Joely Sue Burkhart

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Week 4

Glancing back over his shoulder, Rackman pounded both fists on the plazdoor. The shaggy red-brown beast came nearly up to his waist. Its jaws were lined with jagged teeth, but that wasn’t the wolf’s primary weapon. His heavy-duty canvas jacket was already pock-marked with acid spots, and the wolf opened its jaws, shoulders bunching, preparing to unload again. “Open the door!”

Inside, the two guards guffawed, pointing and betting on how long he’d last. Rackman snarled at them, hit the door again, and then turned to better dodge the wolf’s spray. Sucking in a deep breath until his chest bulged with air, he made the same high-pitched squeal that Kermit taught him years ago. The hunting call of a Fade was the only thing the wolves feared.

The beast skidded to a halt, ears flat to its head, tail clutched to its hind legs. It jerked around, scanning for danger, nose sniffing frantically for the trademark sickly sweet smell of Fades.

“Let me in!”

The burly guard frowned, his gaze suddenly considering. “Who the hell are you?”

“Rackman.”

The two guards exchanged glances. “John Rackman? The Butcher of–”

“Fen-Ddai! You know my bounty!”

They cracked the plazdoor enough for him to slide through, scraping his unscarred cheek and leaving a scrap of his pants behind when it slammed shut behind him. Panting on the dingy floor, he waited for the questioning. And the beating. Or whatever they felt like.

“Well, Rack, what are you doing back here in Shangri-La?” The barrel-chested bastard managed to sound magnanimous. “Last I heard you were a pirate of sorts running in the Tentar quadrant.”

“I was. My crew mutinied, found out my past, and decided to bring me home, so to speak.”

The other guard was twitchy with tight eyes and mouth, several scars on his hands, forearms, and face. Ah, Rack remembered him. The scars were mutual.

Water suddenly flowed down the plaz walls, blurring the snarling, raving wolf outside. Rackman cleared his dry, raspy throat. “When’s the eclipse?”

The barrel-chested guard kidney-punched him and casually kicked him in the head. “Tonight.”

Blinking away the starbursts, Rackman proceeded with his plan. “Which one of you pussies is going to be brave enough to feed me to the Fades first?”

The runt took his shots, hard and fast with a bitterness that surprised him. The guard fisted a hand in his hair and smashed his face into the floor a few times for good measure. “You remember Hank? He was put outside because of you.”

Spitting out blood, Rack laughed. “How many wolves got him? Was he as pretty as me when they were finished spitting acid on him?”

Blows descended so fast he felt them from a distance. A great lassitude settled over him. He saw a woman, sitting at a table, writing by hand. Soft light shadowed her features, but he knew her. Hope shone all around.

#

The smell awakened him. Rotten cake, sweet, sugary but so foul. His stomach lurched and it was all he could do to keep his full bladder from releasing. Too early to piss himself; he would need the fluid to drive the Fade away.

Darkness. He felt his eyes to make sure they were open. Damn, they must have tried to make the rest of his face match the scar on his left cheek. His right eye was almost swollen shut, but it was functioning. There just wasn’t shit to see. How far into the tunnel had they thrown him?

Crawling through cold, slick clay, he tried not to make a sound. Slipping, he stayed in the dampness, avoiding the drier areas. Every little bit of moisture helped. He couldn’t hear the Fade, but the hair prickled on the back of his neck. It was there, stalking him.

Overwhelmingly sweet, the rank odor wafted to him, sending his heart thumping frantically against his ribs. If he remembered their escape route correctly, this used to be an underground creek. The ruins were at least a mile away from the central prison compound.

A mile.

If this was the right creek. They’d only encountered one water source in their original escape, but in the infinite darkness…

What if the guards deliberately dumped him in an entirely different spot? Years ago, they used the easiest tunnel access for dumping prisoners–the easier to save their own skin.

Please, dear Hope, still be alive. Let the water last until I can reach you.

His right hand skidded out from beneath him and he fell face first in the slop. Thinking quickly, he rolled in the sludge, fully coating himself. If it kept him wet enough, he might have a chance. A small chance. That’s all he needed.

Don’t forget to enter my contest to win Suzanne McMinn’s Secrets Rising.

This entry was posted on Thursday, July 5th, 2007 at 11:05 pm and is filed under Friday Snippets. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. Both comments and pings are currently closed.