As Taz yanked him outside into the gloom of dusk, he realized he hadn't properly mentally prepared himself for what was most likely in store for him. Misery. He braced himself in the doorway, anchoring himself mentally and physically, his feet firmly planted on the threshold, his ankles butted up against the door frame. He couldn't go out there. No way. Pitchfork wielding peasants swayed in the fog like extras in some old black and white horror movie, out to wreak vengeance upon the vampire, the werewolf; the freak. Him.
This was sick. His stomach churned, his chest heaved, and he was about to take a deep breath when he was thwacked between his shoulder blades by Daffy, which shocked him back to even crappier reality. He lost his footing, and twisted his left ankle. He gingerly rotated his foot. Ow! Yep, sprained. Crap. Two rows of people stood by the exit, eyeing him in disgust. So, he was supposed to hobble the gauntlet of the entire village and survive? It looked like the population had tripled somehow. Bad news travels fast, he conceded. The clan had gathered from far and wide like crows at twilight, some three hundred of them, young and old, hale and infirm, brandishing sticks, canes, stones - you name it, they wielded it. Some creep had even brought his damn dog.
The dog snarled at him, baring its teeth. It was a big, black, shaggy wolfhound. He usually got on well with those. Well, pretty much any dog, really. Still, why couldn't it've been a shi-tzu? Something that would nip his ankles rather than rip his face off? At least the sleak black cat winding in and out of its owner's legs further down the very long line wasn't a freakin' leopard. John let out a sigh.
The townsfolk were slamming their various bludgeons into their hands. No stunners. He guessed those things were too quick. Not torturous enough. Some cute, snub-nosed, freckle-faced little kid with a buzz cut was toying with a fly swatter. He was grinning, clearly eager to take a swipe at him. He couldn't have been more than seven. The same damn wolfhound growled, and snapped at his heels. Then it barked once. That seemed to be the cue for action. What, the dog was calling the shots?
Taz yanked him across the threshold by his chain, and Daffy shoved him into the fray, then - blows rained upon him from every direction, as if he'd suddenly been caught up in a swirl of hurricane detritus or lobbed into a wood chipper. He could have sworn he'd just been struck in the small of his back by a flying dinner plate. He turned to face his tormentor - just maybe whoever it was held some sense of humanity and decency if they looked the 'enemy' in the eye - only to see a second actual dinner plate Frisbeed towards his face by some dear sweet li'l ol' granny lady who'd brought her crockery for want of another weapon.
"Cracked, they were! I wouldn't waste the good stuff on you, so don't you look at me that way, boy! I'll not waste my pity either!"
John realized his reflexes were already shot to hell as the second plate struck him on the bridge of his nose. He didn't have a moment to recover as the wolfhound snapped at his bare feet, driving him on. Some naked toddler pissed up his leg. Wow, young and old, they certainly weren't holding back. As some brutish teen cracked open the back of his head with a baton, John went down onto all fours, his head swimming. A group of women cackled. The excitement resonant in their voices was alarming.
Why…
"Let's freshen up those faded bruises! Make 'em pretty again!" John heard the swish of canes, then felt their relentless sting.
John wasn't about to crawl, not yet, but the vicious onslaught on his still tender back kept him from pushing himself upright. The steady thwacking told him there were at least four of them in cahoots, each striking his back and flanks and even his ass a good thirty to forty times each, and grunting from their exertions as his body flinched and twitched. He soon felt the trickle of warm blood. It cooled against his welted skin in the evening breeze, but offered no respite from the heat emanating from his abused body. John shivered.
"He's got stupid ears as well as stupid eyes," came a small, squeaky voice.
As he lay there panting and shaking, he turned his sore head in the direction of the voice. Through bleary eyes, he could just about make out a tiny little girl with an array of golden curls and doll-like eyes. Blue, with black eyelashes and eyebrows. Weird. She couldn't have been more than five years old.
"I can hear, y'know. My ears work just fine. Ears… come in all… shapes and sizes. You got that, missy?" He saw creepy twins, but he put that down to double vision and a recent rewatch of The Shining.
