Part Three
Jack's laughter brought them. Betrayed him.
The trees moved for a reason this time, signalling the arrival of the very people he least wanted to see. They held cudgels, and he put one arm across his face to protect it from the blows, shutting his eyes as he was pulled from the rock face by his legs and out into the open.
He fought the hands that held him as best he could, considering the circumstances, but his best was pitiful, and clearly not enough.
Voices raised in anger cut through his head, making him tighten his already closed eyes against the pain. Angry voices that made him struggle harder, not knowing clearly why, but knowing on some instinctive level that he shouldn't go with them willingly. All he got in return for his efforts was a chain passed over his head to settle around his neck, then tugged, tightening in a strangle hold against his throat, cutting off oxygen until he lurched forward on all fours to release the pressure. He whimpered as a hand patted him hard, touching his bare flesh and leaving icy imprints, before another tug urged him on.
Rocks cut into his knees, slicing his one good hand open as he struggled for purchase on the wet and slippery leaves. He could have lain down then, let them pull until he lost consciousness, but even with as little awareness as he had left, that would never be his way, and so he crawled the few feet his captors wanted, before being lifted and thrown up into something, the jolt making him groan. The chain was pulled tight once more and his head swam from the pressure, the only way he could find relief was by kneeling, his head down low, resting against a wooden board.
He had been placed on a short leash, a dangerous animal that had already escaped once and was now given no latitude.
A sudden motion sent him careering down, hanging himself in the process, his weight making the metal links cut deeply into his throat, his choking gurgles loud in his own ears until rough hands pulled him to his knees again, the voice amused, and the chain loosened.
It was a voice he recognised, the voice of his keeper, and as the cart lurched and swayed across the uneven ground, taking him back to his cage, he felt the surge of red hot hatred rise again, pulling him back to himself, away from the pain wracked insane depths he had sunk into in the forest. He raised his head as much as he could manage and stared his tormentor straight in the eyes, deliberately communicating his defiance as a threat.
He got laughter in return.
Laughter, and a blow across the face, rocking him backwards, followed by another pat and a caress from a calloused hand running down his spine, lingering on his lower back. He held back a protest, his voice lost with his humanity, and held himself as still as possible, feeling the hand lightly exploring him, tracing the contours of his body. He shivered involuntarily, eliciting a snort of pleasure from the keeper, and pulled away, the leash tightening around him.
By the end of the journey, he was beyond miserable, shaking and trembling on knees that had been barely able to hold him up before his recapture, and much less now. Twice he had fallen, the second time he was yanked up by his hair, and the chain left tight around his neck. He had managed to ease it loose with shaking fingers, feeling wetness under the metal. He got another pat for his efforts.
When the cart stopped and the voice commanded, he could not respond, just kneel, unthinking and not caring when his air was cut off once more. His keeper's voice scolded him, but he could do nothing, nothing until he fell forward once again, the sensation of dying an almost erotic experience.
Back in his cage, Jack woke to pain, hardly remembering a time when he had been without it. On some level he welcomed it, because it meant he was still alive, although perhaps not for much longer. His sight was going, the hypnotic colours of his fever ridden mind giving way to greyness. The fire on his skin burnt duller now, the itch merciless, and the ache deep inside had settled and become such a part of his existence that he would have missed it if it had stopped.
He was left alone, thirst raging and gouging at his gut, sweat pouring down his face and stinging the still oozing open wounds. He moved weakly, writhing and turning to try and find a position that gave some relief from the constant agony, but nothing helped, the movement only causing more pain, as his burns rubbed against the cage bars. He couldn't stop himself, his need for comfort had become so desperate that he cared about nothing else.
Moments of clarity became shorter. One came when the cage was opened and he was pulled out. He was unable to stop himself crying out hoarse croaks of distress when his body was sluiced with buckets of cold water, rubbed and polished, laid down flat, instruments without name pressed into his forced open mouth, clamping it painfully wide, a thick tube inserted in his throat and an endless stream of foul liquid poured down until he could hold no more, his stomach pressed and kneaded violently until he swallowed and swallowed and swallowed. When he began to gag and vomit the tube was ripped out and the instrument removed. His mouth was pressed closed and something wrapped around it, holding it firmly shut, leaving him with no choice but to swallow back down the vomit laced with blood and bile, struggling to breath enough air through his nostrils, pressure forcing his regurgitation into those precious airways. His stomach spasmed, clenching and unclenching, distended and desperate to push the liquid out, and he felt wetness trickle between his legs. He retched and swallowed, and retched again at the taste.
They waited until the spasms subsided before flipping him like a carcass in a butcher's shop, and he felt fingers pulling at him, mutterings as the blood and muck that had begun to dribble from him again was wiped away, cold metal spreading him and yet more liquid forced inside, the pressure beyond description. A wad of something hard did the same job as the gag, and the liquid was trapped. At least this time he couldn't taste it and he could only guess that he was being treated with some primitive form of doctoring, to be kept alive for a while longer.
