Trevor held eye contact with Marcus as he slithered up to the hot plate. He was slim and swarthy, with a mop of dirty grey hair parted in the middle and slicked back with grease. Deep bags circled his eyes, their giant pupils diesel-black on a backdrop of bloodshot. His thin skin was pasty and yellow, with a wet and waxy sheen. A single bead of sweat made its way cautiously down his sharp cheekbone towards his lips, which formed a thin and malevolent smirk. Dry, cracked black scales, poorly disguised, peeped through the patchy stubble on his wiry neck.
As he arrived, he thrust out his left hand to his side, halting his men. His right hand clasped around a long wooden torch, the flame hissing in the wind. The men peered over his shoulder, eyeing his lockbox, like a pack of jackals weighing up their next meal. Marcus seemed to ignore the box. His shifty black eyes were more taken by the tramlines, leading away towards the Black Barracks.
“What can I get for you, Marcus? Got a few rat skewers left. Or will you boys be after some moonshine?” Trevor said with a smile.
“This isn’t personal, butcher,” Marcus replied as he staked the long wooden shaft of the torch into the mud and, again, glanced away to the left.
“So you mean to rob me, then? How has it come to this, people of The Gardens robbing their own? You should be ashamed.”
Marcus scoffed, his black eyes narrowing on Trevor. “Oh please. You stand there behind your hot plate, day after day, in the warm, fed and watered, while the rest of us suffer!”
The four Crocheads behind Marcus jeered in agreement. A crowd gathered, ripples of support rising for Marcus’ poisonous dogma.
“Handing out the odd rat here and there as if you care about the afflicted! Trevor the High! Trevor the Mighty!” he spat. The jeers intensified, the anger mounting. A man hissed and spat, and a woman called for blood. Trevor knew what was happening. Marcus was whipping his minions into a frenzy. “In your kitchen, built on the proceeds of looting and rioting, all in the name of the rebel cause! Trevor Evans! Hero of The Panic, rioting and murdering and overrunning the soldiers! It’s your fault we’re in this mess!”
Trevor stepped to Marcus, who flinched briefly and again looked away to the left as the towering man closed in. “Ok, snake,” Trevor growled. “What’s this about? If we’re doing this, then at least have the spine to be straight.”
Marcus licked his thin cracked lips and lowered to a whisper, “Lloyd went missing this morning with The Gardens’ full supply of Croc. The Archway is rattling, Trevor. I need to go back to the Conduit for another drop, or I won’t see the morning. So I'm sure you can understand that my hands are tied. Maybe you can just give us the box as one of your many acts of charity.”
This was bad news. Marcus had nothing to lose. He was the main runner in The Gardens. The addicts would be rattling into hysteria by this time if they’d gone all day without Croc. They’d tear him apart if he didn’t come through with the goods soon.
“How many of you are prepared to die for his brother’s greed?” Trevor snapped as he stared at each man in turn, surveying their courage, looking for a weakness in their wild eyes. He expected to see at least some fear or, failing that, some apprehension, but there was none. He didn’t like his odds. As formidable as he was, he was likely to lose.
“Aye. Alright, boys. If that’s how it’s going to go. I’ll take at least two of you with me. You know that, eh? Are you ready to die?”
“Ah Trevor, we’d all die if we had to. Happily, we don’t have to. Not today, anyway.” As Marcus spoke, his eyes glittered one last time to the left, and he hawked and spat in Trevor’s face.
Fury erupted in him, his left hand joining his right on the haft of the mighty cleaver. He bellowed in rage and kicked Marcus in the chest with his massive boot, sending him sprawling to the ground. The glittering arc of the cleaver lit the sky as he swung it down. Marcus rolled and scrambled in the mud, escaping the blade.
As Trevor reset for a second attack, a scream from the balcony above the kitchen jarred him. He staggered back and swung around to his frantic wife. “Trevor! Over there, the Guard!”
The loud blast of an engine cut across The Gardens, breaking the tension. Trevor stepped back and looked over his shoulder to see a City Guard pickup truck speeding toward him. It ground to a stop. Headlamps beamed at him, spotlighted in the darkness. Four guards lept from the back, boots thumping to the ground, their batons drawn, faces calm.
“That’s him! That’s the bootlegger!” screamed Marcus, feigning terror. “He has a blade. He tried to kill me! These men saw it!”
Trevor’s gut churned as realisation set in. He felt sick. This was a setup, a devious plan. Marcus had been looking towards the left of The Gardens, towards the tramlines and the Black Barracks. He knew they were coming.
“You! Drop the weapon and get on your knees – do it now!” ordered a guard. “You have committed code violations relating to moonshine tax evasion.”
Trevor felt the colour drain from his face. His hands slowly opened, and the cleaver dropped to the mud with a heavy slap. Crestfallen, he fell to his knees. As the guards walked towards him, batons in hand, he closed his eyes. A bid to escape the manic glee on Marcus’ face. An almighty crack cannoned into the back of his head, splitting his skull. More blows followed, crashing around his body. Flashes of light danced around his eyes as a high-pitched ringing vibrated between his ears. His hulking frame toppled forward, plummeting to the sodden wet ground with a mighty thud.
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The four guards loomed over him, looking back towards the truck, as a man steeped in vile arrogance jumped down from the front passenger seat. His pristine black bulled boots squelched in the mud as he landed. A look of disdain drew over his face as he sniffed the air. “Guards. Clear the shack,” he commanded.
“Yes, Captain,” they replied in unison. The four of them entered the shack and began tearing it apart. Moments later, Lisa’s manic screams cut through The Gardens. Trevor groaned. They dragged her out like a rag doll, past the hot plate, and flung her to the mud.