The Baby Jane wannabe looked puzzled, then smirked, her dimples rivaling Carson's. She bent down, examining him coldly like he was a specimen under a magnifying glass. A butterfly with damaged wings. Then she grabbed his cowlicks, and pulled as hard as she could, making his eyes water.
"And he's got really stupid hair!" she declared, looking around for praise. She peered at him again.
If he'd had wings, she would have just pulled them off.
Why the adults started laughing and encouraging her, he didn't know. These people were just plain nasty. John had to face facts they were not about to have any mercy on him. He wasn't sure what hurt more - the physical blows, or the fact these people condoned this level of abuse in front of their own kids. He could hear their jeers and taunts and profanities. Then his ears began to ring. He flipped onto his belly, and finally tried to crawl along, to make all this end quicker if he got to the end sooner, digging his elbows in the dirt for purchase, but he couldn't. He was no longer sure what they were beating him with, but he didn't doubt he was a bloodied mess already. And still the hound drove him on.
Then Taz took a slight detour to the left, deliberately dragging him over a stretch of gravel. John scrabbled weakly in an attempt to steer himself, to even out any fresh injuries. His back was most likely already shredded, so he flipped onto first one badly grazed flank then the other to avoid scraping his groin. His boxers would only protect his assets so far. Then suddenly, some thirty feet later, the abuse stopped. It stopped. John could've cried with relief. The silence regaled him like white noise - a buzzing, ringing tinnitus. His body stung and burned and ached from head to toe. He tried to lift his head, but his neck muscles were already way too weak.
He struggled to open his eyes, but they were more swollen than ever. He lay there, gasping. He tried to speak, but the only sound to come out was a hoarse whisper. He choo-chooed his breathing to keep himself from hurling - to stay conscious, though both were a losing battle. In the distance, he could hear the howl of the wolfhound, and he could only imagine it baying under a full moon, silhouetted against the night sky. The sound grew fainter, tinnier. He felt himself being hoisted under his armpits and knees, and swung to and fro like a sandbag. He was momentarily airborne, then he landed hard, hitting the crown of his head. He heard a piteous whine from the hound, followed by some hollow, long drawn out metallic clang like some somber cliffhanger moment in a sixties B-movie. They say hearing is the last thing to go.
oooOOOooo
Carson dragged a visibly shaken Rodney by the sleeve of his tee as he pushed through the crowds gathering in a nearby glen. Nodding and smiling if not bowing and scraping, they both edged their way nearer the crate they were keeping John in, skirting around picnic benches, strewn blankets and scattered, ownerless canteens and cloth sandwich wraps. Huddles of Kemmians were drinking and laughing and generally wassailing. There was rubbish everywhere, though everything looked biodegradable, unlike back on Earth. Carson could scarcely believe these people were making a festival of this, with Colonel Sheppard as the macabre centerpiece.
The merrymaking had already started, and he could smell barbecues, which seemed to be sprouting up like it was the Fourth of July. He preferred to think of that particular holiday rather than the Fifth of November, Guy Fawkes Night. They had crated their living, breathing Guy like a cur. Every time they got within a few feet of the crate, some goon blocked their way. They had even posted a guard dog. Some hound or other, which stared at him with peculiar DayGlo green eyes. It was creepy to say the least.
Through the prevailing mist, Carson occasionally caught a glimpse of John, who scarcely had a patch of his normally healthy, tanned and glowing skin left on his body. That alone could kill him. He lay there exactly as he'd landed after being tossed like a sack o' coal into the crate. An old fogy poked John several times in the shoulder through the sides of the crate with his walking stick, but he didn't stir. It made Carson's stomach churn. And he thought he'd seen everything, or as John would say - been there, done that.
"Oh, godohgodohgod. Is he still alive? They beat him to a pulp, Carson!"
"I don't know, Rodney. These buggers won't let me anywhere near him!"
"Can't you do the trusty acolyte thing and get nearish?"
"Nearish is no bloody good, son. I have to tend him. Och!"
"Do something, Carson!"
"Think, Rodney! Use that brain you boast so often about!"
