There were a number of them, rusted hulks, their windows and doors sans glass and consumed by weeds and vines and other creeping green foliage. One thing that struck him was just how quiet it was walking out here on his own. Very few birds or other animals. Certainly, nothing that screeched like the animal that had kept him awake all night.
Tiredness mired his progress and weighed down his legs, the pistol felt heavy in his arms, and the backpack filled with supplies was like an anchor, its hard edge wearing a sore groove into his lower back.
Fuck this, he thought, slumping down on a log. Hefting the pack off, he rubbed his back and looked out ahead of him. There was a clearing maybe only thirty feet away, a few streams of golden light cut through the green gloom, highlighting the dust particles and small buzzing insects as they looked for their next meal.
Splitting the light every few minutes, the solid shadows of the shuttles descended from the mother ship, whose shadow bled through the dark clouds above. He realized he wasn’t very far off at that point. The weird pink lights of the shuttles bathed the tops of the trees and then disappeared beyond the cover.
A sound of a voice came to him then. Different accent to the others. Harsher. Foreign for this land. Not wanting to be caught flat-footed and in the open, Ben slipped behind the trunk, pulling the pack with him.
The voices died off but he could still hear the snapping of twigs getting louder, closer. Perhaps a single person given the regularity of the noise. The trunk made a good rest for the pistol. Ben braced his shoulder against the tree as he looked down the grooved channel that made up the sights.
Dull black, heavy, but accurate and deadly, Ben remembered how lethal the pistol was in Denver’s hands. There’s no way Ben’s aim would be that good, but he knew if this threat came close enough he’d have more than a good chance of hitting it.
His pulse quickened, his breath became shallow.
Twigs continued to snap, getting closer to the edge of the clearing that Ben focused on through a pair of tree trunks. He could see right across the clearing to where the tree line started again.
A figure stepped out.
Ben, although expecting, still found it startling in his heightened state and pulled the trigger too quickly sending his shot firing high above the figure’s head. The person ducked and rolled. At the end of the roll, the person rose to a knee and held out a gun sighting across the tree line, tracing where the shot had come from.
What is he doing, Ben thought, as the figure seemed to sniff the air and then smile before rising to his feet.
“It’s just me, Igor. That you out there, our little croatoan friends? Firing on your allies now? I’m not sure Augustus would be so happy with that.”
The man spun around, his weapon by his side. “Come on then, show yourself, I’ll get you back to the farm.”
The farm! Igor… Ben pulled his pistol away and took his finger off the trigger. He remembered Denver and Charlie talking about an Igor, along with a Marek, Alex and of course, Gregor. All the people who worked on the farm.
Grabbing his pack, Ben vaulted the trunk and ran out to the tree line, making sure he kept the pistol in hand, but pointing down to the ground. He didn’t want to accidentally threaten Igor and get shot himself for the effort.
Excitement and relief built within him as he rushed forward into the clearing, holding his free hand up. “Igor? Please, can you help me?” He didn’t really know how else to start it.
Igor, with his shaved head, droopy moustache and deep scowl aimed his pistol with both arms out in front of him. “Stop where you are and drop that damned weapon,” he said. “Who the fuck are you? And more importantly, what the hell are you doing shooting at me?”
Making a wet thud noise, the alien pistol struck the loamy soil as Ben did as he was told. He held both arms up, having seen people do it in Western films. “I’m Ben, I’m from the ship…. I mean harvester. I escaped from Charlie. I was trying to find my way back.”
“Oh really?” Igor said cocking his head to one side. He looked over Ben, watching the edge of the forest, probably suspecting some kind of trap. “And is he chasing you?”
Ben shook his head. “No, I slipped in the night, no one knows I’m here. He killed the rest of my crew shortly after he damaged the harvester. Please, you’ve got to help me, I can’t stay out here.”
“Why’d you fire on me?” Igor asked, stalking closer, his pistol solid and unwavering, the barrel pointing right at Ben’s head.
“I was just scared. I thought Charlie and his psycho son were stalking me. I panicked. I’m not used to it out here. I’ve only ever known my ship, my cabin, but all that’s gone now, and my crew…” Ben dropped his head to really sell the ruse. Although not exactly experienced in body language, he gathered this Igor wasn’t the prize wrench in the toolbox.
“Stand up,” Igor said, “and turn around.”
For a moment, Ben hesitated, thinking he was going to be executed. But Igor’s bark made him jump and follow the orders. Then the man’s hands were on his arms, pulling them behind his back. Something plastic locked his wrists in place. Igor’s breath was on his neck as he threatened him.
“You’re coming back to the farm with me, Ben, but if you so much as move or breathe out of place, I’ll put you down like a pig and feed you to the cattle. You understand?”
Ben nodded furiously, wondering what the hell he had got himself into and if Denver and Charlie had set him up and all the nonsense about the plan was just a way of getting rid of him, get him killed by these other people.
Not that he could do anything about it now. He thought of showing Igor the bead that he kept in his shirt pocket beneath his zipped jacket, but didn’t want to waste his best gambit and decided to wait until he met this Gregor character.
Still, while Igor placed the alien pistol into the pack and hauled the latter on to his back, Ben said, “I’ve got information, about Charlie and Denver. I know things, I can trade.”
Igor kicked him in the lower back, forcing him toward the edge of the clearing. They were moving back from where Igor had come. “I don’t doubt that, son, but you’re mistaking me for someone more generous if you think I’m going to trade anything with you. I’ll get that information in my own special way, don’t you worry about that. Now get moving, and don’t make as much as a squeak unless I tell you; otherwise I’ll put a bullet in your head. Is that clear enough for you?”
Ben was about to speak but chose not to. Instead he nodded.
“Good little pig, good.”
BEN STIFLED a scream as the gaffer tape, as Igor called it, was ripped suddenly away from his mouth, the adhesive tearing away small patches of skin on his lips and cheeks. His eyes filled with tears. Igor placed his clammy hand over Ben’s face. Leaning in, he whispered, “Make a noise, little pig, and you’ll join those.”
The former gangster pointed to a rack of meat hooks, upon which hung half a dozen men and women, their hands and feet pointing downwards, their chins resting on their chests, the hook embedded deep into their backs.
Below them, flowing in a channel to somewhere further off in the slaughterhouse was a tiny river of blood. It dripped from a series of cuts among the people’s bodies, now stained dark brown with dried blood, forming external arteries like dried rivers.
The smell made Ben gag: a heady mix of coppery blood and lung-scorching bleach. Every breath brought with it a stinging sensation, making his guts turn. He fought to keep the bile down as it rose into his throat.
Igor backed away. Beneath the bright white glare of the overhead strip-light, a piece of dark leather material wrapped around Igor’s waist, presumably for protection, shone glossily. Red stains covered the white ankle-length jacket he wore beneath.