Grip (The Slip Trilogy Book 2) (24 page)

H
is world has dissolved into a dark red tapestry of pain, fog, and oblivion.

Harrison wakes up from what he thinks is a nightmare only to find that the real nightmare is standing right in front of him, playing with a pair of razor-sharp shears. “How’s your hand?” the Destroyer asks.

When he glances down at his hand, he’s surprised to find it bandaged tightly with thick white cloth. A spot of red bleeds through from the center of his palm.

“We couldn’t have you bleeding out on us,” the Destroyer says. “At least not until you give us what we need.”

“You’ll get nothing,” Harrison mutters, but it comes out barely more than a whisper.

“What was that?” the Destroyer says, holding a hand to his ear. “New rule. You don’t speak unless you’re giving me information.”

“You want information?” Harrison says, pain and anger kindling a growing fire within him. “Here’s a tidbit: If you untie me I’ll take your fist and shove it so far down your throat you’ll start digesting it.”

As he watches a wave of fury roll across the Destroyer’s face, Harrison wonders why he can’t seem to be a little smarter. Benson wouldn’t be insulting his torturer—he’d be reasoning with him, coming up with some clever way to survive longer. Harrison is only speeding up his own demise.

The Destroyer grabs Harrison’s other hand and bends a single finger—his pinky—back much further than it’s meant to go. Harrison lets out a guttural cry from the back of his throat but refuses to scream, even as he feels his knuckles pop in two places and hears the cringe-worthy sound of his bone snapping in half.

After that, he’s not sure exactly what kind of sound he’s making—something low and guttural and wet with spittle—only that it doesn’t sound human, like perhaps he’s possessed by a demon.

The Destroyer laughs, throwing back his shoulders and cackling at the ceiling, enjoying the act of torture like some comedy holo-film. When he’s had a good long laugh, he says, “Tell me where your brother is.”

“Go. To. Hell,” Harrison says.

“Wrong answer,” the Destroyer says, bringing the metal shears together quickly, like a shark snapping at a fish. He slides them past his broken finger to his ring finger, the metal cutting into his skin on either side.

“No,” Harrison says.

“Tell me.”

“Please.” He hates the way he sounds, like he’s begging. Which he is.

“Tell me.”

He won’t. He can’t. He owes his brother for the life he stole from him. Owes him everything, including his own life, if it comes to that. He says nothing.

Snap!
The shears come together with a shrieking finality. Harrison howls, clamping his eyes shut and seeing spots flashing all over the inside of his eyelids—red and white, red and white.

