Class Four: Those Who Survive (33 page)

Chapter Forty-Six

A plughole in the middle of the table carried away the drained blood. ‘Url carried a milk urn, which had collected the fluid, to the side of the room where a number of other receptacles waited.

Juhn pulled a trolley along the floor carrying the tools of his macabre trade. First off he used a meat cleaver to finish hacking through the exsanguination hole in the throat and pulled the head clear of the body.

The three brothers worked like a choreographed dance troupe. No sooner had the head been removed than Vints had picked it up by the hair and took it across to a corner of the barn where a sheet hung down from the rafters. As it was pulled to one side, Russ saw row upon row of sallow grey heads. With little ceremony, Vints stuck the cannibal’s head on a spike and twisted it so it was held firmly in place.

Festering zombie heads welcomed it to the neighbourhood with gnashing of teeth and clicks of dislocated jawbone. Vints smoothed down the cannibal’s sticky hair just as it budded into unlife. Eyes rolled down and looked around at its new home. Seeing the human in front of him, he joined in on the chomping chorus. It sounded like the testing facility at a castanet factory.

Juhn had moved on to a handsaw, and was hacking through the arms and legs like a possessed woodsman. Ochre mixed with sweat ran down his face, giving him orange streaks. As each appendage became separated from the body, ‘Url snatched them up, worked a hook through the palm of the hand or meat of the foot, and set it to one side. He caught Russ staring at him. “Fur the smokeowse,” he grunted, and a trickle of drool ran down his chin at the thought of oak-smoked thigh.

Discarding the saw, with tidbits of meat stuck to its teeth, Juhn picked up the bone knife and sliced down the remainder of the ragged throat to the top of the sternum. Digging his fingers in, he peeled the skin aside and, using a claw hammer, dug out the Manubrium, the chunk of bone which sat at the top. Having removed this, he tore the skin some more and threaded some fishing wire under and around the sternum.

Tying a knot, he ran off a length and tied the free end to the hammer’s head. “I loves vis bit,” he drooled. Juhn rested the hammer on the torso, and moved to the end of the dissection table. His brothers stood either side and held the slab of meat down. Grabbing hold of the hammer and bracing his feet against the table legs, which were embedded within the floor, he pulled back.

Much like filleting a fish, the skin relented and the sternum was pulled free. Each rib popped as it was disconnected from the central column of bone. As Juhn picked the chunk free from the wire, the two brothers each grabbed a flap of skin and yanked their sides open.

Deft fingers picked the ribs out and put them to one side, no doubt to create some new line in the human bone clothing range.

Juhn put the hammer back on the trolley and picked up two buckets. The three of them then fished around inside the limbless body and allocated organs to each bucket. One was marked ‘GUUD’ the other ‘BAAD’.

As utterly repellent as it was, Russ had to admire the efficiency and rhythm that they had shown; a real demonstration of teamwork over individuality. It was only when the buckets were carried off to the milk urns, the stripped carcass flung into a trough, and pairs of eager eyes turned on him, that Russ realised that he was next.

“Balls.”

Chapter Forty-Seven

“How long have you been here, Anton?” Zena asked, fingers pinching the cage mesh.

Anton shuffled. “Sorry, dead leg. You’d think you’d get used to them. A few weeks, I guess. I’ve just been wandering around after the last place I was at. Living day to day. Saw the farm and thought there’d be some food inside. Little did I know that the food was, well,
this
lot…” He gestured to the other cages.

Zena shuddered. “But how have you stayed alive so long?”

“They give us these scraps of meat. You don’t want to know what it is, and this homemade bread. But if you’ve got an image of a nice white bloomer in your head, you’re mistaken. It has the consistency of trifle and tastes like feet.” The thought of it made Anton heave. “Man, the first time…anyway, every few days or so, they come in to get another one of us, take them out back, and you never see them again, well, not anything of them you’d recognise.”

“You mean?”

“Yes, they’re a friendly bunch of inbred cannibals. I’m sorry to sound like a bastard. But your friend? He’s going to die. If he isn’t already. Sorry.” Anton shrugged.

“Hey, Zena, is this party invite-only?”

