Many Ugly stood about, smoking and playing scarring games with knives and cigarettes. Several black capes were near the door, and one of them was saying, “... like to just keep one of them with us, all the time, tied and gagged. Just shit on ’em, screw ’em, cut an eye out. We did it before, but you can’t sell em after that...” Boxes of ammunition were stacked in piles and used for tables. He saw an Ugly’s knife dance about his hand on one table, gouging chunks of flesh and wood, while others played cards and took shots of black juice. A wide, thin table dominated the center, and Barkus sat in the middle of it. He wore a black silk shirt unbuttoned to show the rat’s skull stitched to his chest. He leaned over a pale brown map etched with red and black, and two Ugly stood over his shoulders. Wodan grew cold when he saw them, for it was the short dark-haired man and the tall blond-bearded man, whom he hated.
The bald Ugly led him gently by the elbow, and Barkus lifted his head when they neared. Wodan choked when he saw the black sun ground into his face and the upturned smile beneath his beard. The man’s charisma was overpowering. Wodan stood before him and, even though he was elevated above Barkus, he felt very small.
“There’s the boy I wanted to see,” said Barkus. Wodan could hear him clearly even in the constant noise of overlapping conversations; in fact, he could hear nothing but Barkus. “I have a question to ask you.” He paused as he looked Wodan up and down, then said, “Have you been saying anything bad about me to your little friends?”
Wodan breathed deep, then said, “Never. We all speak well of you, even when we’re squatting and crapping side by side every morning.”
Barkus laughed loudly and leaned back in his seat. The two Ugly beside him chuckled.
“I’d like you to meet my teammates,” said Barkus. He paused again. His aura and charisma were so intense that Wodan had the sense that the entire world waited for him to speak. In his presence, every breath only came by great effort. Barkus pointed to the short, dark man whose eyes were surrounded by runes, and said, “This is Adem. He’s a strangler. He was born under a Skull Moon.” Adem tilted his head back. Wodan recognized the gesture as the result of a cultivation of an image of toughness. Barkus threw his thumb to the tall blond. “This is Wallach. Brick Hands Wallach. He’s my strategist.” The giant with a checkerboard face stared at Wodan, unmoving, full of malice. Wodan looked away.
Adem cleared his throat with a sound like gravel being churned, then said, “You’ve met us before.”
Barkus ignored him and pointed to the bald Ugly, said, “That’s Fachimundi. He’s a snake.”
Fachimundi smiled by licking his lips and parting them to reveal his black stubs. There was something shy and childish in the gesture, as if the man was an undeveloped, gross shadow of a human.
“Fachimundi is a faggot,” said Barkus, “but we don’t allow sodomites into the Ugly. Show him what a team player you are, Fachi.”
Still smiling, the man pulled down his pants. A small, scarred flap of skin flopped about under a mass of pale tattoos in the shape of a smiling beast. Several of the younger Ugly laughed, and one stumbled up to him drunkenly. Without concealing himself, Fachimundi hissed and spat at him. The Ugly stumbled away and his friends laughed at him.
“This is our family,” said Barkus. “Now I want to know about yours.”
He paused, and Wodan said tentatively, “You want to know about me?”
Barkus nodded amiably, said, “Please. Speak! In the spirit of brotherhood.”
Some of the Ugly laughed into their bottles. The menace in the air was palpable. Though Barkus tried to appear friendly, Wodan knew that they were crossing swords. Wodan decided to hide the truth in a web of deceit so that he would not be caught lying outright.
“My people live in the earth, away from demons and… raiders. I was cast out with some others. None of us know why.”
Barkus glanced back at Adem, then said to Wodan, “Why were you in the mountains?”
“We were trying to get back home,” said Wodan. “We made our way into an abandoned mine. We were attacked, and many of us were killed.”
Adem smirked, then said, “They looked like the mountain shit them out.”
Wodan’s heart raced. If anyone knew what happened to Marlon, it was Adem and Wallach. Wodan gathered his resolve as if he was about to leap from a great height, then said, “What did-”
“The slaves speak of you,” said Barkus, loudly, so that all attention gelled around him again. “They speak of the little pale flower that puts a smile on their face. They speak of the cute monkey whose dances and antics make them laugh. My clansmen watch them all day long, and they tell me that the primitives constantly scramble to get close to you, if only for a moment. Did you know that?”
“They have no reason to dislike me,” said Wodan. “You could be a leader among them, if you wanted.”
Barkus chuckled. Though his smile never left, his eyes were hard. “Why would I sell my dignity for the friendship of a primitive?” he said. “Why would you?”
“Because they’re human beings,” said Wodan, “with human dignity. Sure, they’re superstitious, coarse, uncultured, they live in constant fear, they abandon their individuality to find safety in groups, and they smell bad... but how are you any different? How am I?”
“Be honest. The spineless fops you used to live with kicked you out, and now you’re trying to make the best of a bad situation. Right? Why else would you speak to any of those natives? It’s obvious that you’re not like them, boy.”
