Chapter 68
Solitary
In addition to the lights, loud music, and cold, a foul ammonia smell filled the air.
He wondered for maybe the thousandth time that day if he was doing the right thing. Unfortunately, he didn't see a lot of options. If his being in prison allowed his friends to stay free, then so be it.
Imp informed him he'd leveled up in cold tolerance, loud-noise tolerance, oxygen deprivation tolerance, abusive behavior tolerance, and the ability to conceal how terrified he was. Whatever all that meant. And he'd gained eight more Demon Tears. He was tempted to use them to keep warm, but figured he'd better save them. He suspected he'd need them more later.
***
One and a half years post-Change
The large man laughed. “Hello food thief.” He took a large bite out of a slice of bread wrapped around some kind of sausage. The smell made Goblin/Leo drool uncontrollably, staring at it from inside his prison cell. “Don't know why they brought you in. If I'd been on that salvage team, I'd have clubbed you to death with a rock. Save everyone trouble.”
“Please. I'm so hungry.”
“So are we.” The man took another bite of his makeshift sandwich, bread crumbs falling to the floor.
“I'm only thirteen.” Leo might have been fourteen. It was hard to keep track when you're trying to survive.
“Don't worry, we're not total monsters. A little guy like you, the hangman's noose might not break your neck when you drop, leaving you to strangle slowly for hours or even days. We'll strap a 100-pound weight to your knees, so when you drop, your neck will snap like a twig and kill you quick.” He made a clicking sound for emphasis.
“You know a condemned man is supposed to get a last meal. Right?”
The large man laughed again and took another bite of his sandwich. More crumbs fell to the floor. “You're funny, kid. Must think we're some kind of libtards. Like them communist politicians blathering about how 'food is a right' while sucking up to their corporate masters, making sure the price of food goes up and nobody can afford it. I'd kill those bastards myself if I could. Feed their bodies to our pigs. You think we'd waste food on someone who's going to die the next day? You're funny, kid.” The large man shook his head.
Goblin/Leo's hand shot through the bars, making a grab for the sandwich. The man pulled the sandwich away at the last second, so Gobin/Leo's hand fell short.
Stolen novel; please report.
“Nice try, kid.” The large man turned to leave. “Watch out for the rats. They bite.”
As soon as the man left, Goblin/Leo reached through the bars, picking up every speck of food he could reach that had fallen to the floor and pulling them back into his cell. He used the crumbs to lure rats within grabbing distance. He caught four of them before the rest learned to leave him alone. Anything tasted good when you were starving to death. Except rats. Rats still tasted lousy, especially raw.
***
He remembered the scared, lonely, hopeless feeling from that night. A feeling he'd relived for years in nightmares. Fortunately, the next morning someone with half a brain, one of the shelter leaders, an older woman named Ida, came by and realized Goblin/Leo with his special stealth skills might be useful to them. She put a stay in his execution and gave him breakfast.
It hadn't been easy for Goblin/Leo, but a few months later he'd joined his first shelter militia, a job that came with a tiny room shared with three other men, regular meals, a make-shift uniform, one decent combat knife, a pistol that might have worked, and two bullets he suspected had been given to him because they were misfires.
As for Frank, the large sandwich guy from the first night? Well, he was pretty much a dick. It turned out nobody else liked him either.
Leo chuckled to himself, trying to forget the cold and the worsening ache in his shackled arms. Being locked up sure brought back memories.
Leo's shackles became less and less comfortable as time passed. By adjusting his position slightly, he could move pressure from one set of body parts to another. By standing higher on tiptoe he could reduce the pressure on his arms, but the aches in his legs grew worse. So he alternated, moving from one position to the next. Soon all the positions were equally painful. This was in addition to the cold, stink, noise. His thirst and hunger grew worse as time went by. They were trying to soften him up.
To distract himself, he thought about his previous future.
After his first night in the shelter prison, things improved. A few months and a bit of training later, he was able to use his special skills to scout out nearby areas no normal human could go near without a lot of firepower. For the first time since the Change, he'd found a place with people who accepted him. He remembered the two years he'd spent there with fondness.
Stinkbomb was the largest implant-wearer Leo had ever seen, and the shelter's champion. The air-mage, though large, wasn't heavy since the majority of his mass consisted of different toxic gasses he synthesized within his body. They said he could float through the air, Goodyear Blimp style, raining clouds of toxic gas on his enemies.
Stinkbomb was a nice guy, but he stank, hence the name. Nobody wanted to get downwind of him. It had been a standing joke that if anyone was strong enough to take out the local city Bosses, it would be Stinkbomb with his foul odor.
Sorry, Stinkbomb, Leo thought. Guess you didn't have what it takes.
Leo's last memory of the shelter occurred two years after he'd arrived. Leo had watched from a distant hiding place as Stinkbomb's children (from before the Change) were driven onto a truck along with the other shelter survivors to be taken to the city and eaten. No sign of Stinkbomb. Leo hoped the man was dead, because the alternatives were worse.
Manacled to a wall, Leo thought about the Change and everything that would happen. It was hard not to lose hope. What could he do to prevent the horrible things from happening?
Teach: I've been making inquiries. I might--emphasis on might--have found people who can help.