Housepest: Chapter 1
Joseph Dredd was a man of few words and the words he did choose were always orders, gruff and rumbling, threatening, seething. There was more to this man, under the boiling hot surface and the sheen of soul-crushing judge work, there was a dormant but lingering desire to break out of the mold into which he had been pressed. The first crack in his seams came in the form of a young man, a useless punk, a wiseass kid with eyes like rooftop swimming pools and hair like sun. In this filthy, rotting city of rust and blood, those bright, brilliant features trapped the judge unexpectedly, and stayed his hand from calling in the meat wagon.
Responding to a block war that turned out to be a bunch of creeps getting rowdy over their meager turf and waving around guns like lunatics, he had most of them zipped and waiting for transport down in the square. Once he called in the wagon, he decided to go up a few floors and see if he could find any of the punks who escaped his grasp. There he saw the kid in the hall and he might have walked right by if the little fool hadn't nearly jumped out of his milky skin and quickly barricaded himself in his apartment.
Dredd kicked the door in easily enough and stepped into the filthy apartment that was literally a hole in the wall. Crowded and small, the space seemed more like a closet than a home. The kid was actually under the fucking bed, his bright eyes peeking out ridiculously past a frayed pair of sneakers.
Pretending not to see him, Dredd kicked the door shut behind him and looked around the apartment. The kitchenette area was a shocking sight. The wall and ceiling were blackened from a fire-possibly more than one fire-and the appliances were broken or melted. The refrigerator was warped and looked like a Freon disaster waiting to happen. Dredd frowned even deeper, if that was possible.
He opened the fridge to an ear-drum piercing squeal of the hinges and found it non-functional and full of books. He did a double-take. Come to think of it, as Dredd turned, there were books everywhere. Old, musty books lined the shelves and stacked in teetering towers along the walls. The trembling kid in hiding slunk closer to the wall as Dredd walked over and sat on the bed, the mattress sagging beneath him. He picked up a book from the threadbare sheets and turned it in his gloved hands, Cosmos, it was called.
"You gonna make me wait?" Dredd finally rasped, closing the book, careful not to lose the matchbook bookmark. Though, looking at the kitchen wall again, he wasn't sure the kid should have a book of matches.
He waited another minute, listening to the fear-heavy breathing from under the bed before standing up and flipping the flimsy frame over, letting it crash into the opposite wall, revealing the cowering man beneath. He had nowhere to run, so the punk curled into the cobwebbed corner and covered his face.
Yanking a zip from his belt, Dredd approached the trembling creature and dragged him away from the wall. Collecting his arms as he twisted, Joe cinched the zip tight into the kid's wrists, trapping them together behind his back, the plastic tie pressing deep into the delicate, smooth skin.
"Taking part in violent, gang-based crimes?" Dredd asked, giving his prisoner a rare opportunity to talk. The kid shook his head dramatically, looking up into the helmet with big, shiny eyes. "Your name?"
"James Tiberius Kirk," he quavered, "Jim." Speaking his name seemed to have a calming effect on the kid who composed himself enough to square his shoulders and twist his torso toward Dredd, "And I was in the wrong place at the wrong time. It was self-defense."
Dredd considered that before reaching down and yanking out a handgun that was nestled in the back of the kid's pants, poorly hidden by his tatty shirt. "Got a license?" he asked, turning the gun in his palm, the serial numbers had been filed off.
Jim swallowed hard and closed his eyelids down over those blue pools, his long eyelashes whispering against his cheeks. He shook his head solemnly then hung it, knowing he was caught.
Dredd knew he should speak the sentence. Instead, he seized Jim's upper arm and dragged him up onto his feet. He palmed the Cosmos book and hooked the kid's elbow, leading him roughly from the space, shutting and securing the door behind them.
Silenced by fear or hope, Jim didn't say a word as he was pulled roughly through the block to the elevator and then out into the beating sun. Joe pushed Jim to his bike, Lawmaster, and instructed him to straddle the seat. Joe mounted behind him, Jim's tethered hands gathered close to his leather-clad genitals as he reached around him for the handles. His shift was over and he wasn't sure what he was doing with the kid on his bike as he peeled out into the smoggy traffic before the meat wagon could arrive to collect the others.
