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Up. The rats are heading
deeper, so we go up.
Without waiting for the demon to order him, the shon:gili
raced up through the sewer with water splashing around him. The man he carried
was bouncing on the walls and almost tore free.
The shon:gili ripped him
up before him and let him hang between his forelegs. With the hunter’s head
now under water, he was a great deal quieter.
Look for an open grate or a
manhole cover.
A few minutes farther along, the water level lowered enough, and the
man began to choke and gasp. Carl had the shon:gili
stop. The man looked up with pleading eyes and began to babble in a language
that was strange to all of them.
Let’s go.
The shon:gili trotted
through the slime of the sewer. He raised his head to sniff. Beyond the old odor
of human wastes was the fresh scent of rain. Carl shook his head. The man cried
out, his head knocking against the walls as the shon:gili aped Carl.
What thou? The demon was
not a little bitter.
If it rains much, this hole
could get flooded. They ain’t been used for crap for a long time. Not in this
part o’ town. But a lot of water drains through here. See? Not much dirt gets
built up, and the mud is only an inch or so deep.
With a new urgency, the shon:gili
ran faster.
Anna moved towards the Harvesters. One of the men was taking eye
readings and recording the crime.
“Fifty deer,” his sergeant said to the driver of the truck
that carried Anna from her cold, clean mountains. “At least three cattle and
hogs besides in these crate alone. Who sold it to you?”
The driver remained hunched over. Scowling, the Harvester sergeant
looked at the chart taken from the butchers’ records and shuddered.
“No respect for the law these days. Hell, they even had a
calendar in the office with the day of the Master’s Beltaine sacrifice marked
in a devil’s horns and tail.”
The driver from the mountains glanced up. Blood ran from a cut on
his face. “Look, all I did was drive truck. Ain’t no law against that.”
“You were hauling illicit material. With this much,” the
sergeant said, “at the least, they’ll lobotomize you. No re-education camps.
Right to the factories!”
The private guarding the men grinned and whispered, “Bzzt!
That’s the sound the drill makes when it goes in. No dope to dull the pain,
either.”
A dog nosed up to Anna. She whispered for it to go back to
guarding. With a small, sad whine, it obeyed the command. Men came from the barn
carrying night vision equipment and life detectors called sniffers.
“Nothing left alive in the dump,” the leader said, a stitch of
weariness in his voice. “The creeps took everything. Scheisse eaters even had
traps for mice and pigeons. All dead and frozen.” He shot a look of hate at
the butchers.
His equipment flashed red. Muttering an apology, he swung it away
from the others. Anna winced as it swung at her.
The man reached down to turn it off and Anna saw her form appear
on a black screen. The man frowned. He tapped it.
“Hey,” the sergeant said, joking, “Gov equipment.”
"Yeah. Got a bug, maybe.”
Peering at the screen he moved the rod. Anna disappeared. When it
swung back, she was already moving among the prisoners and into the van.
Tommy stopped in the act of consuming a slab of raw pork and a
glass of the judge’s twelve year old Scotch.
At the very edge of his mind, he could hear the shon:gili
and Tommy smiled.
He finished the pork and drank the last of the Scotch. Settling
back into the soft leather of the chair, he let out a long, protracted belch that
would have done Carl proud.
The servant cleared the plate. She dabbled a damp napkin at the
red stains on the lace. He brushed the tips of his fingers across her hand.
Staring at the tablecloth, she stilled.
Henri stepped close.
“Don’t sweat it, bitch,” Tommy said, laughing at the fear in
her downcast eyes. “I only do white chicks. Less chance of contacting
something incurable.”
"Yes, sir,” she said and snatched her hand away.
Digging at shreds of meat in his teeth, Tommy shoved away from the
table scowling at Henri. He went to the liquor cabinet.
“Hey, jig,” he called. “You, boy. Any more scotch around
here?”
“Indeed, sir.”
Henri moved through the room and down into the bomb shelter. He
followed the path between shelves of meat and other illegal delicacies.
"The master has a barrel in a storage room that’s supposed
to be over a hundred years old. One entire wall is covered with cases of it and
numerous other whiskeys.”
“And how much do you tap it for?” Tommy cocked an eye. He went
to the door. It was small, dark and shrouded with cobwebs.
“Not a drop, sir. I do not partake." A sharp pain tire
through Henri’s right ear and he winced, but it never touched the smooth look
on his face. Ma Eagle wasn’t much for tolerating liars. “Of Scotch.” The
pain stopped.
“Open it.”
“I can’t, sir. Only the master knows. His daddy put it in
during the last years of the Republic.”
Muttering to himself, Tommy marched back to the playroom and
Harrison.
A gag thrusting up from distended jaws, Harrison was still spread
eagle on the rack. Tommy hopped up, kneeling between the man’s legs. By this
time the judge’s legs were almost in a perfect split and it wouldn’t take a
great deal to pull one or both of the hips out of joint. He was slumped in
unconsciousness.
Tommy’s hand cracked down on the soft, flat belly. The judge
didn’t move, so Tommy gave him a light punch on one hip and the judge screamed
through the new gag.
Harrison’s eyes pleaded for release.
“Hey, how do I get in the wine cellar?”
The man whimpered and his fingers trembled. Tommy popped him again,
and Harrison fainted.
©2004 StoriesByEmail.com
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