like the cowardly, herd beasts that they were, brutally kicking and beating him. As in Popcorn's cell, after the first couple of blows, there was no sound or sign of any struggle, but just the terrible thuds of fists and feet hitting over and over.
They finally pulled him up, and he was covered from the waist up in blood. The spots around the broken shafts of the arrows were now no redder than the rest of him. Both his eyes were swollen shut, and his mouth hung open, dribbling blood. He could barely cough to clear his throat and draw in a wheezing breath through all the fluid.
One of the Pit crew yelled up into the darkness, "Copperhead, you sure we need both of these new bitch-boys? This one's a pain in the ass!"
"Can't you assholes do anything right?" Copperhead replied. "I bring you new toys, and you just screw it up!" There was a pause, then finally he said, "No, I guess we don't need both."
The jackals in the Pit seemed to like that. Now they could inflict pain not just for profit, and not even out of fear and rage. Now they could just be cruel for its own sake, as they had probably seen done so often by this hellhole's elite, either before or after the inmates took over.
Holding out Frank's arms, they tied his wrists to the bars of the cell door. Tanya and I were, of course, made to watch.
The two men whom Frank had cut were allowed to visit some special indignity or pain upon him for their troubles. The first took back the knife and put it beside Frank's head. "Son of a bitch cut my face!" he yelled. "I'll take something off your face!"
His arm moved back and forth in a sawing motion, and a cascade of blood fell at Frank's feet. He let out a gurgling scream.
Finished, the guy held up Frank's severed right ear. He slashed downward across Frank's face to punctuate his point. "Gonna wear it around my neck on a string when I do that brat kid you cut me over! Gonna do him twice as hard when I think of you, you crazy, dumb bastard!" The crowds on the second tier cheered.
The second guy took the knife and yelled, "This crazy asshole cut my hand!" And he stabbed Frank's right hand, driving the blade all the way through it. Frank screamed again, writhing against his bonds. The guy then walked over and did the same to his left hand. Again the crowd roared its approval.
We waited a moment, I guess to let Frank suffer more. It was deathly silent—unnaturally and painfully silent. You could just hear the animal panting of all of us, the throb of life, the life that inevitably craves another's death and suffering. The throbbing seemed to fill my head, seeping up through the floor into me, but then it became audible as the crowd on the second tier started chanting, "Kill! Kill! Kill!"
Given how Frank looked, I almost welcomed the chant of bloodlust, to hasten an end to his pain. One of the Pit crew walked up with a spear and stabbed Frank in the side with it. More blood gushed out, running down to puddle on the floor. I could never quite visualize until that night just how much blood is in the human body. The undead were usually a dry and crusty lot, or they exploded with puss and putrefaction: only a living body could spill out the incredible affluence of thick, rich, beautiful and horrifying blood. Frank was almost too weak to move at this point, but only flinched slightly at this final blow. The crowd gave another cheer.
"Will you numb nuts make sure he doesn't get back up again, please?" Copperhead asked the Pit crew.
Another member came up with a wooden baseball bat with enormous nails driven through it. I looked away, but I could hear the sickening glitch and crunch as he slammed it into Frank's head. It was finished. One of the most courageous men I had ever known—a man who had surely suffered enough already—had died, utterly forsaken and in agony.
* * * * *
"Let them take him down and bury him," Copperhead directed from above. "Oh—and if they're going to bury him, I guess they're going to use shovels?"
"Well, yeah, sure," one of the Pit crew replied.
"And what are shovels good for?" Copperhead asked.
The fellow hadn't caught Copperhead's sarcasm. "Uh, digging holes?"
"Yes—and hitting dumb asses in the head! So make sure they're guarded better this time!"
Speaking for myself, Copperhead needn't have worried too much. I could barely walk, breathe, see, or hear. I doubt I was much of a threat at that point.
Tanya and I got Frank's body down and dragged it outside with difficulty. We were accompanied by four guards, who gave us the shovels after we had set Frank's body down. We worked slowly, digging, sometimes almost hacking, through the dense, hard, red clay. The guards didn't seem to care if it took us awhile, as they were well supplied with the vile fruit liquor.
If I hadn't been busted up so bad, we might have entertained thoughts of attacking them, they were obviously getting so inebriated. But as it was, they sat around, laughing and not paying much attention to us. I also saw, lurking in the background, the large black man who had captured us that morning. I presumed he was there to make sure that Tanya was kept intact for Copperhead.
When we were down to a good depth of about four feet, Tanya and I stopped. It wasn't the official six feet, but we were exhausted.
We climbed out and heaved Frank's body into the hole. They hadn't given us anything with which to wrap or cover him, and he landed in a particularly grotesque and awkward pose, with his arms outstretched above him, his legs bent up under him, and the hideous nail hole in his forehead clearly visible, blood obscuring his whole face.
"Poor son of a bitch," Tanya said. "Can't leave him like that." She jumped back into the hole. Again, it simply was not in her just to ignore—as I would've been inclined to—something as emotionally weighty but physically inconsequential as a person's final posture in the grave.
She straightened his legs out and folded his hands across his chest. Then she raked som
e of his hair down across his bloody face and turned his head to the right, covering the bloody hole where his ear had been and hiding the nail hole in his forehead. While it was definitely an improvement, the extent of Frank's stigmata made it impossible to do too much. I shook my head at Tanya's kind and loving attempts, knowing that back in the normal world, this would most definitely be a closed casket affair.
I helped her climb out, and we stood there a moment. "They led him like a lamb to the slaughter," I half-sobbed, half-gurgled through my own blood and rising tears. I had no idea why, as I looked down at Frank's broken, humiliated body, I would remember that imagery from a biblical verse. I didn't even remember where it was from in the Bible. I guess it was supposed to mean Jesus, but I wasn't sure.
"They sure did," she agreed. "Poor guy toughs it out for months against the living dead, and these assholes kill him in less than a day. It's not right." She looked at me and asked, "You know the next verse?"
"What? After the one I said? No, I have no idea."
"What, you just sort of remembered it from Silence of the Lambs?" she sneered. Then she lifted her eyes to the warm, dark sky, her hands at her sides, palms forward. "O Lord of hosts, that judgest righteously, let me see thy vengeance on them."
Leave it to the spiritually profound Tanya to remember a verse that I could pray without hesitation. I repeated it over and over in my mind as we picked up our shovels and proceeded to fling the damp, dead clods onto Frank's body.
Chapter Seventeen
When we went back inside, Popcorn's cell was pretty much walled off from our view by guards, I assume to prevent further trouble from us. Tanya and I were led to our respective cells. I sat there, looking across at the shadows moving on the other side of the cell block, straining to hear anything, but I could detect nothing. We all knew what was going on. But there was nothing we could do at this point.
Dying to Live Page 17