Turned again, the gag stifled any protests when the burns were rubbed with something moist, making them flair into life, the dried fluids coating them were scrapped off, taking with it what little remained of the skin in those areas. Those animals wouldn't be getting another meal anytime soon, that much was evident. Then the hand touched the bottom of his stomach and he arched upwards, crying out against the obstruction over his mouth. Lightening flashed inside his head. The pain was too much, and he dropped back out of life and into the limbo where he was safe.
Bars beneath his body. Darkness all around. He couldn't raise his head, couldn't move, couldn't even moan past the piece of vomit tasting cloth still firm around his mouth. What he could do was feel and hear. Hear the voices of a crowd, eager with anticipation. Feel the stares that went with the voices. Hear the footsteps walking around his cage. Feel the hands on his bare flesh. Feel the pinches. Hear the tinkling laughter of children. Feel pieces of flesh pulled away for no reason except to cause pain. Hear his own moans.
Feel the hopelessness.
Feel the humiliation.
Feel the hatred.
Feel himself dying.
The fever boiled his blood, the tremors wracked his body, and bit by tiny bit he faded.
The sound of gunshots hardly registered. Shouting and yells. Screams. Running footsteps. Furious voices laced with horror. The voice of his keeper accompanied by the triple blast of zat fire.
He barely understood when he was freed from his prison and laid on the ground, gentle hands holding him, pulling at the cloth on his mouth.
The only thing he knew was that the gag was gone and his head was turned, his mouth cleared of muck and he could take a shallow breath. He didn't recognise the voices, didn't hear the shocked tones, or the questions, didn't rouse enough to answer. He felt something soft covering him, a prick in his arm and knew true comfort for the first time in days. He surrendered to the drug induced oblivion, his pulse fluttering and stuttering...
Motion. Floating. The tread of boots and quiet murmurs of worried voices.
So hot and yet cold enough to freeze his blood. Shaking.
Sharp, sharp daggers through his chest, spearing him.
Losing himself.
They were back, his tormentors had him again. They were pushing on him, pounding on his chest, thumping and screaming at him, pushing him this way and that. Something was going down his throat again and he tried to reach a hand up to push it away – better to be punished than be made to swallow more of that putrid liquid sludge. He fought and gagged as the thing was pushed deep inside, another invasion. His hand was grasped and held, he was held, captive and at the mercy of these people, and his heart thudded until it burst within him.
Jack's laughter brought them. Betrayed him.
The trees moved for a reason this time, signalling the arrival of the very people he least wanted to see. They held cudgels, and he put one arm across his face to protect it from the blows, shutting his eyes as he was pulled from the rock face by his legs and out into the open.
He fought the hands that held him as best he could, considering the circumstances, but his best was pitiful, and clearly not enough.
Voices raised in anger cut through his head, making him tighten his already closed eyes against the pain. Angry voices that made him struggle harder, not knowing clearly why, but knowing on some instinctive level that he shouldn't go with them willingly. All he got in return for his efforts was a chain passed over his head to settle around his neck, then tugged, tightening in a strangle hold against his throat, cutting off oxygen until he lurched forward on all fours to release the pressure. He whimpered as a hand patted him hard, touching his bare flesh and leaving icy imprints, before another tug urged him on.
Rocks cut into his knees, slicing his one good hand open as he struggled for purchase on the wet and slippery leaves. He could have lain down then, let them pull until he lost consciousness, but even with as little awareness as he had left, that would never be his way, and so he crawled the few feet his captors wanted, before being lifted and thrown up into something, the jolt making him groan. The chain was pulled tight once more and his head swam from the pressure, the only way he could find relief was by kneeling, his head down low, resting against a wooden board.
He had been placed on a short leash, a dangerous animal that had already escaped once and was now given no latitude.
A sudden motion sent him careering down, hanging himself in the process, his weight making the metal links cut deeply into his throat, his choking gurgles loud in his own ears until rough hands pulled him to his knees again, the voice amused, and the chain loosened.
It was a voice he recognised, the voice of his keeper, and as the cart lurched and swayed across the uneven ground, taking him back to his cage, he felt the surge of red hot hatred rise again, pulling him back to himself, away from the pain wracked insane depths he had sunk into in the forest. He raised his head as much as he could manage and stared his tormentor straight in the eyes, deliberately communicating his defiance as a threat.
He got laughter in return.
Laughter, and a blow across the face, rocking him backwards, followed by another pat and a caress from a calloused hand running down his spine, lingering on his lower back. He held back a protest, his voice lost with his humanity, and held himself as still as possible, feeling the hand lightly exploring him, tracing the contours of his body. He shivered involuntarily, eliciting a snort of pleasure from the keeper, and pulled away, the leash tightening around him.
