Withered + Sere (Immemorial Year Book 1) (13 page)

Smells Different
, Bad Dog panted.
Smells Different.

Cavalo brought his fingers to his lips, silencing the dog. Bad Dog’s tail twitched in a staccato beat. Cavalo should leave, he knew. He should stick to the plan and leave. Grab his dog and get the hell out of Cottonwood. This place had changed. Maybe it was time to move on. In the spring, he could leave the prison and head north. SIRS would be pissed, as his system was integrated into the building, but they’d figure it out. Somehow SIRS would go with them. They’d survive in someplace new.

Instead Cavalo turned slightly toward the incomplete window and looked inside.

Blond and Black stood off to the side. Each held one of the electric sticks he’d seen earlier. Wilkinson had his back to Cavalo, sitting in a chair, facing a wall.

For a moment Cavalo could not see the Dead Rabbit. Then Wilkinson sat back in his chair. In front of him stood Psycho. His black mask was smeared heavily on his face, tracks tracing down his cheeks as if he’d cried. But these would not have been tears of sadness or fear. No, the Dead Rabbit’s face was twisted into something monstrous, fury distorting the features. His arms were stretched out away from his body, the wrists in manacles that extended into chains attached to the far support beams on either side of him. His legs too were chained. Sweat dripped down his face. Not tears. Not him. His eyes were completely black, like they had been filled with oil. His chest rose and fell rapidly, quick little breaths that made no noise. His hands curled into fists. Blood dripped from them, fingernails cutting into the palms. His face was bloodied, mask dripping. Smeared, like he was melting.

And still he stood tall. Angry. Proud. Psychotic, yes. Bulldog, yes. Murderer, oh yes. But Cavalo couldn’t help the feeling of pride, of a wounded animal, cornered, becoming all claws and teeth and desperation. There was no fear there. Only white-hot rage. And that is what this Dead Rabbit was: an animal. Cavalo knew this. He knew it well. There was a time when he was nothing but an animal. And maybe he still was.

The bees buzzed louder than ever. They were confused.

“Where is Patrick?” Wilkinson said again, his voice all edges and knives. “Use your hands. Point. A direction. A signal. Give me
something
that shows you understand.”

The Dead Rabbit spit in his face.

Wilkinson, for his part, didn’t react as Cavalo would have expected. His voice did not raise. He didn’t recoil. He did not lash out. He reached up with a single hand and wiped at the spittle on his face. “Savages,” he said softly. “Animals. Caged and cornered animals.”

Cavalo gritted his teeth against the déjà vu.

“Bernard.”

Blond said, “Yes?”

“Simon.”

Black said, “Yes.”

“I wonder,” Wilkinson said, looking at the saliva on his fingertips, “if this animal doesn’t need yet another reminder. Perhaps one in a more… sensitive place.”

The Dead Rabbit’s eyes widened, but only for a moment before the scowl returned.

“Shall we?” Bernard said to Simon.

“We shall,” Simon said to Bernard.

And they stepped forward, quicker than Cavalo would have thought such big men could move. They had grace, dark and swift grace that Cavalo knew came from years of training. The electric sticks sparked. Bernard’s pressed against the Dead Rabbit’s testicles. Simon’s pressed against the boy’s neck. There was a high-pitched whine, and then the electricity snapped.

The effect was instantaneous. The fury disappeared as the Dead Rabbit’s mouth dropped open, and his head snapped back, a silent scream pouring from his mouth. The cords on his neck stood out. His fists tightened and blood flowed from his hands as they shook, droplets spreading out along the floor in sporadic patterns. His legs trembled. The ragged scar on his neck was so white it almost glowed. And through it all, the black mask dripped. Black dots appeared on the ground, next to the red blood. If the boy could speak, Cavalo knew his screams would have blown out his throat.

“Stop,” Wilkinson said.

Bernard and Simon stopped. The Dead Rabbit slumped, breathing heavily.

Wilkinson stood. He took three steps forward until he was inches from the Dead Rabbit. He reached up and took the boy’s face in his hands. He raised his face until it was toward Wilkinson’s own. The Dead Rabbit’s eyes were rolling back in his head.

Bad Dog growled. Cavalo reached down and gripped his muzzle.
Smells Different
, he said, his voice muffled.
Burning up! He’s burning, MasterBossLord.

