The Beasts of Barakhai Read online

  The brunet man exchanged a few words with the leader. Then, he hooked a boot beneath Collins’ shoulder and flipped him prone.

  Collins did not fight the motion, though it sparked flashes of light through his brain. Behind him, someone seized his hands and roped them together. As the knots tightened, they bit into his wrists. The blonds rifled his pockets, removing everything: loose change, calculator, keys, mechanical pencil, lighter, notes, wallet, the remote keyless entry to Marlys’ car. They unfastened his belt, taking it along with his pager and cellular phone. They added his watch and the multitool to their haul. Craning his neck, Collins peered around the nearest of the strangers to watch others scoop the remains of his meal into a sack. Another stomped out his fire. When it seemed every trace of Collins’ presence had disappeared into one sack or another, the four men seized him by the arms and knees, hefting him awkwardly onto the horse.

  Collins did not fight, recalling the words of his neuroanatomy professor: “In movies, you see heroes bashing guys in the head all the time to knock them out. Truth is, the difference between causing a brain bruise and a deadly hemorrhage is incalculable. Guy goes out longer than a minute or two, it’s a murder charge for the hero.” If he could help it, Collins would not give these strangers another reason to strike him.

  The horse snorted, humping its back. At a warning from the commander, it settled back on its hooves, prancing nervously sideways. The leader spoke soothingly to it, stroking its nose. The mare calmed, docilely allowing them to tie the sacks in place behind Collins. Two people on each side, the sandy-haired man leading the mare, they headed toward the forest.

  Every step of the horse jarred through Collins’ spine, and he suspected the animal deliberately made the ride as bumpy as possible. It stumbled over invisible stones, losing the delicate grace that had previously characterized its movements. The rope shifted with his slightest motion, grinding into his flesh until he worried it might sever his wrists.

  Soon, the forest swallowed the group. Collins found himself in a shade as cozy as an early spring day. Most of the trees closely resembled those he knew: maple, oak, and locust. Others he did not recognize, including one with star-shaped emerald leaves so bright they seemed like polished holographs. His escorts spoke rarely to one another, though he caught them staring at him with evident hostility on occasion. He wondered what about him bothered them so much and, given their wildly different appearances, how they even knew he did not belong among them. The answer came almost immediately. Duh, genius. Perhaps my complete inability to communicate with them?

  The self-deprecation did little to elevate Collins’ spirits. His mind drifted to his telephone call with Marlys. In his current situation, the whole thing seemed foolish. When I get back, I’ll take all the blame. Buy her flowers. Treat her like a queen. She’ll forgive me. The words “if I get back” interspersed themselves into the thought, quite against his will. Apologizing for something not his fault seemed trivial compared to the possibility that these men and woman might be hauling him to eternal imprisonment or death.

  Not death, Collins tried to assure himself. They could have killed me easily enough in the field. He felt like a suspect whose life now lay in the hands of lawyers and judges. During his first year of college, he had dabbled in radical liberalism. He still recalled trying to convince his father of the “truth” of the prison system. He pictured James Collins in his favorite La-Z-Boy, setting down his newspaper to debate with his son. Gray-flecked, army-short black hair receded from his freckled forehead, and he carried about twenty-five extra pounds, all of it in his gut.

  “Prison just hardens criminals, makes them better and crueler criminals.”

  James had grunted at that. “Not our job to soften em, Ben. In prison, at least they’re not hurting anyone innocent.”

  Collins had hardly dared to believe his father could not understand at all. Until his teens, he had always looked up to this man. “But when they get out, Dad, they’re worse.”

  James had given his son a deeply searching look. “Worse than if we let ’em get away with their crimes?” He opened the newspaper again. “I don’t think so.” He lowered the paper to his knees. “Or are you suggesting executing them all as the alternative?”

  The words had shocked Collins. “Dad, the death penalty’s barbaric. You know that. And it’s not a deterrent.”

  James had raised the paper again, turning the page with a loud rustle. “It’s the ultimate deterrent.”