The man’s voice startled them all. Standing in the walkway was a man with mad auburn hair and matching beard which threatened to engulf his entire face. He was clutching a metal hatchet.

“Francis!” Nathan exclaimed excitedly. “I knew you’d come back for us.”

Francis nodded and walked toward him. His face was a river of anger and relief. He did a mental count. “Where’s Russ?”

Zena pointed to the doors at the end of the jail-block. “They took him. They’re gonna…” Her fragile voice broke off and was replaced by the subjugation of crying.

“Okay, okay. I’ll get him. How many are there?”

Nathan stuck up three fingers. “Though there were five in total outside.”

“Fine, I’ll deal with them. You guys need to get out of here, though. We just need…” A lightbulb moment lit up Francis’ face. “Hey, Nate, you got those paperclips still?” The kid looked at him as if he had just asked him his name in Japanese.

Francis sighed. “The metal faces? You still got them?”

Nathan’s expression changed from general bemusement to acknowledgement, and he thrust his hand into his trouser pocket and after, picking out balls of fluff, he passed the paper clips through the bars to Francis.

With dextrous fingers, Francis bent the metal to an approximation of the lock. After a few moments jiggling it around within the chamber, the clasp opened up, Nathan let out a muted cheer. “I wasn’t always a security guard, you know.”

He passed the bent stick of metal to Zena. “Get those who can still move free. I’m gonna go get Russ and we can get the hell out of here.”

Zena nodded furiously and started to pick the lock. Francis bent down by Nathan. “Whatever happens, kid, you make sure you stay safe. If something don’t look good, get out of there, okay? Your mum would be proud of how brave you are. You’re a good kid.” He finished by ruffling Nate’s hair before standing up and walking towards the closed sliding door.

Nathan stood up and called out. “You are coming back, aren’t you?”

Francis sagged, turned and said, “Everyone comes back these days, kid,” before storming off towards the end of the barn.

Francis peered through a crack in the frame and saw Russ lying trussed up on a metal table. His feet were tied together by rope, which in turn led to a winch. He could hear Russ speaking, cursing at the three men surrounding him. One stood by the winch, pulling the cable taut. He was the man who had trapped him in the pit. Another was cleaning items on a tray, while the third stood with his back to him, patting Russ on the head.

Grabbing hold of a pitchfork which he found standing up against the wall, he formulated a plan. Checking that the door was off the latch, he rested a foot against it. From inside the room beyond, he heard the sound of a winch grinding and frenzied shouting. With a mighty push, Francis pushed the door open and charged into the room.

The pitchfork met ‘Url square in the guts as he turned to the sound of squeaking metal. Francis twisted the implement like a door handle and, with one foot resting on the bone armour, yanked the weapon free.

‘Url screamed in agony as his stomach and intestinal tract were ripped out. They slopped to the floor in a steaming pile. Francis swung the pole around and caught him on the side of the face, sending him to the ground. A rope of intestine linked the offal pile to its owner, who was now convulsing on the floor.

The winch continued to whirr and Russ’ body, up to his waist, was now dangling in the air. Vints was caught in two minds between manning the winch and stabbing to death the intruder who had eviscerated his kin. The indecision allowed Francis time to close the distance. With his broken skull discarded, Vints looked like he had applied fake tan to his cheeks.

Whirring ceased as the winch hauled Russ up to full height. Vints growled and fumbled for his weapon. Francis swung the axe down and it carved off the side of the savage’s face, from the corner of his eye diagonally down through the middle of his mouth and through the jawbone.

Frantic hands tried to hold his face together, but to no avail. Holding one bit meant that another segment was neglected. Whilst trying to hold his jaw together, and stop teeth from falling out, his eyeball bulged through the wound and swung across his face, hitting his nose and coming to a rest.

As he instinctively went to catch his eye, he let go of his jaw, which swung downwards and broke off, landing on the floor with a dull thud. Francis lashed out and caught the eye in his free hand. Squashing it in his palm elicited animalistic howling.

Like a ripcord, Francis tore it free and cast it aside. Vints collapsed to the floor. Blood seeping from his disfigurement, he lapsed into unconsciousness.

“Uh uh uh.”