Wilkinson’s fingers slid through the sweat, the face paint. “How old are you?” he asked. “Twenty? Twenty-two? Around that, yes. A feral boy, found in the woods. Taken in by the worst humanity has to offer. I knew him once, you know. Patrick. He… well. He was a disillusioned man. A lost man. A man who didn’t understand the way the world should work. Order. He thought we should have order not
because
of chaos but
out
of chaos.” He squeezed the jaw of the boy, forcing his mouth to open. Drool spilled from the Dead Rabbit’s lips.

Wilkinson leaned forward. “I will have what I ask for,” he said. “Patrick will bow before the Forefathers. The Dead Rabbits will belong to them. This world, this…
chaos
. It is coming to an end. We will build up again. We will rise again. These will be remembered as dark times, yes, but that is all they will be: a memory. A bad dream that we collectively had.” He let go of the Dead Rabbit before backhanding him across the face.

The boy’s head snapped viciously to the side, but not before Cavalo saw his eyes narrow.
Clever
, he thought.
Clever little cannibal.
He watched as the boy pulled on the chains as if trying to free himself.

The blood smeared onto his wrists. His fingers. The backs of his hands.

Clever little monster.

Cavalo unclipped his pack. He set the rifle aside. He set the bow on the windowsill. His hands were unencumbered.

“If you think we need you,” Wilkinson said, “if you think we have nothing without you, you’d be wrong. There are only so many places a person can hide. Patrick will be found and his course corrected. This town will not stand in his way.”

The boy’s forehead tightened.

Here it goes
, Cavalo thought.
Here it goes.

“Filthy animal,” Wilkinson said. “Rumors of you obviously have been greatly exaggerated. Your head will do just fine.” He turned to Simon and Bernard.

“Kill him.”

For the first time, Cavalo saw what could only be considered relief cross the boy’s face, as if those two words were what he’d wished to hear the most. And then their eyes locked. Cavalo could hear his own breath in his ears. He could hear the snow flurries turn heavy. He felt a single snowflake drop on his cheek and melt. The water tracked its way down his face. The boy’s eyes narrowed behind the dripping mask. His lip curled down.

Seconds. It only took seconds.

Later, Cavalo would only remember what happened next in bright flashes. Pictures taken through a tornado of bees. He would remember the tightness in his muscles, the set of his jaw. The way he was reduced to carnal basics. Which impact of hand or foot would cause the most damage. Heel to kneecap. Fist to throat. Knee to testicles. Dog with teeth. Tearing flesh. It would not be elegant. It would be harsh and fast.

And it would all be done without a second thought.

The first picture was of Cavalo vaulting the exposed window frame. He landed silently. Bad Dog followed, hackles raised.

The second picture showed Bernard pulling what had to be the world’s oldest and biggest revolver out of his jacket. He aimed it at the Dead Rabbit.

The third picture showed the Dead Rabbit (
clever cannibal, clever monster
) jerking his right arm against the chains and manacle. His thumb broke audibly as his hand slid out of the metal bracelet, the skin greased with blood.

Fourth, and Bad Dog launched himself at Bernard. He bit down on the hand, and the gun did not fire.

Fifth, and Simon raised his electric stick.

Sixth, and Cavalo could hear the sharp crack of electricity, could smell the sharp ozone, could taste the air around him as it stiffened. One moment he was against the window and the next he was blocking the thrust of the electric stick as Simon brought it down toward his head. He grunted as his forearms, brought up into an X over his head, collided with Simon’s.

Pictures ended. Or they sped up and became real because he could feel everything, bright and heavy. The stick sparked, and he pushed back up, his arms straining. Beyond him, in the periphery, he heard the metallic clang of chains, the snarling growl of the dog, the cry of a man in pain, and the low quick breaths of a struggle.

Cavalo felt Simon’s breath on his face, hot and moist, and then there was a quick break in his mind, a shutter, again and again and again. One, he knocked Simon’s arms away, the stick falling to the side. Two, he thrust the heel of his palm up and broke the large man’s nose, the blood spraying out over his hand. Three, he grabbed Simon’s head and brought it down, his knee rising up. Bone connected with bone. Simon made a wet groan and then slumped to the floor, unmoving.