“Each one of them is more unique than you imagine,” said Wodan. He summoned up his will, then said, “You’ve been thinking in terms of masters and slaves, and putting people into boxes and defining them for so long that you’ve forgotten how to connect with people. You’ve learned tactics for how to deal with people, but you haven’t learned how to look at an individual person and really see who they are. Every individual human being defies definition. They’re… they…”
“Don’t stop, this is great!” said Barkus. “It’s not every day you get to hear utter bullshit of this caliber!”
The tent exploded with laughter.
“Okay, okay,” said Barkus, waiting for the laughter to die down. “That’s all very interesting, but I think you have a lot to learn about the human condition.”
Wodan did not respond, so Barkus continued. “All life is ugly, but human life is a noxious puddle of stinking, vile waste. History is a record of atrocities, the present moment is insufferably boring, and tomorrow does not exist. It’s plain to any honest individual that the state we are in - is what we have chosen. Humans are pathetic, boy. You aren’t going to save anyone.”
Wodan wondered just how much Barkus knew about his plans. He felt like a rodent perched on the end of a trap. He stubbornly summoned his resolve once more. “Humans might not look powerful or impressive,” said Wodan, “but I think we all have an unlimited potential to find joy… and joy is unique to everyone who has the will to seek it.”
His voice grew quieter as he spoke. Barkus let his words shrivel and fall in the gloomy, smoke-filled tent. The Ugly laughed quietly and shook their heads, and the worst of it was that Wodan sounded like a fool even to himself.
“You’re just a naive idealist,” said Barkus, slowly, so that each word massaged a little blade into Wodan. “You are not special. Every other kid that hates pain and dreams of something better thinks he’s going to change the world. But, you know what? He’s not. No one ever has. No one ever will.”
“How did you become so jaded?” said Wodan, and he wondered if he only said it to break the terrible silence.
“Because I was honest enough with myself to realize that people are self-serving and lazy. Myself included.” He lit a cigarette, sucked it by pursing his lips awkwardly, then said, “I guess you think it’s horrible that I’ve enslaved these people.”
“I do,” said Wodan.
“You know what’s worse than that? The fact that those hill-people are going to complain
for a while - and then get used to their slavery. Many of them will actually like it. I have, at least, provided them with safety. When we get where we’re going, you’ll be sold to rich masters who can protect you from flesh demons, the wasteland, starvation... everything.”
“I heard that before,” said Wodan. “But I don’t understand how we can ever overcome the monsters that rule this world if we don’t face them. We can’t hide forever.”
“Overcome? Life is not about overcoming pain. That’s impossible. Life is pain. Life is about accepting pain. Watch this.”
Barkus signaled to an Ugly. He was squat, built from chunks of thick meat and with a face like a smudged, greasy afterthought. The Ugly sucked on the cigarette in his mouth, took it out, extended an arm, and mashed the burning end into the back of his hand. His skin sizzled and a thin ribbon of smoke shivered along his arm. Wodan noticed that the man’s arms were full of pinkish-white pockmarks, and he looked away.
“Do you see the strength in that?” Barkus asked.
“All I see is sadness,” said Wodan, “and someone who thinks that taking charge means giving up of their own free will.”
“And yet he does not cry when disease or the demon takes his family from him, because he’s in tune with the true nature of reality. You, on the other hand, chafe against the gears that turn the world. And you will be ground up. In fact, I could kill you now, just to prove that the world does not want or need your existence. Do you understand that I could kill you, boy? And the world would keep turning. You only live now because you interest me.”
“The world made me,” said Wodan. “Even if you erased me now, the world must have made me because it wants some variety. It must be interested in something more complex than masters and slaves.”
“The Grand Scheme of the universe did not produce you. Your mother and your father sweated on each other like any dumb animal does and then you were shitted out. Same as me. Same as every other dumbass waiting for the hangman.”
He’s not like the old man in the valley, Wodan thought. That tired old fool was crushed under the weight of nothingness - but this man here has actually blossomed under the black sun of this hate-philosophy that’s choking the world. He’s a king with a back scarred by the whip.
“Barkus, you’re powerful,” Wodan said suddenly. “Why not use that power to benefit your species? Why not... why not challenge the demon? If you showed that it was possible, and got other people to join you-”
“God’s death!” said Barkus, slapping a hand to his forehead. “It’s obvious you’re no regular primitive of the wasteland. Your idealism is naive to a degree that it would require a community full of secluded jackasses to reinforce it. We’re out here starving in the wasteland, and yet there’s a group of idealists somewhere in the world producing pompous fools like yourself. If all it took was violence and pride to slay the demon, man would have done it long ago.”
“These men look to you for direction, Barkus, but you’re looking at history for direction! If history is nothing but a collection of stories about people who sold out for less than they were worth, then why not take a risk and try something different?” Even though Wodan felt like a fool, he plunged ahead. He was not even sure that he was right, but he knew that Barkus was wrong. There had to be a different way of life; beating and starving a group of people because you need them to do labor, and then negotiating with one of those enslaved people with threats because you want to avoid a riot, simply could not be the best way to live one’s life. “What I’m talking about is will,” Wodan continued. “The kind of will that only crops up in a few humans in any generation.”