Francis turned to see Juhn grabbing Russ’ head by his greasy hair, exposing his throbbing jugular, against which was held a blood-flecked bone knife. “Easy pal. You put that down, and I guarantee you can walk away from this,” Francis said calmly, holding his arms out as a symbol of acceptance.

“New as suun as I seen you, that you wood be trubble. You slain ma kin, vink it only fair I call you on that,” Juhn grunted, a smile bloomed on his face.

“NOOOOO.”

As Francis dived over the table, Juhn ran the edge of the knife across Russ’ throat. Like a bag being unzipped, it opened up, spraying blood in a wide arc. Francis tackled Juhn to the ground and, in a cloud of fury repressed from the events of so long ago, he pummelled his fists into the savage’s face.

The skull mask chipped and fractured; the ochre-lined eyes burst with blood vessels and turned purple. All the while, amongst the sound of skull smacking against concrete and fists striking skull, was the sound of cackling.

Francis looked down on the misshapen face he had formed with his anger. From behind, he heard a gasping gurgling sound. He leapt up and put an arm under Russ’ hanging head. “HELP ME, SOMEONE, HELP ME!” he bellowed.

“Stay with me, slim.” Francis looked into Russ’ fading eyes. Tributaries of blood had run down his face like melted wax. Russ moved his lips. “I can’t hear you, slim,” Francis said.

Russ closed his eyes and huffed. He rolled his eyelids open and through wet gurgling he mustered, “I’m going home.” Upon utterance of his words, he fell slack in Francis’ arms.

“Behind you,” came a call from within the barn.

The warning came too late. Francis felt something slide into his back, pushing ribs aside and cracking one as an icicle of pain burrowed into his body. He released Russ, who swung gently, liquid still pumping out of him, tip-tapping against the metal like a leaky pipe. Francis looked down to see a section of sharpened bone sticking out through his skin and clothing. Then it was gone, along with the pain, only to appear again a moment later. He saw the spear of bone jutting from his chest, a cackling the soundtrack to his assault. Francis clutched his front and fell to the floor. A boot rolled him over onto his back. He could feel his top growing wet. He felt cold, his legs felt numb, he looked up and saw the bruised visage of Juhn looming over him. “Aww, looky here. Looks like you’re bleedin’ out bad, Mister.”

The knife was waved in front of his eyes, seeking out the next place to desecrate. Having decided, it was pulled back from view, and Francis braced for impact. He didn’t care anymore.

Instead of the expected stabbing sensation, he heard a solitary crack which ended the maniacal laughter at once. Juhn fell on top of Francis, a claw hammer embedded in the crown of his skull. He felt the deadweight being dragged off him and then a child’s face appeared in his vision. “I got him, Francis, just like the
Red Mask from Mars
.”

Francis softly wrapped his arms around Nathan and pulled him to his chest. “Great kid. Don’t get too cocky now, you hear? Remember… stay…safe…”

May 14
th
2014

21:32

The room was deserted, save for Diane’s body, and the baby which was pulling itself free of the cavity in her torso. It plopped onto the side of the table with a wet slurp. The umbilical cord tethered the infant to its mother. On unsteady podgy arms, it started pulling itself towards Francis.

“George…my son,” he gasped. The boy crawled through a puddle of slime and blood towards him. As the child lay a bloodsoaked hand on top of his, Francis recoiled. Then another hand, one he was intimately familiar with, was slapped on top.

“Diane?” Francis asked dumbfounded. The woman he had spent the past eight years with sat up slowly. As her torso stretched, a number of organs took the opportunity to escape and slopped out through the incision.

A low moan rumbled out of her diaphragm, causing Francis to stumble backwards. Dead eyes looked at him. Mother and child reached out for him, eager to grab hold and resume the unholy communion.

“No…please…this is just a dream, please,” Francis begged out loud. He bumped into an oxygen tank as he backpedalled from the couple. He looked down and knew what he had to do. He picked the tank up and held it above his head.

“All I wanted was for us to be a proper little family. We’d spent so long planning for this moment, but this…this is not what was supposed to happen.” A tear ran from the corner of his eye and soaked into his moustache.

“I love you both,” he said softly, before he brought the tank down again and again, until no more murderous hands reached for him.