James Axler – Judas Strike

Kinnison narrowed his piggy eyes and said nothing. For once he was thankful for the bandages that masked his features.

“What about the outlanders?” a sergeant asked. “I heard they took Cold Harbor ville in less than a day.”

“Send the word, chill them on sight.”

“Yes, my lord.”

Exhaling loudly through his nose, a guard moved his head away from the huge prisoner. “Shitfire, this diseased pus bag stinks something awful!” he stated.

The other guards muttered in agreement. They had never been this close to the former baron before, and were beginning to understand why dogs wouldn’t go near him, and his bed partners got drunk before and after sex. He reeked worse than a dead seal on a hot beach.

Baron Griffin sniffed the air and made a face. “Nuke me, he is pungent. Well, he’ll smell a lot worse when I’m done with him. Sergeant, have your men haul his wretched ass to the dungeon. I have something very special planned for our former lord and master.”

“Yes, sir!”

Dragging Kinnison into motion, the sec men kicked and shoved the fat man along the stony corridors of the mansion and down into the cellar. When Kinnison heard the telltale booming of the heavy door closing, he knew that there was every possibility that he would never leave the dungeon alive. A flare of pride overlook him, and he found the notion intolerable that the hideous tortures he did so often to others would now be done to him. Kinnison decided to try for a clean death. When the guards cut off the rope to shackle him to the wall, he’d grab a blaster and start shooting. They would be forced to chill him then, and he would be spared the humiliation of being taken apart under the sharp knives and red-hot tongs of his enemies.

But the sec men seemed to have expected that move on his part, because they shackled him first, and then cut away the ropes. Dangling helpless from the iron cuffs attached to the ceiling, Kinnison stood before the jeering men utterly helpless. They could do as they pleased with him now, and there was no way he could stop them. He was already dead. If he had a single minute alone, he might have a fleeting chance of escape, but that would never happen. Griffin was proving himself worthy to be a baron in every way.

“Let’s carve him up a little first,” a guard said, poking at the man with the tip of his knife. “Mebbe set him on fire first.”

“Cut off his fingers, feed them to the dogs!” another shouted.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Griffin said, testing the anchor bolt that held the chains. It was good and solid. “His heir is dead, his reign is over. Let him live out the rest of his miserable life down here in the cold and wet. The sickness will eat him alive, and without his drugs or shine, it’ll be a much more painful death than anything we could do to him.”

Dribbling blood and pus from tied hands, Kinnison heaved for breath and remained quiet.

That wasn’t the reaction he wanted, so Baron Griffin took a bottle from a nearby table, grabbed Kinnison by the chin and forced him to look upward.

“Live forever,” he whispered, and pulled the cork with his teeth to pour the contents over the man, front and back.

Kinnison had only a moment to wonder what was happening before he smelled the strong aroma of alcohol. He watched in horror as the clear liquid seeped through his bandages and reached the open sores covering his skin. The screams exploded from him as searing pain burned into his flesh, his anguished cries almost drowning out the laughter of his captors. The agony seemed to last for years as he was doused with more shine, and then again, until he was finally swallowed whole by sweet blackness.

KINNISON AWAKENED with a scream, and it took a moment for him to realize he was alone in the cell. Then he shuddered in memory of what they had done. He ached from the beatings, and every sore felt brand-new, as tender as a bullet wound. Plus his clothes were filthy. The blood and pus had soaked through the bandages and stained his shirt and pants. His sandals were gone, his bare feet resting on the cold stone floor, and his left arm was broken, the job expertly done. There were no splinters of bone through the skin to cause major blood loss and a fast death. He could feel the splintered ends grinding against each other, but after a decade of pain, it was only a minor annoyance.