Gift from God: Hunter Wars Book Four (The Hunter Wars 4) Page 9

  Grinning he thought, are you grumbling, honey?

  Ip speaks: You knew better than this before. Be good to me, or I will not play with you anymore.

  “Where are you, honey? Talkin’ in my head doesn’t mean I know where you are.”

  Leaving by the door that led to the parking lot, at least half a dozen hunters were outlined against the moonlight. Realizing she couldn’t be far, he peered into the dark until he saw her sitting on top of an abandoned pickup truck. Heaving himself onto the roof of the car, he sat next to her with his feet resting on the hood below.

  “This is not the kinda night I wanted to spend with ya. It’s been a long while and I’ve missed ya.”

  Laughing softly, she slipped her arm through his. Leaning into his body, she looked up and nuzzled his neck. Kissing her forehead, he added, “But this has turned out to be a much better night than I expected.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN: A loss too hard to bear (Pax)

  It was cold, bitterly cold. Feeling groggy, he sat up slowly and rubbed his arms trying to warm his deeply stiffened body. His eyes felt strangely gritty, and as his sight slowly cleared, he realized he was sitting on a cold, concrete floor. To his left was a dull, grey metal bed. To his right was a single metal sink, and he guessed if he looked behind him he would find a matching metal toilet. Even without the heavy looking bars in front of him, it was obvious to him he was sitting in a prison cell.

  He was hungry, cold, stiff, and despite having been unconscious, he still felt tired. The last thing he remembered was being in the warehouse at the refugee camp. A white-haired man, who stank like septic, injected him with a tranquilizer and now he’d woken up in a prison cell. Rather than feel worried, he decided it was business as usual in a world going progressively madder. Thinking that although his circumstances were bad, he had no reason to freeze on a concrete floor, he hauled himself onto the bunk bed. Glancing down at himself, he couldn’t feel any injuries and concluded he was in reasonable condition. Whatever happened to him while he was unconscious had left no permanent damage that he knew about.

  Other than a single dirty striped mattress, the bed was bare. The cell looked old and well used, and it wasn’t what he expected to see in a modern day prison. His mouth was dry and he wondered if the taps still worked. Staggering over on stiffened legs, he twisted the tap to the on position, and to his surprise, fresh water gushed from the faucet. Drinking deeply, he was grateful for the water and looked into the highly polished metal plate over the basin that acted as a mirror. His face had two or three days growth, and his hair stuck out even more crazily than it usually did. Running his hands over the rough stubble, he tried to remember whether he was clean-shaven when they’d caught him. Yeah, he thought, I shaved the mornin’ I was caught, so I’ve been unconscious for a few days. That explained his headache and his hunger.

  There was a sound of the clang of metal doors opening, and he immediately turned towards the bars. A stunning raven-haired woman walked over holding a covered tray, and she stood outside the bars of the cell looking at him.

  With an admiring glance, the raven-haired woman said in a throaty, honey-soaked voice, “Hello, soldier boy.”

  Despite the water, his throat still felt raw and he croaked, “I know you.”

  Suddenly sneering, the woman snorted roughly. “You know nothing.”

  Bending down, so her full breasts almost fell out from the low cut top she was wearing, she slid the tray under the door. When he picked up the tray, he also lifted the towel that covered it. Balancing the tray on the metal sink, there was a set of plastic cutlery, a covered metal bowl, bread, and a steaming mug of what smelt like fresh coffee.

  Surprised, he turned to her and said, “The room service is good here.”

  Lifting the lid off the bowl, it revealed a steaming, gravy drenched stew making his mouth water. He’d been taught you couldn’t function if you were half-starved, and if taken prisoner, you had to keep yourself in good physical and psychological condition. They were told to eat and drink whatever was offered, and he began shoveling the bread and stew into his mouth. While he ate he watched the woman who in turn watched him back. He remembered her from the warehouse. She had sharpened teeth like fangs, blue on blue eyes, and was obviously one of Ruler’s demon super hunters.

  Starting to feel a little better, and still chewing on his bread and stew, he said, “You’re usually male, so I’m guessin’ you’re a dude in drag.”