  “No.” Collins had delved eagerly into the argument. This time, he had clear facts on his side. “No, Dad. It’s not. The studies show—”

  James’ voice became muffled by the newspaper. “I don’t need studies to tell me that once a guy’s dead he can’t hurt anyone any longer. Nothing more deterring than that.”

  At the time, Collins had given his father up as a lost cause who might never see the light. Now, with his stomach skittishly churning the rabbit meat, his thoughts flying in strange directions, his wrists and back aching, he realized he had discovered that terrifying limbo that precedes a fate wholly determined by strangers. The loss of control alone felt like torture. He could not speak for others, but the terrified wonder would deter him from ever committing a crime. If he ever had the chance.

  Again, Collins attempted to steer his thoughts from the depressing possibilities. He concentrated on the scenery. They traveled a dirt path through towering trees whose shade and shed leaves discouraged undergrowth. The branches held vast bounties of leaves in myriad variations of green. Though not as colorful as the bursts of amber, scarlet, and orange that had characterized the autumn foliage in Algary a scant month before, it seemed even more beautiful. The plants seemed to glow with health and, despite mud and dust, looked remarkably clean. The sun streamed through gaps in the highest branches, lending a shimmering glow to the star-shaped leaves and dancing tiny rainbows through clinging droplets of water. In other circumstances, Collins would have enjoyed stretching out beneath the canopy, reveling in birdsong, gaze filled with nature’s radiance. Now, distracted by the agonies jolting through his spine and threatening to dismember his hands, and by the uncertainty of whether or not he even had a future, he could only look in mute alarm. He wondered how much more beautiful it might appear with his glasses.

  It occurred to Collins suddenly that he should have etched the route they had thus far taken into his memory. If they released him, or he managed to escape, he would have to find his way back to this place. In fact, he would need to keep his wits about him from this point on if he hoped to survive this world intact. If it’s not already too late. He shook that thought aside. It could only lead to hopeless despair.

  The idea proved easier to concoct than to implement. The pathways branched and looped, and Collins lost track of turns that came naturally to his captors. The intensity of his headache muddled his thinking; twice, he found himself drifting into a strange, conscious oblivion. The other pains remained a constant, intermittently overwhelming diversion.

  Then, just as Collins began to believe he’d been captured by nomads, the forest opened to pastures and fields. A low wall of corn blocked their way, and the people led the horse around its squared edge. As they rounded the corner, he saw a vast green pasture grazed by several goats, horses, and pigs. Younglings frolicked around them, the different animals intermingling freely in their games. A cow stood by itself, chewing its cud, its round abdomen looking ready to pop out a calf at any moment. Beyond the animals stretched more fields of unidentifiable shoots and, farther, a huddle of buildings that made up a small and primitive town.

  Collins took heart at the sight of the animals. A society that accepted people of all appearances as equals seemed likely to prove reasonably broad-minded. For reasons he could only attribute to childhood cartoon watching, the peaceful coexistence of the animals added to the image of tolerance that might prove so important to his fate. The “good guys” always loved a wide variety of animals as well as their fellow men.

>   The horse trumpeted out a whinny that shook its entire frame. Caught off guard, Collins lost his balance. He toppled from its withers. Instinctively, he went to catch himself with his hands. The rope burned as it shifted across his wrists, and he slammed the ground with his already bruised shoulder. Pain shocked through him. He lay still, eyes closed, teeth gritted. The hands that shoved him back into position disappeared in a dizzying rush of spots that scored his vision. He fell against the horse’s slimy neck, panting against pain. I can’t believe this is happening to me.

  The ride continued as a blur of motion and distant voices. Collins remained dimly aware of being carried into a large building and thrust into a cell. The door crashed shut with a metallic ring. He lay on his belly, face pressed against cold stone, and allowed nothing-ness to overtake him.

