Demonworld (36 page)

Hari bowed his head, and debate raged among the slaves. Many slaves understood the rationale behind Hari’s argument, and they shook their heads and chastised foolish behavior that could only lead to an early grave. But many young people were drawn to Wodan’s words. They were not used to speaking out against their elders and making decisions that would determine their fate, but they had lost all patience with timidity and the mindset that had gotten them enslaved in the first place.

A long time passed and Wodan could see no end to the arguing. “Alright, Hari,” he said. “You’ve stated your point. Neither logic nor heartfelt words are going to sway either party, but if we sit here and debate all night then the Ugly will have us marching again in a few hours, and you will have won. I know you fear the few guarding us because they have guns and we don’t, so let me make you a deal. If I go out, alone, and bring back a few guns, will you convince the others to move, all at once, and overrun the Ugly?”

“
Depends,” said Hari. He paused and scratched his cheek for a long time. “If you sneak away to get some guns, I certainly wouldn’t do anything more to convince the others to stay…”

“
And you probably wouldn’t mind if I was caught and killed, right?” said Wodan, laughing harshly. Wodan looked at the others, then stood up. “I’m going out. When I come back with guns, I want everyone to be ready.”

Brad stood up immediately, said, “I’ll go with you. I’m ready to rock out with my-”

“
No,” said Wodan. “I need you to stay here. While I’m gone, people like Hari are going to start spreading fear. A few might even think about going over to the Ugly and alerting them. I need you to make sure none of that happens! Besides, I’ll need stealth for something like this. Nobody’s going to see me out there if I’m alone.”

He patted Brad on the shoulder, then Rachek grabbed his free arm. “Just come back alive,” she said. “Don’t worry about the guns if it looks too dangerous!”

He laughed and thought,
It’s too late for that
. He gripped her hand on his arm, then saw the concern in her face and turned away so she would not see him blush.

An object passed from hand to hand, a small thing wrapped in rags. The thing passed to Wodan. He took it and removed its covering. It was a short, narrow piece of sharpened steel attached to a wooden handle. Wodan looked at the slaves and nodded respectfully.

What they must have gone through to hide this thing!
he thought.
This blade is the will of the people, and it’s in my hands now
.

“
Boy,” said Agmar.

“
Yeah?” said Wodan. “You got some advice for me?”

“
I got more words of wisdom than you have patience,” said Agmar. “You know I think this is a bad idea, but I guess that’s the last thing you want to hear.”

“
Pretty much,” said Wodan. He laid a hand on Agmar’s shoulder and shook him, then extricated Rachek’s hand from his arm. He looked at the fires in the distance, gave one last look to his friends, then walked in a crouch through the mass of slaves.

The night swallowed him. He slunk towards the five sentries, low to the ground, heart racing. When Wodan drew near he clung to the ground and watched. Their eyes were glazed and they passed around several bottles, each man speaking over the other. They had radios clipped to their waists or jackets and Wodan could hear the static and voices of the men in the outer ring either checking in or arguing over whose turn it was to check in. Wodan cursed Hari under his breath, for the drunks were completely engaged in their gossip and their weapons were slung on their backs or holstered securely. They did not see the pale, skinny, half-naked outlander creeping past them.

Eventually he could no longer hear the hum of the slaves talking. The large tent lay ahead, ringed by scattered torches on tall stakes. Wodan knelt and looked around. The outer ring of torch-bearing guards were still very distant; Wodan was grateful that even though the Ugly thought the demons were some kind of gods, it was a fact that the flesh demons were not their friends and would raid them in an instant if they had the opportunity to do so. Wodan reasoned that the outer ring must be spread out so that aggressive demons could be shot before they came near the camp so that the slaves could not take advantage of the distraction and turn on any guards nearby.

He could just barely make out the truck in the distance, for only one torch stood with it. Though it was isolated, he reasoned that it would be securely locked, and so he pushed it to the background of his thoughts. He could not see or hear the horses, but reasoned that they were in the far north of the camp, as usual. To his left, some distance away, he saw a great fire, and it winked as bodies passed around it, dancing and chanting for the Feast. He closed his eyes and listened, and heard a voice, far away, above the din. The speaker read from some kind of ancient text. Wodan could hear the pride in the voice of the speaker.

So Barkus can read,
thought Wodan.
Quite a feat out here in the wasteland.

“
In the beginning,” read the voice, “the Demon dreamed of the hells and of the earth. The field of earth was without substance, was void, and unbroken light was on the face of the deep. The flesh of the Demon trudged through the sludge of the waters. The perfect light was hostile, and burned His flesh. So the Demon plucked out his eye, said, ‘Fiat Noctis,’ and then there was night.”

A group of shadows staggered about the light near the tent and Wodan withdrew deeper into the night, heart racing, mouth dry. There were five of them guarding the tent. Like the other group of guards they were each speaking and none listening, a jukebox full of quarters and no one in the bar to listen. They had rifles slung on their shoulders. Unsure of what to do, Wodan crossed to the far side of the tent.

Wodan could still hear the voice of Barkus reading.

“
On the sixth day the Demon said, ‘Let us make man in Our image, according to Our likeness. Let him try to count the grains of sand on the earth, let him build his castles in the sky. Let him have suffering on the one shoulder, nothingness on the other, and a crown of boredom to rule the hours.’ So the Demon shaped his excretions into a hunch-backed idol in his own image; Seed and Egg he formed them.”

