His thumbs ground against the stubble of his chin.
Build me an earthly throne.
One elbow rested on a grooved rotor plane. The other nestled against layers of cracked rubber housing. Under him a cycle-seat, behind him the split halves of a V4 engine block. A deep inhalation brought the smells of iron and blood. The fire in front danced orange into the night.
Pigmeat, petroleum, clutch-plate, and sweat perfumed the air. An aural cacophony meted out in sync.
Forms of flesh and machine danced, writhing against the chemical light. The Catamite’s drug curled towards him in angry, bitter wafts, its sourness energizing him. Wild bodies, freed of their inhibitions, moving for his sake and against all else. The breeze stilled, and a pure line of the drug-smoke bit deep.
His neck clenched as the line burned up to his brain and down his spine. His eyes shot open.
A flame-lit orgy. Sweat and muscle, the exhaust of machines, the burnt, shredded meats, the hollers and the challenges…
Earthly forms: in the shadows they were bent, broken and ugly, but in the flickering light they were elevated, raised up to manhood and violence. He sat silent. He was the plucked string which made all others vibrate. The imposed shame and cowardice had flaked off their bodies like rust, and tonight their tremors had reached past them, had reached back to the roots…
His thoughts retrograded with a sudden coil, forced back by the drug haze. He saw how the Catamite had once been: pathetic and sobbing, a reject dragged along by the last remaining strength in the world. Against soaken fields and moonless nights he’d trudged, the Catamite fighting, pleading… until the night they’d found the knife.
The ebony sheath still hugged discreetly against the Catamite’s hip. Two pairs of diamond-shining teeth, hidden on a single body. Slayer traced up and down the Catamite’s thigh, as he relived the memory.
The first time had been done against denial. The torn, prostrate forms of the farmer and his wife had stared accusingly at the Catamite’s sobs, even as his unforgiveable stiffness belied all tears. As the act progressed, the Catamite had quietened, first in submission, and then in exultation…
The whiteness of the climax had splattered beautifully into the pools of red.
That night had been the start of this new life, the sharp glimmer of new knowledge. The Catamite had come to believe. Slowly tempered by blood and drug, he discovered a legion of hidden predilections. In some places the diamond blade had garnered more fear than Slayer himself…
Look at the lost ones — acknowledging their pride and revelling in it! The Fathers had cast them away, terror animating their features. Latent within them was that knowledge which brought shame; for elders such as that denial was the only salve. So they’d cast them away to the winds to be broken and forgotten…
But some had sustained long enough for their souls to be rekindled.
An existential glimmer filled them now. An incendiary that either inflamed or consumed whoever dared touch it… only in tattered corners did the Faith still lie.
Action will be now.
A hand to squeeze the Catamite’s shoulder. A twitch for a response, the eyes glazed. He waited for them to clear, and when they did, nodded once — in response, the slow spread of a grin. Sweeping gorgeous hair, the Catamite rose, picking up an iron cudgel.
Only one of this merry band stood back from the flames. The others danced strong and fierce, broken forms cast away. Only one still echoed of the Faith, one shadow left for exorcising.
“Aiii-yeah!” Lithe and powerful, the Catamite swung the splined-joint, striking the hanging clutch plate — a sharp, stinging sound bit the air. Motion ceased, and the music died. Slayer’s lips curled up in anticipation. The Catamite swung the iron overhand now, pointing it straight and steady towards the one who sat alone. The gaze was fierce.
“You!”
The Shadow stood alone, trembling and naked. Dark forms rushed up from behind, gripping by all joints. The Shadow gaped as the Catamite swung the cudgel yet again, striking heavily down into the earth. Released, the iron mass fell slowly, bouncing once. Nothing was left but the diamond smile.
He remembered the first day. The Catamite had wept tears of shame over the farmer’s wife’s body — shuddering sobs, even as he forced his body back against Slayer’s lust. Tears for his past, and tears for what he was — the slits of the knife had gone both ways.
Now the Catamite fondled the ebony sheath. A flicking motion and the second diamond smile appeared.
The crowd was growing noisome. The Shadow’s fear-weak limbs had been secured to a wooden cross, hammered down into the ground. The grapplers faded into the background. Slayer stood, and the crowd drew silent. Brimming with despite, he gazed into feverish eyes.
“The words are that this one saw a child on the last venture…” the back of his wrist met to caress his own lips, “A forgiven child who was left unharmed.” The crowd waited, soft ecstasy growing within them. Slayer stepped forward until he was facing the Shadow. “What say you?”
“I… I did what must, I repent, I followed… the lamb…” the words dissolved into a pathetic mutterings. The Shadows’ eyes were locked on the ground, fearful and lost; more utterances of the forgotten shame. Disgust coiled in Slayer’s gut.
He turned towards the crowd. They stood, surrounded by machines and glory, bodies glowing blue and red. He raised his hands. “All of this — All of This! — has been wrought for you by Knowledge beyond Faith! Your Pride and Lust have granted you this Earth… yet there is one cares not for this… cares not for earthly pleasures…” He dipped his head, eyeing the audience…
Would they respond? Should they respond? Did he want them to respond?
Such questions hadn’t been asked before, and a feather brushed up against the inside of his chest. Suppressing a shudder he watched them, jaw agape in anger…
One last challenge, then.