In an effort to feel safe from falling, Jim leaned his shoulders into the broad and bedecked chest behind him, his head clunking into the hard helmet of the judge. He wasn't sure what the hell was happening, but he was certain it wasn't going to be okay. He assumed, based on the position of his hands and the unorthodox methods of the judge, that he was being taken off for some illegal and unpleasant activity. When he thought of the possibilities and implications, his body shuddered in fear.
Dredd pulled his bike into the lower parking garage of his home block, easing Lawmaster into a protected area and turning it off. He rose up off the bike and yanked Jim off after him, setting him onto his feet.
Jim turned to the judge in the darkened space and pleaded softly, "Please sir, release me. Please judge."
"Quiet," the reply was gruff and accompanied by a hard swat to his ass that forced Jim on his toes and left him breathless. He was dragged by his elbow once again, wincing and silent, toward an industrial elevator. This block was mostly Judges and a few other government employees and Jim could sense the ill-natured man's desire to hurry.
Once off the elevator, it was a few extra-long, fast strides to a door and Dredd shouldered it open and yanked the kid in with him.
Sliding the door shut, inside, Dredd pulled out a blade and Jim squeezed his eyes shut, holding his breath, waiting for the first cut.
Instead, he felt his hands swing free as the zip was cut. He opened his eyes and looked at the purple welts from the indentation of the plastic tie. He rubbed tenderly at the skin and absent-mindedly ran a hand over his own ass where the swat had landed moments ago.
Jim's mouth was dry as he looked around the orderly space. It was industrial but pristine, with blank but unsullied metal walls and everything was organized and straight.
Dredd pointed to a small table in the kitchen. Craning his neck in every direction, Jim had never been in a living space with more than one room. He sat obediently at the table in one of the chairs. The judge pulled out the Cosmos book and tossed it down. Jim captured the book in his hands gratefully, pressing his fingers into the hard cover and smoothing them across.
Loosing another zip, Dredd took Jim's left wrist and tethered his arm to the metal register by the table. He secured it tight and turned to leave the room.
"Sir!" Jim called after him. No response, "Mr. Judge?"
A minute later a man emerged where once a judge had been. Without his helmet, the man had expressive, edged eyes with thick eyebrows and a mess of brown hair, matted and sweaty from the hot helmet. "What?" he asked, his voice still coarse and abrupt.
Jim was caught off-guard by the human face before him and he stuttered over his words, "What is happening to me?" he rolled his eyes at himself in annoyance, "I mean, what do you intend to do? How can I prevent it? Please, just send me to the cubes, don't do this."
Joe twisted his face in shock, realizing the kid thought he brought him here to rape him. "I'm not gonna hurt you, kid," he promised, indignant.
Jim looked relieved and Joe spun on his heels to peel himself out of his clothes and shower the grime and sweat off his weary body. He tugged dutifully at his cock as he showered, draining against the tile floor before washing his hair, his fingernails digging deep into his scalp. He thought about the kid in the kitchen and felt a pit of pain enter his stomach.
He was the law. Or at least, he was supposed to be the law. Right now, he was a criminal. He believed in the laws that governed their society with his full heart. Something about that kid out there broke him.
When he returned to the kitchen, showered and fresh, he noted how grubby and scrawny Jim looked. He sat opposite the young man and folded his bare, calloused hands.
Jim observed the man with darting eyes. He was rugged and attractive despite the visible scars on his neck and arms, undoubtedly more scars lay beneath his cottony clothing. Jim felt more relaxed. As ridiculous as the judge uniform was, it certainly held the power of intimidation.
"What do you want first," the man who was no longer a judge asked, "a shower or something to eat?"
The question elicited a physical response, an audible, guttural groan from the hollow gulf that was Jim's belly. Joe was about to get up and make food when the thick grime under the kid's fingernails caught his attention.
"While I make dinner, you will shower," he announced, "and scrub."
Jim inspected himself and his hand, then hid it quickly under the table, blushing. His other hand was tied in place, so he simply made a fist to hide his dirty fingers.
Joe stood up and stretched. He walked to the heavy metal door in the kitchen, "Pay attention, punk," he said, his voice sounded softer in the quiet of the apartment but no less authoritative. "This door," he rapped on the thick metal, "is the only exit. The halls are lined with judges on every level and we're on the forty-fourth floor." He slapped a latch over the door and hooked a padlock in place.