“You bastards! Leave us alone,” she wailed as she staggered up and over to Trevor’s side and threw her body over his. Captain Brunner stepped towards her and cannoned his boot into her ribs, lifting her through the air with a yelp. He dragged her up, his leather glove clutching a fistful of her hair, wrenching her face up to look at his malevolent glare.
“You will sit down and shut up, woman, or he will suffer,” he hissed as he backhanded her with sickening power, sending her wheeling into the wall of the shack. Lisa sat up and clutched her knees to her chest, sobbing uncontrollably.
Brunner walked back to Marcus and his minions, his shoulders back, his sharp nose lifted to the night sky as he peered down at them. “This had better be worth my time, Marcus, or you’ll be joining this big oaf in the mud.” He took Marcus by his bony shoulder and steered him away from the group. “Where the fuck is Lloyd?”
“I’m sorry, Captain, I don’t know. We’ve looked everywhere. I swear we have!”
“When we find him, he’ll hang outside the Black Barracks.”
Marcus nodded profusely.
“I can’t fathom how you could have fucked this up so badly. If you ever, ever pull me out into the shit to clean up after you again, you’ll hang next to him. How does this look? You fool. Me, in The Gardens over a tax evasion. People will speculate.”
“Yes, Captain. I’m s-sorry, Captain,” he stammered.
“Info’s good, Captain,” a guard called from inside Trevor’s shack. Brunner stepped forward and peered over the hot plate. His guards stood proudly in a crawl space below the kitchen. Wooden boards had been torn back and tossed aside. Inside were four large drums filled with high-quality moonshine. Tucked in a corner was a canvas bag stuffed with notes and coins.
“Very pleasing,” the captain declared. “Load it up.”
“Yes, Captain!”
Marcus could barely contain himself. “See, Captain Brunner! I told you!”
Brunner reached into the inside pocket of his black trench coat and pulled out a package wrapped in silver tape. He handed it over to Marcus, who almost snatched it, perturbed at the last second as he remembered his place. He softly took it and clutched it with two hands.
“Misplace this one and you’re done. I do not expect to be dragged out into the shit to clean up after you ever again. The smell offends me,” he whispered with contempt.
“N-n-no, Captain. I’m sorry, Captain.”
Trevor opened his eyes, his cheek resting in the cold and wet mud. His head felt as though a hundred horses were galloping inside it. For a second, he was going to force himself up, his rage rising again, until reason took over him. Beaten and well outnumbered, the best he could do was live to fight again.
He blinked blood from his eyes as a small shape sped towards his face. He couldn’t work out what it was until it got closer to him. His vision focussed, and he heard a familiar voice.
“Mr Marcus, did I do good? I jammed the roll shutter just like you said!” chimed little Tilly Martin with glee.
“A wonderful job, little Tilly. You run over to the hot plate and help yourself to a nice skewer. Old Trevor won’t mind.”
Tilly looked down at Trevor and smiled as she stepped over his body and scurried over to the hot plate. Lisa’s sobbing intensified as Tilly snatched a skewer and raced away across the boarded swamp.
“Someone shut that bitch up,” demanded Captain Brunner, irritated by Lisa’s relentless sobbing.
Trevor groaned. Summoning the last of his strength, he pushed himself to all fours and reached for the captain's leg. His hand, caked in mud, grasped around his knee, staining his pristine trousers.
“You disgusting filth!” snarled Captain Brunner, horrified at the mud on his leg. His face flushed as he placed his boot on Trevor’s back and pushed him down to the ground.
Trevor had nothing left. Spent, he rolled onto his back in the mud so he could stare up at the night sky. His thoughts drifted to the boy. If there was ever a first time to be late home, this was it. He was glad Jude had been lucky and missed this horror show. He smiled. Lisa had been right. You’re a kind man, Trev. Too kind.
To think Tilly sabotaged his shutter that same day. So cruel, it was almost comical. He chuckled at his plight. He coughed, and blood spluttered from his mouth into the air, speckling his face.
“Funny, is it, you filthy pig?” Trevor looked towards the voice and saw Captain Brunner appear over him. His blood chilled as his eyes locked to the barrel of a revolver. Lisa’s heart stopped, her face mauled by anguish. Her mouth screamed, but no sound hit the air. Paralyzed.
With a look of sheer disdain, Captain Brunner slowly levelled his revolver and squeezed the trigger. The crack of gunshot pierced the air as Trevor’s head exploded, and the drizzling rain about his body became occupied by blood in a shimmering red mist. Captain Brunner turned and walked, unphased, back to the pickup. His guards loaded the barrels and climbed into the back, holding cans of moonshine lifted from Trevor’s kitchen.
A woman, gaunt and sorry, with two black eyes and a bloody mouth, stepped forward from the crowd. “Guards, please, I need help.”
The nearest guard swigged his shine and rounded on her. “Last patrol was half an hour ago. Report it at the Black Barracks tomorrow…but have a wash first. You fucking stink.” The other guards sniggered like children.
Marcus followed Captain Brunner to the side of the truck. The captain gave his orders as he climbed in. “The coin in the lockbox is yours, as agreed. Do what you will with the woman, then burn it down.” The pickup thundered away in a cloud of dust and spray, the laughter only just drowned out by the blaring engine.
“You heard him. Take what you want. I’ll deal with her,” ordered Marcus as the four Crocheads descended on the shack. Marcus bent down and ripped a chain from Trevor’s lifeless neck. On the end of it hung a silver key. “You’ll want this,” he shouted with a smile as he tossed it to one of his men, and with a lick of his lips, he turned to Lisa.