At that moment a group of Ugly chanted for someone to drink, drink, drink, then guns were fired in the air.

Drunks and religious fanatics
, thought Wodan.
Do they really think that demonkind made man? We’ll never be free if people believe they’re nothing more than food for monsters!

There was a slow, uneven scraping that vibrated along the tent. Wodan figured that a man was walking and leaning against it. He ran further into the dark.

The Ugly rounded a corner, and Wodan could see that his entire body was pressed against the tent, which buckled against him and helped him travel in a strange, bouncing motion. He had an arm laid against his head to block the torchlight from his eyes, and a thick string of mucus hung from his mouth and jiggled like diamond jelly as he moved.

The man stopped, then used his free hand to work at the laces of his pants for one minute, then two. Finally a torrent of piss splashed against the tent. The Ugly sighed with relief.

He’s alone. This is my chance. I have to do it. I have to kill him!

Wodan crept forward slowly. The knife in his hand was heavy, reassuring. He nervously ran a finger along the cool metal to assure himself. His heart beat a thousand gallons of rushing fear. He tried to swallow but his mouth and tongue were sandpaper.

Wodan stopped and crouched for a moment because he felt like he would soon pass out. A full minute passed and the Ugly’s stream of urine only gushed harder. He moved his hand to adjust the rifle on his shoulder and urine sprayed onto his crusted jeans. The Ugly was small, perhaps Wodan’s size, a rock worn thin by the cruel desert wind.

I can take him!
Wodan thought.
I have to!

He lifted the knife and felt it shaking uncontrollably.

At that moment the man stopped urinating, then the arm about his face tightened. The man shuddered violently, then bent forward and planted his knees into the ground. His body was racked by sobs.

He’s crying
, thought Wodan.
My God, he’s a human being
.

Wodan dropped the knife and shook his head.

This is madness
.
How much of the demon’s rule depends on man killing man?

Wodan knew that he could not do it. He simply could not kill another human being.

Just then the Ugly lurched and puked in a raging gush. He uncovered his face and dug his hands into the sand as another wave of puke rolled out of him.

Wodan saw the face of the Ugly. It was Adem, one of Barkus’s lieutenants.

“
When we caught you, you were stumbling around like a madman
...” Adem said so long ago.

“
Your friend tried to stop you
…”

Lightning coursed through Wodan’s veins.

“…
so we took turns kicking the guts out of him
.”

Wodan picked up the knife. It felt like a part of him.

“
We killed him
,” said the voice in his mind, smiling. “
We killed him.
”

Adem breathed deep. He felt like a king now that the poison was out. The world wobbled and he took great care to squat and lean his head back in such a way that everything would remain perfectly still. He didn’t care if the others came and saw him sitting in a pile of his own puke. He knew he could whoop any of them! After puking, he was a king, a god of ass-whipping! Hell, after he got his bearings, he could even go to the Feast and see what was being done to the slave girls. Those dumb sluts had no idea what was in store for them…

The wind shifted. He heard a jackrabbit.

Cold laid against his throat. There was a kiss and a bite, something icy and hard parting flesh and vital tubing. He raised a hand to his throat and felt hot liquid gushing out. He opened his mouth to mimic breathing, but he was drowning.

He looked down at the sand. Black rain. He thought blood was coming up from the earth, the devil pissing red all over him. He looked up and saw the child. His face was like marble, diamond, unmoving, a mask of cruelty. He had a rifle in one hand and a short, red-spotted knife in the other. Adem felt about for his own rifle. It was gone! He felt weak and soon his hands were caked with thick, black wads of sand. He laid down.

Black spots gelled in his vision. The world grew distant. He heard soft footsteps. He blinked. The boy stood directly over him, looking down. He slung the rifle onto his back. Adem hated him, hated himself, hated everything. He was dying, but instead of the wonderful world he was promised, all he saw was an awful killer angel staring down at him, unblinking, needing nothing from him but waiting for him to fall into that final darkness.

Wodan grabbed the ankle of the dead man and dragged him to darker places. The ankle flexed and spasmed in his grip.

I’ve done it now
, he thought.
I’ve killed someone. There’s no going back now!

His doubts were gone. He stripped the dead man naked, then took off his own filthy, tattered clothes. The crusty jeans fit him well. He removed the old bandage from his shoulder, noting the vivid red scar as he donned the stinking shirt. The denim jacket was covered in dark blood and vomit, but he barely noticed. He felt as if he were donning armor for a great battle.

The dead man’s boots were boxy and ill-made, but felt wonderful once he stuffed his old clothes into them for makeshift socks. The new clothes sent a rush through him. Fully dressed, he felt less like a slave or an animal and more like a human being.

There was a bulky walkie-talkie radio attached to the man’s belt. Wodan listened to it, heard occasional check-ins from the perimeter ring, then turned it off and fastened it to his side. He found keys in the pockets, as well as a greasy rabbit-skin condom, which he threw onto the man’s body so that he might use it in his afterlife. He weighed the rifle in his hands. It was well-worn, and the letters WIDOMAKR were etched into its side. He took a few moments to look at the thing and figure out how to release the clip and work the safety; he checked that there were bullets in the clip, then messed around until he figured out how to chamber a round. Once he’d done that, the rifle felt like coiled lightning in his hand, death and justice ready to be released whenever he commanded. He strapped the weapon to his back, wiped his knife on the dead man’s chest hair, then lifted part of the tent and crawled inside.