“Who… has… forgotten you?”
“The Fathers!”
A wave of blood washed over him, suffusing his frame. As soon as it struck, a voice said you must not falter. On pilot, his body carried through, in front of a trembling mind.
“Who has loved you?”
“No one!”
“Who has known you?”
“No one!”
“Who can shepherd you?”
“No one!”
A pause now — a breath — three breaths into his heaving frame.
“…then who shall you be?”
A silent moment. They were unprepared for this one — he knew they were unprepared for this one — his heart beat a heavy bass against his ribs, as he gambled on the next line.
“Then who shall you be?” He swept his arms upwards.
“We — we shall,” a disjointed chorus, finally achieving a partial sync, “we shall — we shall be — we shall be the Adversaries!”
“And who is this one?”
Once again, the hesitation.
“And who is this one?”
“He is the—”
“Is he the forgiven?”
“False!” “Yes!” “No!” “Forgotten!” A stuttered response.
“Is he the coward?”
“Yes!”
“Is he lost? Has he sinned without glory? Rutted without pride? Hoped but forsaken?”
“Yes!”
“Then…” spoken, at last… “What are his wages?”
“DEATH!”
The Catamite surged forward with a scream, snapping his blade mid swing. A red line opened up, and the Shadow shrieked. For a moment all were frozen. The cross lilted backwards.
Then a deep bellow came from within the crowd. The once-brother of the Shadow rushed forward, past forgotten, and swung down with the butt of his pistol. A jet of blood, and a wide growl followed. The violence roared.
Slayer reclined back into his throne, confident at last. One final purging… then truly, they would go to work.
“I have sinned,” said the Catamite, resuming his pose, as the bevy of violence opened before them.
“Yes…” Slayer’s fingers dug into the man’s shoulders, “And now they all do alike…”
The Catamite weakened, melting into him.
Slayer reached over, grabbing hair, pulling the Catamite’s head down toward his own. “It is time to go,” he said.
An arterial spray highlighted Gabriel’s gentle features.
“Yes… my Slayer. Yes… my light.”
“I can’t watch this. I can’t. It’s wrong.”
He grimaced, “Yeah, it’s pretty rough. These guys’d put the Romans to shame…”
The tone of Raxx’s voice caught up with him and he jerked away from the binoculars. It was hard to tell in the moonlight, but the man looked pale, his face frozen into marble. The shadows of swaying leaves only emphasized his stillness.
At first he was confused, seeing Raxx so unnerved… but then again, maybe he shouldn’t have been so nonchalant about a watching a man get eviscerated. The shrieks were still echoing.
“Listen… I don’t think much more’s going to happen tonight. They’ve done what they’re going to do; now they’ll just burn out on booze. Why don’t you get some sleep, while I keep watch? I’ve got some thinking to do, anyway.
At first Raxx didn’t seem to hear him, it took some time before he nodded. “Yeah. Okay. You sure you won’t need me?”
“Nah, this lot’s had their fun for tonight.”
“I guess so… alright then,” He gave his head a shake, then leaned his shotgun barrel-up over a tree-root. “Wake me if you need anything.”
“No problem.” He went back to his binoculars while Raxx pulled out a blanket from his pack.
Wentworth settled into the night.
A blackened pit; a kilometre wide gash in the land; an ancient mine squatting in a gear-worked crevasse. Trees bordered on three sides, but in the south-west a jagged cliff sloughed down to a neon-green acid lake. Machines tears, rust, and forgotten poisons left scars on local plant life. A thin mist of exhaust fumes still bled from the earth.
The mine’s structures were still standing; the shacks by the main entrance, the central cluster of hangars, chalky in the moonlight. Scattered throughout were the fossilized remnants of excavation machinery. They hulked like dinosaurs, foreboding and impotent.
Long ago this had been an advance post in mankind’s struggle against an indifferent universe; the local plants and wildlife a casualty in the war against entropy. A century later they were a casualty no more. Now they were a testament.
Along a forested ridge looking down into the mine, Wentworth watched the last stragglers of Slayer’s army succumb to their soporifics. The bonfire had long ago burned down to embers, and a pall was settling over the valley.
Lowering his binoculars, he took in the scene as a whole. A deep breath worked its way through him, as a feeling of sanctuary condensed out of the cool air. He was in a forgotten corner of the world. The darkness of his outfit merged into the surroundings, and soon the small forest noises told him that not even the wildlife remembered his presence. Lying still, he was as untraceable as when speeding down forgotten roads on his motorcycle. Vector was the key: keep the target moving, and limit your opponent’s knowledge — keep the ball bouncing, the talk fast, leave ’em blind and confused! Tonight he was riding a curved road, cutting deep through a hidden valley. An impenetrable gulf separated him from the prying eyes of the world. Tonight he was untouchable, inscrutable, and alone.
A placid smile took over.
To the front his immediate enemy slept without knowing they were watched and hunted — a disparity which doubled the gulf. To his left his rifle shined black and ready; two kilometres to the north-west Raxx’s truck waited, hidden under the hangs of a willow. The vectors were smooth. Confident in this brief freedom, he waited through the silent hours, observing and analyzing.
Pulling out a notepad, he jotted down what he saw.
The freedom of solitude.