They fade to all-consuming blackness.

~~~

His body still humming with adrenaline and excitement, the Destroyer exits the room until his prisoner regains consciousness.

Corrigan Mars is waiting for him. “He doesn’t fear you,” he says, without kindness. “You’re taking too long.”

“He’ll fear me,” the Destroyer says, biting down on the words. “He’ll tell me everything. Give me time.”

“There’s a reason we’re doing this off the books in this hellhole. We need information fast. As soon as word leaks—and it will—that we have the Slip’s brother, the people will start asking why we don’t have the Saint Louis Slip himself yet. They’ll start questioning my leadership.”

“There won’t be a leak,” the Destroyer says. “You told me you readjusted the memories of the five Crows that brought him in.”

“I did.”

“Then what’s the risk? That I talk? That you talk?”

Mars’s jaw tightens. “The tip came from Chuck Boggs. Considering who his father is, he’s untouchable. And he’s a kid. Kid’s talk.”

“No one’s untouchable,” the Destroyer growls.

“He is,” Corr says, finality clear in his tone.

The Destroyer laughs. “To think I once looked up to you.”

Corr’s eyes narrow and for a moment he thinks his boss might hit him. “Watch it.”

The threat is there, and the Destroyer is smart enough to know when to pull back. “I said give me time. I’ll get the information you need.”

“We don’t have time. Once again, you disappoint me.”

The Destroyer opens his mouth in rebuttal, but Mars waves a hand to silence him. He clamps his lips together and waits.

“Perhaps some of your failings are my fault,” Mars says. “Perhaps I haven’t instructed you well enough. This world you live in…it’s all you’ve ever known. I don’t think you fully appreciate the importance of what we’re doing.”

“I do,” Domino says, but Mars continues on as if he hasn’t heard him.

“When you were born, the Rise and the Fall were over, just another piece of history. The border walls were already up, protecting us from countries that would start a war over food and resources. The Atlantic seaboard had already vanished, buried under millions of gallons of seawater, dumped on us by melting icecaps and freakish tsunamis. Population control laws were already in place to protect you from starvation. Your world was relatively stable.” Mars pauses and the Destroyer lets it all sink in. A sudden pang of jealousy hits him. He wishes he was born earlier, when the world was falling apart. Something about the chaos that would’ve ensued interests him—no, more than that: excites him.
Stimulates
him. In comparison, his world seems dull and mundane, with only the Sliphunt and boring old torture to entertain himself with.

Mars continues. “I lived through the worst of it—your parents would have, too. The panic as entire cities—entire states—were wiped out, as if they never existed in the first place. Highways jam-packed with refugees, most of whom didn’t make it. Those who were lucky enough to flee inland far enough to avoid the floods were destroyed by their fellow humans, reduced to barely more than animals, killing for a stale loaf of bread or a swig of drinkable water.

“I was just a boy living in Philadelphia when it happened, well outside of the flood zones, but well within the evacuation area, where people lost their minds. Looting. Rioting. Murder. Bodies in the streets. Martial law. Human killing human. Fellow citizen killing fellow citizen, the worst since the Civil War, hundreds of years ago. I witnessed the terror that causes people to do horrible things. Starvation and dehydration make people crazy. My father was killed protecting us and getting us to safety. My uncle and aunt, too. My grandmother, confined to a wheelchair, was left behind. My dog, too. I loved them both and I hated my mother for years because of it.

“But all the loss only made me stronger. It sculpted me into the pragmatist I became. When the country had been restructured and rebuilt and the population boom began a decade later, I was a few years older than you and already discussing the notion of population control and rationing of resources within small circles. It made sense. Lobbyists like us pushed ideas in front of lawmakers, all backed by facts and figures, and at first they brushed us aside. For years they said we were extremists and that the general public would never go for what we were suggesting.”

Although the Destroyer learned much of this story in school, never has he felt the truth of it so deep in his chest. An eye-witness account from someone on the cutting edge of positive change. A pioneer. For a moment he puts aside his anger at his master to expand his own knowledge. “What happened?”

“The population crept higher. Supermarket shelves became emptier. Food shipments were getting hijacked and sold at a premium on the black market. Left unchecked, we would’ve bred ourselves to extinction. My group and a few others like us received an audience with government leaders. This time they listened to every word. A bill was introduced. Human rights activists, of course, jumped all over it, labeling it as the worst tragedy since slavery. But popular opinion was already slanted in our favor. All the empty bellies across the country guaranteed that. The first Population Control Decree was passed and the Department of Population Control created.

“We saved the world,” Mars finishes, spreading his hands out to either side with a grand flourish.

“And we have to keep saving it,” the Destroyer says.

“Every single day. You don’t respect this world because you inherited it. You think you’re entitled to it. Your thinking has to change. You have no more right to this world than the Saint Louis Slip.” The Destroyer’s fist clenches at the notion, but Mars doesn’t seem to notice. “Not if you don’t respect what you’ve been given, what we’ve created for you. Earn your right to live. Hunt Slips and UnBees for the right reasons, not because of some sick desire to kill. Then maybe I won’t need to use this on you ever again.” He holds up the device that’s somehow linked to the Destroyer’s circuit board.

“I’ll respect this world. And he’ll talk,” the Destroyer growls, taking a stride forward.

Corrigan Mars holds the device higher. “I dare you to take one more step.”

The Destroyer remembers how helpless he felt as the electricity coursed through him. How pitiful he was as a string of drool tethered his mouth to the ground. Never again. Not if he can help it.

“When he wakes up again, he’ll talk,” the Destroyer promises.

Mars nods. “Prove it. Focus on the location of the surviving Lifers.”

“Sir?” Domino says, frowning. “We need to find the Saint Louis Slip.”

Mars sneers at him. “While you were getting nowhere with Harrison Kelly, his friend, Chuck Boggs, has already informed me of where he was headed. There’s a good chance Benson Kelly will be going to the same place.”

“Where? I can have a team ready in ten minutes.” The Destroyer suddenly feels frantic, like this might be his last chance to terminate the Saint Louis Slip. His final chance to prove himself.

“You’re not going,” Mars says, tapping the device casually, as if daring the Destroyer to contradict him.

The Destroyer grinds his teeth. “You can’t trust anyone else with this.”

“Trust?” Mars scoffs. “You’re the one I can’t trust. You’ve failed me every step along the way. I gave you a new life, a body that exceeds all others, and what have you done with it? Nothing, that’s what.”

The Destroyer swallows to douse the burning in his throat. “Then who?” Whoever it is, he’ll kill them the first chance he gets.

“Me,” Mars says. “I’m the only one I can trust with this mission.”

The Destroyer grimaces, his eyes flicking to the device clutched between Mars’s gnarled white fingers.
Let down your guard, old man
, he thinks.
Let down your guard one time and we’ll see how tough you really are. There’s nothing left of you but lonesome stories of past glories.
“Good luck, sir,” he says, hiding his thoughts. “I’ll try to get information on the Lifer’s whereabouts.”

“You do that,” Mars says. “It’s only you and me down here. Don’t fail me again.”