Cavalo turned in time to see the man Bernard lay a vicious kick to Bad Dog’s side. The dog yelped pitifully and was knocked into the wall, eyes unfocused. Cavalo picked up Simon’s electric stick, the weight heavier than he expected. Rage coursed through him as he found a button on the side. He pressed it and the end flashed blue and bright.

The man bent down to pick up the gun, never taking his eyes from Bad Dog. The dog tried to rise once. Then again. His legs would not support him. He whined. The man raised the gun.

And in Cavalo’s head, the bees were very, very angry.

Again it would only be bright flashes that he would remember. It would only be moments of clarity hidden behind a wall of blur. Cavalo was reduced to primal rage, and in his head, the bees roared
DOG
and
MINE
and
KILL
and
BASTARD.
They were red, these flashes. Bright and blinding red. Anger at what this man, this large man, dared to try and take from him. Cavalo did not have much in his life. He preferred it that way. It was how he had survived as long as he had.

But what he did have was
his
. It belonged to
him
.

Bad Dog belonged to him, and this man was trying to take him away.

Cavalo did not make noise as he charged. He doubted Bernard even knew he was there. He thought,
I am not faster than a bullet
, and shouted, “
Move
,
move
,
move
!” Everything slowed, and he could hear his thunderous heart. The high-pitched bees that sounded like a tornado. The soft, scared mewl of his friend.
Time was not on his side. It had never been on his side. How many times had it come to this? Him running toward something that was his, only to be too late. It was unfair. It wasn’t fucking
fair
, and then the room dissolved, and he was running after
her
, and he could hear a voice calling back at him, begging, pleading
Daddy
!

Jamie was Bad Dog. Bad Dog was Jamie. It didn’t matter. They were one and the same. The man named only Cavalo was not sane. Not anymore. Not after everything he’d seen. Not after everything he had done. But it did not matter. Not now.

Bernard raised the gun.

Bad Dog lowered his head.

Aimed.

MOVE MOVE MOVE!

Pressure on the trigger.

I’m sorry, Jamie. I’m so fucking sorry.

Cavalo brought down the heavy electric stick on Bernard’s arm with all his might. There was the sharp
crack!
of bone. The gun did not fire. Bernard hissed. He opened his mouth to scream. Cavalo punched him in the throat. He felt a wet crunch under his knuckles. Bernard gurgled, eyes wide and shiny. Cavalo swept his leg out, hitting the back of the large man’s knees. Bernard fell backward, crashing onto the floor.

Cavalo stood above him.

Only seconds had passed, but it felt like years.

“You tried to take from me,” he said.

Bernard shook his head as he struggled to breathe. Bone poked through his arm, the skin split and leaking blood. His eyes bulged.

“My son,” Cavalo said. “Jamie.”

MasterBossLord?
Bad Dog wheezed.

“You’re okay,” the man said, whether to himself, the son in his mind, or the dog, no one knew.

Let’s go home. Please.

“You tried to take from me,” Cavalo said again. His voice was terrible.

“Nuh,” Bernard said. “Nuh.
Nuh.
Nuh!
”

Cavalo would hear no more. In one swift movement, he bent down and gripped the sides of Bernard’s jaw, forcing his mouth open. Cavalo shoved the electric stick down that gaping maw, angling it so it went farther into the throat. Tears streamed from Bernard’s face as he choked. His hands came up and tried to knock Cavalo away, but the exposed bone scraped against Cavalo’s shoulder, causing the large man to cry out around the stick in his mouth.

“You don’t get to take from me,” Cavalo told him. His thumb found the button. There was a charge that coursed through the stick. It vibrated in Cavalo’s fingers. Bernard’s eyes widened in a flash of recognition, of synapses firing in extraordinary panic. But then the electricity hit and his jaw clamped down around the stick. His arms jerked. His legs skittered on the floor. His eyes rolled back in his head as his chest heaved. Cavalo could feel the thrum of Bernard’s body below him, like he had his own bees trapped just beneath the skin, bent on breaking through and pouring out. Cavalo knew it was possible that
everyone
had bees, because Lord knows his own were shrieking in his head now, were telling him to fry the fucker, to make him dead, to make sure he could never take what belonged to Cavalo ever again, because these few things, these small things, were
his
, and they belonged to
no one else
.