  Pulling down her top, she revealed her perfectly pert, but ample breasts and asked archly, “Do these look fake to you, soldier boy?”

  Unable to resist admiring her breasts, he chuckled. “The body may be female, but everythin’ else about you ain’t. You’re not my type. You’re a bit too butch.”

  Before they could trade further insults, the metal doors clanged again. This time it was followed by a loud, shrieking voice. “Oh my, this place is horrible!”

  Inwardly he sighed. This was going to be bad and he knew it. Within seconds, Ruler appeared outside the bars, wearing a baseball uniform and holding a bat. With distaste etched across his face, he shook his head and wondered why the man was dressed so bizarrely, but then reminded himself that Ruler was batshit crazy.

  Eyeing him back through the bars, Ruler pouted. “How rude.”

  Narrowing his eyes, he watched him and waited for his next insane move, but Ruler continued to stand outside the cell, idly swinging his baseball bat from side to side. The end of the bat was stained with blood and he thought it was typical and not at all surprising.

  “I suppose it isn’t surprising,” Ruler said. Halting the bat mid swing, he paused and studying the end of the bat, he added with a small snigger, “I’ve been playing ball.”

  He was quickly becoming bored with Ruler. As far as he was concerned, he was a dead man walking. Ruler would kill him and that would be the end of it. He just hoped it would be quick. A long drawn out painful death didn’t appeal to him.

  Ruler’s smile widened and he said gleefully, “Oh no, Pup, I’m not going to kill you. That wouldn’t be any fun for me.”

  When Ruler stepped closer to the bars, he contemplated launching across the cell and grabbing him by the throat.

  With a happy smile, Ruler said, “Wouldn’t do you any good, Pup.” Stepping back from the bars, he asked silkily, “Don’t you wonder why we’re here? I could have taken you anywhere.”

  He hadn’t wondered that. Being a prisoner, he thought waking up in a prison cell made perfect sense to him. It hadn’t occurred to him to question why he was in a cell.

  With a snort, Ruler said rudely, “The imp calls you the noisy one, but I think she means you’re the stupid one.” Chuckling at his own joke, he continued, “I don’t need to put you in a cell to keep you prisoner.” With a wide wave of his baseball bat, he said, “This is a very special place for you.”

  He knew Ruler was trying to rattle him by talking in riddles, and as usual, he made no sense. He’d seen him behave this way at the Ranch, and he was as unimpressed now as he had been then.

  With a sigh, Ruler said almost sadly, “Yes, I suppose my modus operandi is predictable.” His expression quickly changed to a naughty one, and with a sly sideways look, he added, “Let’s try something different for a change.”

  Licking his dry lips, he sensed Ruler had finished playing with him and the real game was about to begin. Inwardly he steeled himself for whatever was coming and tried to control his need to flinch.

  Ruler said conspiratorially, “I’m going to give you a gift, Pup. The gift of you. It’s so important we know ourselves well, and you’ve forgotten some very important facts.”

  Handing the bloodied baseball bat to the raven-haired woman, he began to pace outside his cell, six steps to the left, and six to the right. With his hands behind his back while he walked, almost conversationally, he asked, “You don’t remember much before you were five years old, do you, Pup?”

  That was true, he had no memories as a child other than bein
g in foster care. As far as he knew he’d never known his birth parents, and lived his whole life under the care of strangers.

  “Oh that’s not true, Pup. You lived with your parents until you were three, you just don’t remember, and who can blame you?”

  Coming to a halt and turning to face him, he asked, “Have you heard of repressed memories, Pup?”

  He felt his heart begin to beat faster and his gut contracted. Something was coming and he knew it would be worse than death. He could duck a bullet, twist a hand that held a blade, or block a fist, but he couldn’t defend himself from his own mind. With a growing sense of dread, he realized Ruler was getting to him.

  Tilting his head and with an expression of insincere sympathy, Ruler said almost sadly, “No, Pup, you’re going to get to you.”

