Eight days had passed since the last screams had been heard from Cannibal Corridor and while the cannibal himself felt no urge to kill, his fan base was growing restless. Those who took it upon themselves to report the murders found that when interest in the beast man waned, so too did interest in themselves so they waited eagerly by their windows before retiring to their beds both dreading and hoping for the sounds that would guarantee their popularity.
But no squelching shrieks would meet their ears tonight, as the gaunt man was on a less threatening quest to find water that would not make him empty the contents of his stomach or become delirious with fever. He had learned, by dangerous games of trial and error, which types of water were to be avoided and which were drinkable. The closest bodies of water were the harbor bays linking out to the deep, clear Mediterranean but for all of its tantalizing beauty, the water itself was incredibly salty and would soon send the drinker into hallucinogen filled fits before succumbing to a painful death.
Voldo had tasted this water only once before spitting it hastily out in a spray and edging cautiously away from the dry rotted decks.
Water lying in still, glistening pools along the cobbled streets or in gutters was to be avoided completely. One whiff of these sources was enough to suggest that water was not all they consisted of.
But Voldo did not go thirsty, just as he did not go hungry. His methods were unconventional but ensured his survival. Walking with his bare back hunched in a predatory and wary fashion, Voldo crept silently from his nest of rags and filth, peering about the intersection of the intimidating corridors through his lank hair.
An outsider viewing this ritual would find it perplexing, as Voldo proceeded with the caution of a cat in a room full of starving dogs. What did this man, who brutally killed and devoured other men, have to fear from humanity?
Voldo did not know the answer to this question nor did he know the cause of his discomfort when venturing out from his network. Although he did indeed feed on his fellow man he was anxious to avoid them when he could. Their natures were complex, sporadic and unpredictable. Men came to him with the intention to kill, to hunt him as they would a buck with a magnificent rack. Voldo killed to survive and in that, he was far less threatening than those who sought him out.
Adhering close to inky shadows with the agility of a wraith, Voldo wound his way through the bowels of Calabria Ultra until the thick, claustrophobia inducing walls of the city gave way to sparsely populated farms. He avoided these seemingly inviting structures, with their warm glowing lights that suggested human life. To him they resembled the luminescent eyes of a predator. He veered left to the dark jagged outline of a massive outcropping of stone and fragile, bonelike structures of wooden supports.
The limestone quarry lay on the outskirts of the southern tip of the city, a ten-minute walk, and it was here that Voldo had found a reliable source of water.
Now noticeably more at ease, Voldo climbed easily over the huge blocks of stone awaiting transport to a massive cathedral or similar structure in far off lands. Dim moonlight illuminated the mine and in it, it resembled a strange graveyard, perhaps of the gods the humans believed in, or of some strange beasts. Roughly hewn chunks of limestone, easily twice Voldo's height and hundreds of times his weight lay upon each other in a descending spiral formation into the deep cave that had been gouged out of the earth and steadily out of the thin moonlight.
Voldo descended the makeshift staircase of stone and wood supports, sinewy limbs bending and long digits searching for footholds in a grotesque parody of a spider. In a matter of minutes he'd found a small cave that had been unearthed, and from it, a wide lip of stone protruded making a basin in the block wall. In this natural filter, rainwater seeped through hundreds of feet of stone leaving it nearly pure by the time it reached one of these many outcroppings or overhangs. If Voldo could reach it before the mosquitoes, he was promised a relatively safe and calcium enriched drink.
Voldo made this small trek every few days and with him he would bring several containers he had fished out of refuse or had stitched together with various pieces of skin to fill.
He dipped his head into the small pool of clean water and drank his fill, not understanding that the filth on his skin was dirtying the water as he did so and therefore not bothered by it. His thirst quenched, he shook his head, sending beads of fouled moisture onto the surrounding limestone, where it was readily reabsorbed. He then reached to his side, where two containers, one of wood and one of human skin, were strapped to him with fraying threads of his remaining clothing.
Far off in the distance a dog yelped and Voldo froze, halfway through filling the wooden container, listening hard. It had been an eerie sound and Voldo did not like the feel of it. He turned his eyes to the moon and hissed at its light. He was painfully obvious; a pale organic form against mountains of geometric blocks. If anything were interested in hunting him, he would be prone target, especially for an arrow.
After a considerable amount of time, Voldo allowed himself to make one small movement before freezing again. Nothing stirred on the nearby rocks and there was no sharp sound of an arrow parting the air to meet his skin, yet he could not shake the queer sense of unease that the dog's yip had imbedded in him and he moved cautiously and deliberately as he filled his containers with the muddied water.
Once that task was done he quickly scaled the mine, twisting himself about in the wooden frame and rough rock, with dexterity enough to make him the envy of any miner, were they able to see him, and if he had not been mad.