The blond man gave him an open-mouthed look and nodded slowly. "What is the plan, sir?"
"My name is Joe," the older man said, holding out his hand. Jim took it and received a rough, quick squeeze. "You should be serving five years in the cubes for unlawful possession of a firearm and more for disorderly conduct and gang affiliation."
"I told you, I'm not in a gang," Jim said, his brilliant eyes flashing angrily up at his captor. "And if that is true, why am I not in the cubes right now? Why am I here?"
Joe didn't know how to answer that question. He wasn't sure why he brought the kid back here or what he was going to do next. He felt conflicted about the legality of his actions, but he did not regret them. "I'm," Joe said, pausing and rolling the words around in his head before spilling them out on the table, "I'm going to keep an eye on you. Make sure you're okay."
He waited for a response, an angry jerk or a scream for help from the skinny young man tied to his breakfast nook. Instead, the blue eyes looked wet and shiny. They looked bewildered and afraid. They looked grateful. "Why?" he croaked out.
Joe grabbed a knife from the drawer and walked over, bending over Jim and carefully sliding the blade up under the zip, freeing his hand. "I don't know," he said honestly.
There was loneliness in his voice that Jim recognized from his own. "I won't try to escape," he whispered, rubbing at his wrist.
Nodding, Joe led Jim into the bedroom, a dark chamber with a small, smoky window too high on the wall, spreading a rectangle of dim light across the bed, which was made with military precision. Joe stopped at his dresser and pulled out a pair of sweatpants and a soft shirt, dropping them into the kid's arms. Then he pointed him to the shower.
Jim headed for the tiny bathroom, glancing back over his shoulder at Joe once before heeling out of his sneakers, leaving them on the floor in his wake. When the door closed, Joe picked up the shoes and inspected them. They were eaten through with holes and the smell made his eyes water. He passed judgment on the offending footwear, carried them to the kitchen, and dropped them into the garbage chute.
He set to work on a stir fry. Living alone, Joseph Dredd preferred simple foods and had perfected a stable of dishes that he could enjoy after a long shift in the city. He stirred at the pan with a spatula and thought about the fact that he had never cooked for another person before. His deep frown twitched on his face as a strange hope was born deep within him: he hoped Jim liked this food.
When Jim emerged from the shower looking pink and clean, Joe took note that the sweatpants had to be tied to his scrawny waist and he was swimming in the shirt. His golden hair was darker with moisture and his feet were bare. He stood in the middle of the kitchen and inhaled the scent of the food with his eyes closed and his palms on his belly.
"Sit," Joe said, his back turned back toward the stovetop. He listened as Jim slid into a chair. He tipped the pan and poured the sizzling stir fry into the bowls he'd set out. He heaped a larger portion in Jim's bowl and carried it to the table.
Providing a napkin and a fork for each of them, Joe watched out of the corner of his eye as Jim burned his tongue on the eagerly anticipated meal. He hooked two beers on his fingers and then changed his mind, grabbing a soda for Jim.
He sat to eat, watching Jim shovel food into his face with urgency. "Slow down, you'll choke."
Jim looked up with his cheeks full, "M'gloh" he said, smiling. Joe had no idea what that meant.
Joe looked to the side and stabbed a bite of food, ate sensibly, and pulled a sip of beer off his bottle. He slid a tablet off the shelf and propped it on the table, looking up Jim's police profile.
"You're an orphan," the older man announced, scanning through a file. "You failed the judge test when you were a kid. Too empathetic for judgework."
Jim nodded, smearing his mouth with his napkin and draining the soda in one big gulp. "Is there any more?" he asked.
Joe's eyebrows rose up. He looked into his own bowl and slid it over to the kid. His stomach wasn't sitting right anyhow.
"You sure?" Jim asked, a forkful already in his mouth.
Joe turned off the tablet and placed it back in its place and slouched down into his chair, sipping his beer.
When Jim finished he took the dishes up to the sink and turned the water on over them. He looked back at Joe, their eyes catching, and then darting away. Joe's frown deepened into his cheeks. A crooked smirk ran up the side of Jim's youthful face.