  Without warning the cell around him seemed to dissolve, and he found himself looking around a room. It was a fairly typical room for a child. There was a cot, a chest of white plastic drawers, a tall cupboard, a rocking chair, and a box of colorful toys. Confused, he lifted his hand and it was small and plump with chubby, stumpy little fingers. He touched his face, and it was smooth and soft as silk. Struggling to his feet, the chest of drawers were taller than he was, and looking down, he was wearing footie pajamas that were patterned with tiny blue trains.

  Meaning to say, “What the fuck?” The words didn’t form and all he did was gurgle.

  At the sound of his voice a woman walked into the room and she smiled at him. Scooping him up into her arms, she cooed, “My little man.”

  The woman smelt of soap and her body was soft and welcoming. “How is my baby? Did you like your bath, Joe?”

  No, no, no, he thought, this ain’t happening. I’m in a cell and Ruler is screwin’ with my head. He kicked his legs trying to reassert his own reality, but the woman easily restrained him, and she gently placed him into the cot. “I’m going read you a story, my baby boy, and then it’s time to sleep.”

  She turned and began to pick through items on the chest of drawers. As she moved, he studied her and slowly realized he knew her and where he was. This was his home and he’d lived here for as long as he could remember. The woman was his mother and she always read to him until he fell asleep. With her soft voice and her gentle hands, she was endlessly patient with him, even when he knew he was being difficult. As his mind flooded with memories of her, his heart softened. She was good to him and he adored her. Without thinking, he reached out his chubby hand to touch her.

  His mother saw him move, and turning to him with a delighted smile, she said sweetly, “Ah, you are my little baby.” Scooping him up again, she smothered his face with kisses. “You smell like a baby teddy bear!”

  He was happy, simple as that. With no fear, anger or loneliness, he only felt a simple joy at being unconditionally and completely loved. Bits of his mind faded as the memory of his mother, and of being so safe and loved, filled a gap in his head and heart he didn’t know he had. For the first time since he could remember, he felt content.

  Sitting down in the rocking chair, she cradled him in her lap, and he rested his head against her chest. He could feel her heart beating, her steady deep breathing, and in her hand she held a large colorful book that she opened and rested on her knees. He didn’t look at the book, but instead closed his eyes and breathed in the scent of her. It flooded his mind and decades stripped away, until he was nothing more than a child sitting in the arms of his loving mother being prepared for bed.

  Using only a dim night light, she softly began to read from the book. He didn’t hear the words, but caught by the tempo of her voice and the warmth of her body, he sank into a deep state of relaxation. While he sat dozing, nothing in his mind remembered where he really was or what was happening. There was only the moment of being a baby safe in the arms of his mother.

  As he rested, curled in her arms, he was woken by a loud bang. A man stood in the doorway, his huge body outlined by the light behind him. He felt his mother tense, and her heart quickened until it was banging so loudly, he could see each pulse flickering across her chest. In response to her sudden fear, his own body tightened and he knew this man was bad. He was loud and angry, and he hurt her. Knowing better than to cry, he clung tighter to his mother.

  The man rocked roughly and unsteadily into the room, and slurred loudly, “What the fuck are ya doin’?”

  The room filled with a sour odor, his mother immediately stood up and bending forward, she gently placed him into his cot. Turning to the angry man, she said soothingly, “We should go into the other room. I’ve only just got Joe to sleep.”

  He heard a loud crack and felt the cot shake as his mother spun with the force of the blow. She fell against his cot facing him.

  From behind her, the man roared angrily. “Ya worthless slut.”

  Looking into his eyes, they were wide with fear and pain and howling, he reached for her, unable to comprehend what was happening.

  Whispering, she said desperately, “It’s alright, Joe. Please don’t cry.”

  Not understanding her words, but grasping their meaning he fell silent. There was more shouting and while he watched, his mother was wrenched from his cot and the man, screaming incoherently with rage, began to beat her with his fists. Throughout her suffering, she remained silent. She didn’t plead for her life and nor did she cry. Her blood flowed, and as the bad man lifted his fist again and again, it was flung around the room. Warm splatters of her blood landed around him and on his face, but he continued to watch, until finally exhausted, the bad man stopped and stood looking at his bloodied creation.