In the eight days since the last report of murder, Vercci's servants and personal soldiers had managed to find only snippets of truth in their quest to locate and verify rumors of the cannibal man. Many peasants they spoke too refused to tell of the man, afraid that they may justify his gruesome wrath upon themselves if they were to reveal him. Some were too drunk to be reliable and their directions sent the hapless underlings in every direction but the right one. Those who lived near the area were reluctant to give anything away, lest their celebrity and claim to fame be taken from them.
Success was found in the citizens of the wealthy upper class, who were eager to further their standing and seem more important than they knew they were. They had been raised in an environment of gossip and saw nothing wrong with giving away information of the events that they knew nearly nothing of and would never have been able to speak about had they witnessed them. Gossiping to a rich mans servants was generally considered a good idea and was sure to impress their neighbors.
Vercci's personal bodyguard, Cephas, was able to obtain information from a man, who quietly wished it to be known that he did not usually frequent such seedy areas, that the rumors originated in the southern tip of Calabria Ultra and that in a local tavern they would surely be able to find out more on their cannibal.
As ordered, Cephas sent several servants of lower standing to this area to question the locals. Through rigorous questioning, several quietly confirmed that the man seemed to be rooted to the small seaport town and Cephas, in turn, reported directly to his master, calling off the search as Vercci wished to acquire his new specimen personally.
Vercci was delighted to hear that the hunt for the cannibal had been narrowed down to only a few tatty streets and he had his servants ready his horse at once. Shivers of excitement wound up his spine, causing a wide grin to split his dignified face, as he made ready to leave. His servants were quick to avoid him when expressions such as these appeared as they usually projected Vercci's intentions to cause pain. They bowed themselves away as politely as they could without breaking into a full run.
Digging his heels into his stallion with more exuberance than was needed, Vercci yelled out in predatory anticipation as the horse reared and lent its own chilling winy of fear to the racket. With a crunching stomp and clatter of hooves against stone, the horse leapt forward and galloped down the moonlit lane that led to the distant city.
Vercci made short work of the ride, never letting his mount stop to drink or catch it's breath and as such, ropey tendrils of saliva flew from the horses mouth as the massive lungs heaved to support its aching muscles. Vercci himself was in high spirits and did not particularly care what happened to his transportation, so longs as it got him to Calabria Ultra. If the stallion died or became lame from his overuse, he would simply buy another.
As farmland thickened into dark, narrow structures full of dim hazy lights, Vercci allowed the tiring beast to slow to a trot as he looked for the bar that was the landmark of the cannibal's territory. He was preoccupied enough with this task that he did not notice the stray dog that darted out in front of the stumbling horse. A soft thump, followed quickly by a piercing yelp jostled Vercci out of his investigations as a hoof heavy with weariness came down. The dog squirmed under the blundering horse and Vercci pulled tight at the reigns to keep the creature from toppling over. The stray limped down an alley and out of sight, whining pathetically, its tail tucked tightly between its legs. Vercci cursed loudly at it.
Shaking his head and now annoyed at having his concentration so thoroughly disrupted, Vercci squinted hard at his surroundings. He had come to a weather worn dock, whitened by volleys of salty surf and hot bleaching sun. A gentle sloshing toned benignly from beneath the wood as waves washed senselessly about the supporting beams. Vercci's previous aggravation with the stray dog was lulled away by the soothing rhythm and he was able once more to focus on his undertaking.
Across from the deck and near the rim of the crescent shaped bay, stood a shabby, haze enshrouded building, made visible by three flickering lamps. Its sign was smudged with grime so that he could not read what the exterior represented, but judging from the loud guffaws and sounds of merriment coming from within, Vercci took this to be the bar he was searching for.
He dismounted gracefully, took the stallions reigns and walked onwards, tethering the exhausted beast to one of the many hitching posts. Vercci was surprised the bar even utilized the posts, as very few in this area were rich enough to own a horse.
They were, however, rich enough to guzzle down prodigious amounts of alcohol, and were thusly able to escape the reality of their retched lives until the weary and headache plagued morning greeted them. Vercci strode through the creaking doors, head held proudly aloft, and already eyeing each of the occupants calculatingly. He needed a guide. He would not risk wondering the streets aimlessly, and possibly missing the cannibal, or, in a less likely event, becoming the mans prey.
At once the booming sounds of the commoners dimmed to a few hushed whispers and one or two shouts of those too drunk to realize the volumes of their voices. Vercci was eyed with simultaneous dislike, interest, fear, suspicion and lust; several prostitutes took one look at his obviously expensive clothing and made moves to intercept him in his path to the back of the bar, thick, heavily layered eyelashes batting suggestively.
Vercci smiled wolfishly at the women, but waved them away rather impatiently causing their hopeful faces to fall into overacted pouts before succumbing to bouts of drink-fueled laughter. He made a mental note reminding himself to visit this location another time, when he could enjoy more lucrative time amongst the locals. But unless one of the prostitutes wished to lead him to the cannibal he had no use for them.