"I only know math and astrophysics! Wait. We could pretend we didn't know he was a filthy Torm infiltrator. Oh, god, I can't believe I just suggested that tidy little fix."
Carson looked Rodney up and down.
"You mean, gain their trust? That's our best bet. Look suitably disgusted, Rodney. Hm. Now dial it back a bit. That'll do it, lad. "
"Are we too late?"
"Stay positive, now. John would have told... would tell you that. Now, let's go save him."
"You mean scrape up what's left of him!"
"I'm not bloody daft, y'know! Anyway, let's pray he's only half dead."
"Staying positive, Carson! Filthy Torm infiltrator. I can do this. I'm good and mad. Good'n'mad. Good'n'mad... "
"Good lad. I have an idea."
"Thank the stars, because here comes trouble."
Both Carson and Rodney assumed a benign expression as the four derriths approached them both.
"Drink! Drink!" cried the one called Horiak, as he thrust two drinking horns at them. Carson took a swig, then winked at Rodney, letting him know the drink was citrus-free so far as he could tell.
"Cheers! Derrith Rodney and I want to thank you, good brethren."
"For what?"
"For acknowledging us as kin, and treating us with the respect we deserve for having reached the ripe old age of forty." Carson nodded twice for good measure, and flashed his winning, dimpled grin. Well, it used to work on his dear mum, bless her.
"I take it you were not held in high esteem on your homeworld of Vankoovar? You see? You see?" Horiak slapped him on his back in a chummy sort of way. "Lies and deceit! Lies and deceit! From this Torm, who kept you Vankoovians as underlings, despite the fact he is younger than you, not even a derrith." Splanek kicked the crate. Muwik rattled it for good measure. Carson could have wept. John lay there in a heap, not even reacting to such extreme stimuli.
Rodney took the opportunity to edge nearer John's crate, keeping a wary eye on the big black dog, which seemed to grant him passage, though it growled and snarled. He peered in.
"Younger? What the? I mean, yes. John is much, much younger than us, the, er, swine! Yet he forced us Vankoovians to do his bidding like the sneaky Torm he is. We would like to take him back with us now that he has been properly punished by you. I have no doubt he will be more contrite and subservient. And we'll keep him as a slave. Yes. To do our exacting and nefarious bidding from now on. We'll make his life a living hell. Er, does that work for you darths?" He rubbed his hands together, and cringed like Igor.
"I'm afraid you are already too late."
"What? He's dead? Nononononono... "
"I believe what Derrith Rodney is trying to say is that if you punish him further, we Vankoovians will be denied our own revenge upon him. He hid his true self from us. His true origins. For many years." Carson nodded to add a modicum of credence to his words.
Horiak appeared to be actually listening to him, tilting his head this way and that like some bloody budgie.
"His punishment isn't over. He can only face your punishment after facing ours."
"So, he lives? May we check for ourselves? We want something left of him to take back with us. It's only fair."
"How do you intend to punish him?"
"We'll shut him in the same room as the dreaded Kavanagh."
"What is this dreaded Kavvah Naah?"
"It... it defies description." Rodney piped in, his eyes darting around. The foursome looked suitably impressed at this clearly unspeakable form of torture.
"Rodney... " Carson muttered. "We promise to beat him daily," he declared.
Splanek turned to his peers. Then all four of them broke into a smirk. One of their number even spluttered. The wimpy, taciturn Bink.
"You are both highly entertaining. I believe we all equally doubt your sincerity. Still, you may take your Torm, though we also intend to castrate him beforehand so he cannot reproduce. That will satisfy us. Your attempt at fooling us was not without its charm, however. You may tend him, as we prefer him alert and aware for his upcoming ordeal which begins at sunset. His atonement begins at dawn. And good riddance to him!"
Horiak then pushed his face so close to Carson's, he could feel spittle rain down on him despite the beads of moisture forming on his skin in the damp, evening air. The man's next words were even more chilling.
"You must also swear to exterminate all offspring."
Oh, good Lord, thought Carson. Where was their humanity?
He kept his own counsel after that.
oooOOOooo