By the end of the journey, he was beyond miserable, shaking and trembling on knees that had been barely able to hold him up before his recapture, and much less now. Twice he had fallen, the second time he was yanked up by his hair, and the chain left tight around his neck. He had managed to ease it loose with shaking fingers, feeling wetness under the metal. He got another pat for his efforts.
When the cart stopped and the voice commanded, he could not respond, just kneel, unthinking and not caring when his air was cut off once more. His keeper's voice scolded him, but he could do nothing, nothing until he fell forward once again, the sensation of dying an almost erotic experience.
Back in his cage, Jack woke to pain, hardly remembering a time when he had been without it. On some level he welcomed it, because it meant he was still alive, although perhaps not for much longer. His sight was going, the hypnotic colours of his fever ridden mind giving way to greyness. The fire on his skin burnt duller now, the itch merciless, and the ache deep inside had settled and become such a part of his existence that he would have missed it if it had stopped.
He was left alone, thirst raging and gouging at his gut, sweat pouring down his face and stinging the still oozing open wounds. He moved weakly, writhing and turning to try and find a position that gave some relief from the constant agony, but nothing helped, the movement only causing more pain, as his burns rubbed against the cage bars. He couldn't stop himself, his need for comfort had become so desperate that he cared about nothing else.
Moments of clarity became shorter. One came when the cage was opened and he was pulled out. He was unable to stop himself crying out hoarse croaks of distress when his body was sluiced with buckets of cold water, rubbed and polished, laid down flat, instruments without name pressed into his forced open mouth, clamping it painfully wide, a thick tube inserted in his throat and an endless stream of foul liquid poured down until he could hold no more, his stomach pressed and kneaded violently until he swallowed and swallowed and swallowed. When he began to gag and vomit the tube was ripped out and the instrument removed. His mouth was pressed closed and something wrapped around it, holding it firmly shut, leaving him with no choice but to swallow back down the vomit laced with blood and bile, struggling to breath enough air through his nostrils, pressure forcing his regurgitation into those precious airways. His stomach spasmed, clenching and unclenching, distended and desperate to push the liquid out, and he felt wetness trickle between his legs. He retched and swallowed, and retched again at the taste.
They waited until the spasms subsided before flipping him like a carcass in a butcher's shop, and he felt fingers pulling at him, mutterings as the blood and muck that had begun to dribble from him again was wiped away, cold metal spreading him and yet more liquid forced inside, the pressure beyond description. A wad of something hard did the same job as the gag, and the liquid was trapped. At least this time he couldn't taste it and he could only guess that he was being treated with some primitive form of doctoring, to be kept alive for a while longer.
Turned again, the gag stifled any protests when the burns were rubbed with something moist, making them flair into life, the dried fluids coating them were scrapped off, taking with it what little remained of the skin in those areas. Those animals wouldn't be getting another meal anytime soon, that much was evident. Then the hand touched the bottom of his stomach and he arched upwards, crying out against the obstruction over his mouth. Lightening flashed inside his head. The pain was too much, and he dropped back out of life and into the limbo where he was safe.
Bars beneath his body. Darkness all around. He couldn't raise his head, couldn't move, couldn't even moan past the piece of vomit tasting cloth still firm around his mouth. What he could do was feel and hear. Hear the voices of a crowd, eager with anticipation. Feel the stares that went with the voices. Hear the footsteps walking around his cage. Feel the hands on his bare flesh. Feel the pinches. Hear the tinkling laughter of children. Feel pieces of flesh pulled away for no reason except to cause pain. Hear his own moans.
Feel the hopelessness.
Feel the humiliation.
Feel the hatred.
Feel himself dying.
The fever boiled his blood, the tremors wracked his body, and bit by tiny bit he faded.
The sound of gunshots hardly registered. Shouting and yells. Screams. Running footsteps. Furious voices laced with horror. The voice of his keeper accompanied by the triple blast of zat fire.
He barely understood when he was freed from his prison and laid on the ground, gentle hands holding him, pulling at the cloth on his mouth.
The only thing he knew was that the gag was gone and his head was turned, his mouth cleared of muck and he could take a shallow breath. He didn't recognise the voices, didn't hear the shocked tones, or the questions, didn't rouse enough to answer. He felt something soft covering him, a prick in his arm and knew true comfort for the first time in days. He surrendered to the drug induced oblivion, his pulse fluttering and stuttering...
Motion. Floating. The tread of boots and quiet murmurs of worried voices.
So hot and yet cold enough to freeze his blood. Shaking.
Sharp, sharp daggers through his chest, spearing him.
Losing himself.
They were back, his tormentors had him again. They were pushing on him, pounding on his chest, thumping and screaming at him, pushing him this way and that. Something was going down his throat again and he tried to reach a hand up to push it away – better to be punished than be made to swallow more of that putrid liquid sludge. He fought and gagged as the thing was pushed deep inside, another invasion. His hand was grasped and held, he was held, captive and at the mercy of these people, and his heart thudded until it burst within him.