“De-fang the fucking bitch!” cried one of the others, a scrawny weather-beaten rodent of a man. Sniggers came not just from the jackals, but the carrion birds who watched from the side.
“Now that would be a shame.” Alpha held out a large hand to take Rebecca’s chin, but she pulled away. Shaking, she backed up against the table so hard it juddered momentarily, letting out a screech that echoed off the walls. The sudden noise made her scream and the men pounce, the whole scene suddenly set in motion.
The Mariner moved his hand slowly to his side. He had a gun there, hidden beneath his coat. It was a vicious little device that could spit out bullets in quick succession, unless it jammed, which it was oft to do. The boy who’d traded him a full case-load had told him they were Mausers, though that seemed a strange name for a gun. Sounded more appropriate for a dog.
Whatever the name, the Mauser might just spew enough bullets to take down the gang and whoever felt gutsy enough to move from the shadows. Did any of them have guns? The Mariner had no idea. The ocean was endless and some he met had never seen a gun, others had them falling out their arse.
A quick punch to the stomach sent Rebecca double, her scream going silent as the wind was knocked from her lungs. Further blows pushed her against the table, her head striking the wooden edge with such force an ugly red gap opened on her forehead.
“Hold her down,” Alpha commanded one of his underlings. Both he and a second grabbed Rebecca by the arms and pulled her across the poker table. Face down against the hardwood she once again found her voice and begun to scream. Blood formed a pool in front of her eyes, the gash upon her head making her hair form thick scarlet clumps. Several pairs of hands gripped her trousers and pulled with such force her legs were lifted clear off the ground. Buttons, torn free, dropped to the floor, mingling with the discarded chips. As the garment disappeared down her legs, it revealed pale white skin, eyed lustily by the onlookers.
The Mariner watched as the Alpha pushed both her legs apart, her muscles spasmodic with terror. He had his hand on the Mauser now, it would take less than a second to draw it and put a stop to this horror. The Alpha too reached for his weapon, eyes fixed on Rebecca’s buttocks as she struggled under the gangs grasp. Just like the Mariner, Alpha’s was primed and ready to use. He took Rebecca’s underwear in hand and tore it to the side. The item didn’t fall free completely, but hung around her waist, misshapen and loose. The whole gang watched intently as the Alpha moved his erection between her legs, ready to penetrate.
Now! Whilst they are distracted! No-one will notice. Put the gun to their heads and shoot! If he acted, it may just be in time.
Alpha pushed his hips forward.
Rebecca’s scream found new depths of agony.
The Mariner watched as the beast enjoyed himself, goaded on by his accomplices, each relishing the thought of their own turn. Rebecca still screamed, but now through gritted teeth. It was difficult to see the precise expression upon her face through the mask of blood, tears and snot, but the Mariner could guess. It was one he was sure he’d seen before.
Why hadn’t he saved her? He’d wanted to, what was happening was monstrous, a crime beyond comprehension, but he’d been unable to act. Was it the drink? Could he blame the bourbon? No, that would be a lie. Some part of him had wanted to put a stop to the rape, but another part, a far bigger part, had wanted to watch. The same part that now enjoyed the show, just one of many other leering gargoyles.
With a grunt the Alpha ejaculated, his body going rigid as he emptied himself inside her. The act seemed to jolt the Mariner into action. Unnoticed, he stood, striding forwards, closing the gap. Alpha’s sweaty head only turned slightly when the cold barrel was gently placed against it.
The gun did not jam. Six quick blasts sent hot lead through the heads and throats of each member of the pack, blood showering the bar behind in wide crimson arcs. The flashes of the gun lit up the room, showing seedy faces the Mariner was sure had looked just like his own.
Shocked silence descended upon the den, broken only by a vague murmuring from one of Rebecca’s rapists. He lay on the floor, the top of his head broken open by a passing bullet, and muttered senselessly as his life departed. Visions unknown to the rest haunted the dying man’s vision as his eyes read invisible books.
Using his free hand the Mariner pulled Rebecca up against his chest, trying to support her limp body. He swung the gun wildly, making it clear he wouldn’t tolerate any movement. His action served another purpose too, it kept his crotch away from the girl, afraid the hardness hidden there would give away his darkness inside.
“Open that fucking door,” the Mariner growled at the barman, who raised his arms in surrender. He trembled, but made no move towards to exit. The Mariner, in no mood to be resisted, shot the man in the face. His body, head caved in where the nose used to be, jolted back till it hit the wall and then slowly slid to the ground, twitching erratically.
“You,” the Mariner said, pointing the Mauser at another shadowy spectator. “Open it.”
Guilt followed Jesus as wolves do the lame. He had failed Judas. Instead of finding forgiveness, as his own preaching taught, Jesus had succumbed to revenge. He needed to repent.
The Road Messiah no more, Jesus fell onto his knees and asked God for guidance. He had travelled the world preaching and he had travelled the world punishing, and neither had saved mankind from its own wickedness. Neither had saved him.
But God didn’t answer.
So Jesus boarded a small rowing boat and took himself out to sea. For forty days and forty nights Jesus rode the waves without food nor drink, hoping to be granted the sight to save his fellow man.
It was during this time the Devil came to tempt Jesus.
“Jesus. You’ve been ten days out at sea. Are you not hungry? Let me feed you.”
“No,” said Jesus. “I will eat when God wills me. Not you.”
“Jesus. It has been twenty days out at sea. Are you not thirsty? Let me refresh you.”
“No,” said Jesus. “I will drink when God wills me. Not you.”
“Jesus. It has been thirty days out at sea. Is there nothing you desire? I can give you anything, any yearning born of heart, guts, or loins. See what I bring you?”
And then the Devil showed Jesus a great many sights designed to lure him away from his rowing boat and into the depths, but Jesus refused them all.
“Devil, leave me be. I do not want your promises. They do not convince me. I do not want your bribes. They do not tempt me. I do not want your love. It does not warm me. Only God’s forgiveness will make me leave this boat.”
On the fortieth day Jesus still had not received God’s forgiveness nor his guidance. “I have not suffered enough,” he declared to the heavens. Taking a knife from his pouch, Jesus plunged it through both feet and both palms, mirroring his disciples’ wounds. Blood flowed freely from the cuts and as the first drop hit the ocean the sky turned dark.
“Why has my Son’s blood been spilt?” God’s voice was great and his fury sent tsunami’s in all directions.
“Father,” cried Jesus. “I have failed you, failed my disciples and failed my people. I am sorry. But I have suffered in this boat for forty days and forty nights, yet still you will not forgive me!”
“But Son,” spoke God, his anger quickly waning. “I was waiting for you to forgive yourself.”
And then Jesus realised he’d forgotten his first teaching, forgiveness comes from within.