~~~

When Harrison startles awake, he hears the stomp of heavy metallic feet heading his way. He steels himself, keeping his eyes shut and pretending to be unconscious. His whole body feels cold, like he’s packed in ice, but he wills himself not to shiver.

The footsteps come closer, until they sound like they’re right on top of him. He forces himself to breathe, maintaining a restful cadence, his chest rising and falling in deep undulations.

The punch smashes into his abdomen, forcing a gasp through his lips and flinging his eyes open with shock. He struggles to breathe, the wind crushed out of him, as the Destroyer grabs him around the throat, squeezing him. His eyes bug out and his face goes as hot as the sun and he knows this is the end.

Still, he strains against his bindings, bucking and thrashing and trying to break the unbreakable. Spots dance in front of his vision and the bright overhead lights seem to dim. Exhaustion takes him and he stops fighting. The Destroyer spits in his face and releases him.

Harrison’s mouth, already open like a fish, sucks in a tumultuous breath that seems to sear his esophagus and lungs like a hot poker being shoved down his throat. And yet it feels so good, like breathing is the best thing in the world. His chest heaving, he pants, trying to get as much oxygen into his body as he can, just in case his attacker decides to choke him again.

But he doesn’t.

He just stands there calmly, waiting for Harrison to compose himself.

After a few minutes he says, “My boss is going to go kill your brother right now.”

Harrison’s heart stutters. No. “You’re lying,” he says.

The Destroyer smiles. “Your friend told us everything. We have intel that says your brother was heading toward Saint Louis. Your mother was with him. We lost him in the storm, but now that we know where you were going, we know where he was going. Trying to kill your brother’s Death Match was a gutsy move, I’ve got to give you that.”

Harrison can’t seem to find his breath, and not because of the punch he took to the stomach, or the choking. He did this. In his relentless desire to try to save Benson, he’s put his entire family in danger, leading them like lambs to the slaughter. His brother saw right through his harsh words to what they really were—a lie to get him to hate him.