Vercci seated himself at a table with three other men, all of who were in their late teens or early twenties. One of them, who obviously had not become befuddled by drink, gave him a nervous glance and became noticeable uncomfortable by the presence of the well-dressed and dignified older man. The other three were too far-gone to care.
Vercci smiled at them, somehow managing to show nearly all of his teeth, and ordered a round for all of them. This earned him a jovial slap on the back by the man nearest to him but the more watchful man seemed become more suspicious by this act.
"What's your name, stranger?" He asked cautiously. Vercci turned to him, unable to help his excitement fueled grin.
"I, young sir," he began lavishly, "am your ticket out of this slum." The other mans brow pursed and his fellows guffawed loudly at this proclamation.
"Hear that? Myron's got himself a believer!" One of them spouted, and clinked his heavy glass against another in a meaningless toast. The one named Myron quickly avoided Vercci's shining eyes, looking nervously about the bar and brushing his mousy brown hair away from his temple.
"I don't know what you mean…I'm sure that I don't know you, so forgive me but you must be mistaking me for someone else."
"No, I know you…I know what you want. I can see instantly that you're not meant for a place like this. You desire something grander, something more fulfilling out of life, do you not?"
"That could be said of anyone in this bar." Myron countered, but he was listening more intently and met Vercci's eyes.
"Indeed, I imagine it could. But you, sir, caught my eye. You possess a certain aura if you will. You are quiet; suspicious…you are more intelligent than many of the buffoons around us due, no doubt, to the lack of liquor pickling your mind. You have a quiet determination…you have potential." Vercci trailed off as the bartender delivered their mugs, and he was praised with incoherent shouts from the other men at the table.
Myron regarded him with a type of eager confusion, now fully drawn into the conversation.
"What is it you want?" He asked, mistrust still edging his light voice.
"I am a sightseer, interested in areas of unique occurrences. I would like a guide to lead me through these many streets. I hear there is a man, who is rumored to, if you will believe, eat other men. I wish to verify this rumor for my superiors."
At once, Myron's spine stiffened and he regarded Vercci with dubious awe. "You want a guide to Cannibal Corridor?" He asked incredulously.
"Cannibal Corridor is it? It sounds as though it does exist then."
"Sorry. You'll have more luck with someone who's drunk. No one with a head on their shoulders would walk that area, especially at night." Myron stood to leave.
"With a drunk, I may well be wondering about till the break of dawn. Will you not take pity on a hapless outlander?" Vercci stood and moved closer to the young man, and whispered, almost seductively in his hear. "I can make it worth your while." He shoved a bulging leather purse into the mans pocket and Myron stared at him in disbelief. "There is more where that came from, young sir. I'm asking you to do this for me, as I believe that you are the only one in this bar, if not this town, who would not waste this small fortune on drinks and pleasurable company. You have potential…I can get you started on what ever path you may choose."
Myron swallowed deeply, obviously torn between the possible realization of his future and his deep fear of the man who lurked in the dark and lived like a beast. He gave Vercci a furtive look, mouth tight, and nodded.
"Follow me. I'll lead you to the Corridor, but I'll not enter." The young man squared his shoulders and strode purposefully out of the bar, leaving his fellows to their antics. They may not even notice his absence, but he had no plans to return once he received the rest of what the man meant to give.
Myron then realized that he'd not even learned his benefactor's name. "Sir, you've not given me your name."
"My name is of little importance, but as you wish. It is Vercci." As he'd expected, the man simply nodded and continued down a winding cobblestone alley, showing no knowledge of his reputation. If he'd introduced himself to an educated person of higher standing, he would have either been avoided like the plague, or asked whether or not he had a fresh shipment of slaves ready for trade.
The deeper they wove themselves through the network of narrow alleys, the shabbier their surroundings became and the more repulsive the smell. Myron turned suddenly, placing an arm out to halt Vercci's progress, and brought a finger to his lips. He poked his head around a grime-covered block of foundation and peered down the next alley. Slowly he motioned Vercci to his side and whispered, "This is Cannibal Corridor. The beast is usually out at night…unless you wish to actually run into him, I suggest we leave."
Vercci nodded but made no move away from the corner, his eyes bright with interest and desire, something that troubled his guide. His excitement constrained his chest and he could feel his heart hammering beneath his ribs. So this was the beast's lair. It was filthy, inhospitable and inhabitable to his eyes. How the creature survived was beyond his ability to understand and he'd tested many humans to their limits himself. The lair better than he could have imagined. He nearly moaned with glee when he spied the gruesome grin a human skull lying still amongst the refuse.
"Sir…" Myron pleaded quietly, panic seeping into his voice. Vercci shushed him and remained as still as stone, quivering only slightly with anticipation, as a cat before the pounce. Then he heard it, distant at first but gradually more audible; the soft scraping of feather light foot falls, and the gentle babble of contained water.