Author’s Note:
This is an unedited, ongoing serial that will eventually be published in novel form. Plot/characters/elements are subject to change as it is being written. It’s currently in 1st person/present tense, but I may change it to past tense, excluding the first chapter which will act as an intro. Read at your own discretion and take note of story tags below.
Genre: Post-Apocalyptic sci-fi
Tags: prostitution, graphic sex, large age gap, violence, theft, drug/alcohol abuse, depression, rape, gang rape, cannibalism, murder, incest, child/infant death and abuse, general abuse, (more to be added as the story goes)
By the time Pytre is done eating, his lap is buried under a pile of discarded plasti-form wrappings. Frankly I’m amazed by how much he just put away.
“Full?” I ask, thinking again about the dwindling credit situation.
Pytre covers his mouth and lets out a loud belch, then gives me a shy smile. “Yes, thank you.”
The silence stretches on, and I feel awkward as hell. My eyes fall on his bruised knuckles and I look up, jerking my chin towards the bruises on his face. “Wanna talk about it?”
Pytre gets a real haunted look in his eyes and swallows.
“That’s fine,” I say, shrugging. “You don’t—“
“I left the sanctuary right after you did, like I said. I stopped in Gulchtown and asked around about you but no one knew where you were headed. I almost gave up right then.” Pytre looks down at his hands. “I didn’t really plan things well. I had barely any credits to my name. Didn’t even think to bring any Chartreuse with me to trade. I don’t know what I was thinking.” He sighs. “Then I had a stroke of luck. The bartender at the Butter Churn said you mentioned heading east. So I went east. That night I got mugged by two men. They pointed a gun at me and I transferred all my credits to them.”
“They give you that?” I say, gesturing to my own eye.
He looks up. The short, bitter laugh startles me. “Oh no. That first night was nothing compared to what happened after.” He takes a few deep breaths, and I see he's shaking. Should I hold him? Something tells me no. “I met a man and his daughter on the stone road. They were travelling to Zarabetha to get married.” Pytre makes a face and shrugs. “The man had some pistols and the girl had a big Bowie knife. I figured if I went with them, I’d be better off than by myself. Protection, you know? But… I didn’t like having to hear… things. Between them. You, know… at night.”
I give him a sympathetic nod. Incest is perfectly legal here, or should I say, not illegal. Nothing is. It’s a wonder people manage to live out whole lives on this shitty, lawless moon.
“I figured maybe you’d stop in Zarabetha too. Maybe I’d catch up with you, or at least find out something about where you could be headed.” Pytre stares down at his hands again, shredding the side of a plasti-form wrapper. “After a week, we were attacked by a group of… I don't know—monsters? They were men, but only in the physical sense. They killed the father first. Did it quick… but they took their time with the girl.” Pytre’s bottom lip trembles and when he speaks again, his voice is so quiet I can barely hear him. “They cut her belly open when they were done. Threw something at me and I caught it. Instinctively, you know?” Pytre mimes catching something in both hands, blinks rapidly and a few tears splash down on his raised palms. “It was a tiny baby. No... not really a baby yet.” He’s crying freely now and my gut twists in anger for what he’s suffered. “I fumbled and dropped it in the dust. That poor little baby. I don’t even know if it was alive. One of them stomped on it and then punched me in the head. I think I was unconscious after that. They hit me a lot.”
He touches his bruises. His hand is trembling.
I want to tell him the baby was probably already dead—few women carry to term here, and that's not even factoring in the inbreeding—but I don’t know how that would cheer him.
“How did you get away?”
When he meets my gaze again, his eyes go flat. “I didn’t. Not for weeks.”
I frown, waiting for him to explain. The roaming gangs in the wastelands aren’t the type to spare anyone.
“I told them I was a Disciple of Rime and they laughed, but I started retelling the Book of Rime, and the Trials of the Desert, and anything I could think of. Turns out they’re a superstitious lot. They made me keep going every day until my voice gave out. Then they’d force me to eat the… meat.”
I nodded. Fucking cannibals.
“Then, every night, the four of them would take turns raping me.”
I was afraid that was where his story was going. I want to run out into the desert and find the shitbags that did this to Pytre and force them to eat their own dicks before I skin them alive… I reach out to touch Pytre’s arm and he flinches. His laugh is hollow.
“I know you were dying to… how did you put it? ‘Break in my virgin ass’? Well, sorry to say you’re too late.”
“I’m going to kill every last one of them.”
“No need,” Pytre says with a little shrug. His eyes are now dry. “They were sloppy one night tying me up to sleep and I got loose. One of them had a gun. An antique. I shot two of them in the head before the others knew what was happening. The third I shot twice as he was getting up, but the gun jammed and I had to throw a punch at the last one. Managed to knock him to the ground. Then I beat him to death with a big rock.”
I stare at Pytre—he yawns wide, looking around.
“I’d like to sleep now,” he says, his voice devoid of any emotion. I just nod and begin collecting the empty food wrappers as he settles back down on the bed. He’s asleep before I’m finished.
Next day, we move into a bigger room. This one has two cots and about a foot and half of floor between them, and a rickety old chair and table to one side. I expect Apple to object about the added cost, but to my surprise, he says nothing. I feel like there's something he's not telling me.
Pytre wakes only long enough to eat and use the toilet. I'm still waiting for him to ask me who my companion is. Apple, for his part, barely spares Pytre a glance, and doesn't complain when he has to sleep on the floor the first night. Again... something is up. I can feel it.
I haven't worked in days and I'm going to have to soon to keep feeding us—I can't ask Apple to chip in for Pytre's voracious appetite, but I really don't want to leave Pytre's side. I know that I've turned this into a mission—if I heal Pytre, maybe I'll be able to look in the mirror one day.
Yeah, right... I'm the reason he wound up in the hands of cannibal rapists. There won't be any absolution for me. The best I can do is keep the three of us alive.
Sighing, I lean my head back on the dented, dirty scrap metal—the wall is so thin I can hear the guy next door pissing—and watch Pytre's chest rising and falling slowly.