  Benton Collins awoke in the same position he had lost consciousness. He opened his eyes to a mortared stone wall that smelled damp and as musty as an old book. He struggled to sit, automatically tossing one hand out for balance. He winced against the anticipated pain that movement had caused the last time he performed it, only to find that his arm moved freely. Using his hands, he managed to sit up easily. He examined his wrists. The ropes had scraped them raw, and clear fluid oozed from several places. His head no longer hurt. Dirt splattered his chest and abdomen in smeared patches, glazed with a fine coating of dust. His jeans were damp with horse sweat and grime speckled with short golden hairs.

  Collins glanced around his prison, approximately four yards square with bars on three sides. The one across from the only stone wall opened onto a hallway, while the other two separated his cell from the ones on either side. He saw no other captives, which seemed like a good sign. Apparently, they did not confine people on a frequent and arbitrary basis. Once they realized he meant them no harm, they would surely release him.

  Two bowls lay on the floor in the front left corner. One held water so clear Collins could see every blemish on the inner surface of the crockery. The other contained what appeared to be salad, dotted with lifesaver-sized and -shaped objects of black and brown. The rabbit sat heavily in his gut, and even the thought of food made him queasy. He wondered how long it would take for anyone to miss him. None of the professors intended to return until Sunday. His parents would assume he had gone to the Johnsons, and Marlys would likely believe he was just being rude. He amended the thought. Not rude. Passive/ aggressive. A psychology student, she always had a long word, often in unpronounceable Latin, to describe even the most normal aspects of human behavior.

  Taking his cue from prisoner movies, Collins examined the bars and lock of his cell. Though pitted in places, they all seemed more than solid enough to withstand any bare-handed assault he could muster. He paced the cell a couple of times, expending nervous energy. Finally, with a sigh of resignation, he sat with his back against the stone wall, his legs stretched in front of him and his throbbing wrists in his lap.

  Soon after Collins took his position, two men appeared at his cell. They wore the same rust-and-gold uniforms as the ones who had captured him, but he recognized neither. One looked about six feet tall, with a shock of red hair, pale skin, and wide features. The other stood shorter but outweighed the first by nearly half again as much, most of it muscle. He had hair a shade lighter than Collins’ dark brown, and he wore it in a braid. His skin matched his hair almost perfectly. Each carried a sword and what looked like a billy club in a wide belt.

  Collins approached, glad for a chance to attempt explanation, though it seemed futile. “Hello,” he said in his friendliest voice.

  Both men turned.

  “My name is Ben.” Collins jabbed a finger toward his chest. “Ben.”

  The men watched him, saying nothing.

  “I-I mean no . . . harm.” Collins assumed a bright smile, placing his hands casually between the bars on a horizontal support. “I just want to go home.” He stabbed a thumb toward the back of the cell. “Home. Understand?”

  The men gave no sign that they did. Abruptly, one freed his club, slamming it down on Collins’ fingers.

  Pain shocked through Collins’ hand, and he jerked away instinctively. “Ow, damn it! Why did you—”

  The two men were laughing. They glanced at Collins, exchanged a few words, then broke into hearty chuckles again.

  Collins withdrew to the back of his cell and slumped against the stone wall. He nursed his left hand in his right. Nothing seemed broken, and the pain dulled swiftly. The agony in his spirit took longer. Tears stung his eyes for the first time in more years than he could remember. Can’t escape. Can’t communicate. He sobbed. I’m going to die here.

  Apparently having sated their curiosity, and their cruelty, the guards left. A few hours later, others replaced them. These, too, came to study their charge, the first a rangy, middle-aged man, the other a woman of about his age, twenty-three, with silky black hair and a golden tan. They also wore the standard uniform, including the swords and batons.

  The thought of repeating the previous encounter repulsed Collins, yet he knew he had to try. He rose, slowly and carefully, edging toward the bars. This time, he stopped beyond reach of their weapons. “Hello,” he said miserably.

  The man said something to the woman, who nodded. She watched Collins’ every movement through intent blue eyes. She sported high cheekbones, spare lips, and a generous nose. Though not classically beautiful, she had a refinement to her movements and features symmetrical enough to make her reasonably attractive. Though slender, she had a sinewy physique that revealed strength.