  His mother didn’t move, she couldn’t move, and he knew her soft warmth was gone forever.

  The bad man looked at him. “Whatcha lookin’ at, ya useless brat. This is your fault, ya know. We were happy before you showed up. Look what ya did. Ya killed your own mother. I should kill ya for that.”

  Tension stiffened his body. He knew he was about to die and join his mother who he loved so much. Unable to defend himself, wishing he could save her life and his, he sat in his cot waiting to die. Having learned from his mother, he didn’t cry, but watched the man he knew to be his father with wide untrusting eyes. The bad man stood over him, and curling his huge hand into a fist, he prepared to strike his small head.

  He waited for the blow, but it never came. There was a loud noise and suddenly the bad man disappeared. Another face peered into the cot. It was a woman he’d never seen before. She had platinum blonde hair, and in a bright voice, she cried, “Oh, my poor little sweet. Come here, my little poppet.”

  Suddenly he was lifted from the cot and held tightly in the arms of the blonde woman. Looking down at his mother still lying on the floor, bloodied and wrecked, he reached for her crying, “Ma. Ma.”

  “Oh my God,” a voice bellowed. “Get that baby outta here!”

  He could feel himself breathing, his heart was hammering in his chest and he was cold, very cold. The concrete floor beneath him felt slightly damp. Opening his eyes, he was back in his cell and he felt exhausted and empty. Why, he thought, why did he kill her? In his mind he replayed the scene over and over, watching his mother die on an endless loop. He didn’t move, he couldn’t move. All the energy had left his body and he was as limp as she was, lying dead on the floor below his cot. He didn’t know how long he lay there, his mind felt numb and thoughts drifted in and out, but none crystalized into anything he could use. He knew he was broken. He’d been broken from the moment he watched her die and nothing had, or ever could, repair him to be the man he should have been. Hours must have passed, but his mind remain fragmented and he didn’t think he would ever have the energy or the desire to move again. As voices drifted in and out of his consciousness, he heard the words, but not the meaning.

  “Oh dear, I don’t think he liked that.”

  “Poor little soldier boy.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE: A future foretold (Mackenzie)

  He was in a prison. On his right was a line of barr
ed cells, and to his left was a concrete wall marked with pits and deep scratches. Voices echoed down the empty corridor and he could sense the desperation of lost souls long gone.

  “Well, just pick him up and carry him. You know Ruler doesn’t like to wait and he certainly won’t tolerate being bored.”

  The man was pale with greying hair and, despite being rail thin, had a puffy face and walked with the air of a man in control. If it were not for his bloated looking face, the man would have been handsome. Next to the man was a beautiful woman with stunning blue on blue eyes, but there was something odd about her mannerisms. She had her finger buried up her nose and was rooting about roughly. While he watched she pulled her finger out and wiped her hand down her thigh. It was a strange contrast to her stunning beauty.

  With a disgusted sneer, the woman spat, “Fuck you. I’ll do it myself!”

  Two hunters lumbered down the corridor and entered a cell to his left. Within a moment, they stomped out again, each holding the arm of a man as they dragged him between them.

  “Don’t be rough with him,” the puffy faced man called after them. “Ruler doesn’t like his playthings damaged.”

  Still looking disgusted, the woman turned to the man and shouted, “What are you talking to them for? I’m the one controlling them!”

  Looking confused, the puffy faced man giggled and said, “Oh, yeah…right.”

  He followed the strange entourage out into the exercise yard of the prison and a noose was hanging from a roughly assembled wooden frame. It looked like they were planning to hang the man they were dragging from the cell. The ground was frosty and their footprints were etched into the ice, but he left none of his own. From across the yard he watched while they hung the man by his feet. Ruler crouched down and spoke to the man whose head was now hanging two feet from the ground. Wanting to understand what he was observing, he walked over to the hanging man and tried to see his face.

  “This is the end of the road, Pup,” Ruler said quietly. “The imp and your brother dogs are already dead.”