  It seemed a hopeless question, but Collins asked anyway. “Do you speak any English?”

  They did not reply.

  “Eng-lish,” Collins repeated.

  The guards exchanged glances. The male ran a hand through the brown-and-white stubble of his hair and shrugged. He said something in their strange language.

  The woman replied, equally incomprehensibly.

  “Hurt.” Collins hit his left arm with his right hand. He shook his head vigorously. “No hurt.” He peeled his right hand away, dropped it to his side, and patted it with his left.

  The two watched his every movement.

  Collins continued, “Friends.” He hugged himself fondly. “Friends?”

  “Frinz?” the woman repeated in a questioning tone.

  The man put things together more quickly. A frown scored his features, and his crow’s-feet sprang to vivid relief around his eyes. “No friends.”

  Encouraged by their clear attention, Collins explained again. He slapped his left arm again, then looked surprised. “Hurt.” He shook his head. “No HURT.” He plucked loose his right hand and patted it again, followed by a self-hug. “Friends. Yes.” He bobbed his head eagerly.

  The man glared. “No friends.” He jabbed a finger at Collins. “No no no friends.” He turned his back. “Yes, aguryo.”

  Clearly, the guard had understood his pantomime. And rejected it. Heaving a deep sigh, Collins slunk to the back of his cell, dropped to the floor, and buried his head. “Friends,” he whispered. “Friends . . . yes.”

  Hopeless terror kept Benton Collins awake far into the night. Despair gave way to rocky acceptance, then to desperate worry. He paced the confines of his cell like a zoo tiger, afraid to try to sleep. When he went still, thoughts crowded him, horrible considerations of what his future held. Suddenly, all the things he had cursed earlier that day seemed insignificant. So his parents had chosen their lovers over their son. He was grown now, and they had a right to lives of their own. It only made sense for the other lab assistants and professors to go home over Thanksgiving, since he had nowhere to go. His student loans—only money. None of it mattered one iota if he never found his way back to Algary.

  In the wee morning hours, the female guard reappeared. She stood quietly in front of Collins’ cell, studying him. The lantern light kindled glimmers in her pale eyes, but she otherwise blended into the dark obscurity of the prison.

  Collins stoppe
d his pacing to look at her. With little hope, he tried one more time, touching a hand to his chest. “Ben. That’s me. Ben Collins.”

  “Falima,” she replied.

  “Falima,” Collins repeated. “Pretty. Is that your name?”

  “Yes. My name is Falima.”

  He had not expected a reply; so, when he got one, it stunned him to wide-eyed silence.

  “Why?” Falima added.

  Collins found his tongue. “You-you do speak English,” he said, holding accusation from his voice.

  “English,” she repeated, rolling the word in her mouth as if to taste it. “Is that what I am speaking?”

  “Yes.” Collins approached the bars but did not touch them. “And quite well, I might add.”

  “You might add?”

  Knowing idioms, slang, and expressions often confused newcomers to a language, Collins amended. “Well, I did add, I guess. Do all your people speak English?”

  “No.” Falima considered her own answer briefly, apparently recognizing the word from their previous encounter. Her eyes narrowed, and she studied him further. “No friends.” She spoke the last two words with a heavy accent that had not tainted her previous conversation.

  Collins’ heart rate quickened. He had finally found someone with whom he could communicate, and he seemed to be failing miserably. “Why ‘no friends?’ ” he asked with genuine concern.

  Falima pronounced each word with slow and bitter force. “You . . . are . . . evil.”

  “Me?” The question was startled from Collins. “Evil?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why would you say such a thing?”

  “Murderer,” she hissed. “Cannibal.”

  Collins blinked ponderously, certain Falima had chosen the wrong word. “Cannibal? What are you talking about?” A moment later, he wished he had reacted as strongly to the claim of murder. To his knowledge, he did not have a violent bone in his body.

  Apparently misunderstanding, Falima defined the word. “One who eats its own kind. Cannibal. You.”