“Will?” Barkus said slowly. The Ugly that were laughing grew quiet.
Wodan felt as if he had only just now begun to walk on truly dangerous ground.
“You’ve been a master of slaves for a long time now,” said Wodan, fighting against his fear. “When you want food or drugs or sex, you only have to snap your fingers to dominate something. You’ve achieved some power, but I think… that you’ve become… soft.”
“And you think that you have a will stronger than mine? You think that you have enough will to challenge my clan?”
“I try,” said Wodan. His body would let him say no more.
“You dare fault us for living in the shadow of the devil, while you hide in the ground and cultivate philosophy. You speak of will! You, a child who has never truly been tested by the world. And you think that we should oppose the demon with our force of will?”
“I meant -”
“Do not speak,” said Barkus, “but show us! We have brute strength, and you have will - so let’s just see which is the superior of the two!”
The Ugly nodded darkly and murmured curses among themselves. Fachimundi smiled, turned on by the idea of a dangerous game, but Adem paced about, bored and annoyed.
“Wallach,” said Barkus, “you’re my most powerful man. I want you to fight this boy. But be careful – according to him, his will is very powerful!”
Wodan almost denied that he ever said such a thing, then he realized that he probably carried himself in a way that was insulting to anyone from a culture of domination and brute violence. Where the primitives saw friendliness and nobility, his oppressors saw willful defiance. Every time he did not lower his eyes to them, every time he did not laugh at himself for their benefit, he was essentially spitting on them and their culture of brutality.
Wallach flexed his wide hands and stretched out his arms. He towered over all, and his long, ratty beard was like the mane of a dead lion. “You want me to fight this little runt?” he said. His voice was an explosion. “He’s no good to sell if I have to scrape him off my boots.”
The Ugly laughed loudly, but the laughter was forced, each man competing to show his devotion to his masters.
“Yes, I want you to fight him,” said Barkus. “If he wins, we let him go. Him… and ten other slaves of his choice.”
“Why not all of them?” said Wodan. “Are you afraid I’ll win?”
“If the price is high for me,” said Barkus, “then it will be the same for you. I’m the master here. I name the prizes and penalties of the game.”
Wallach strode around the desk, and the Ugly scampered to give him room. The man was a mountain of scars and muscles, a terrifying sight. He wore heavy boots, jeans, a belt laden with knives. Wodan keenly felt his own weakness, his smallness, his boyish thinness. But he glared at the man, for he hated him.
“Aren’t you going to ask what happens if you lose?” said Barkus.
Wodan shook his head.
“It won’t be nice.”
“Losing never is,” said Wodan.
The two squared off. The Ugly snickered around them. Wodan raised his small fists and dug his feet into the sand. He could hear the laughter and see his ridiculous stance from their eyes. Wallach’s face hardened, a slab of pale granite. He took no stance, only stared down at the boy.
In the heavy silence that followed, Wodan fought with himself. He felt the humiliation of his situation. He remembered beating the dogman pup even after he was sure that he would be killed. He knew that Wallach was one of the biggest men he’d ever seen, but he remembered that even when he was outnumbered by ghouls, he’d found a way to survive. He wondered if he could gouge out his opponent’s eyes, and wondered if the Ugly would kill him if he won the battle that way. He knew that he surely could not win; he knew that he could not give up, or he would be broken.
“NOW!” shouted Adem. Wallach screamed and the younger Ugly fell back. Wodan blinked for a split second, and before he could move the giant man was before him. His back hit the sand and a million pounds of muscle fell on top of him. Wodan felt the air gush from him, felt Wallach’s hands crushing his face and stomach. He fought for air as the giant pushed down on him. Wodan lashed out at the giant’s arms, at his elbows and hands, but it was like fighting stone with soft noodles. Without haste and without mercy Wallach ground his weight into him, occasionally sno
rting hot air in his face.
Barkus’s eyes danced, then stopped. Adem sighed, the only Ugly willing to show his boredom, then said loudly, “Looks like the fight’s about… woah!”
Wallach felt a prick at his side, then looked down. Wodan held one of his own knives against his gut. Though the boy seemed nearly dead, the point of the knife tapped regularly, a clock keeping time.
“You idiot!” Adem screamed. The Ugly stopped laughing and fell silent. “Did you just lose the fight?”
A bead of sweat trickled down Wallach’s face, then dropped onto Wodan. The boy did not blink, but stared back at him. Both of them were thinking of the impossibility of surviving a gut-wound in the wasteland. Wallach looked at the blade, then back at the boy.
I could show you what it’s like to be one of those slave girls! Wodan thought, hanging onto consciousness. Show you what it’s like to get stuck and bleed and want to die!
Wallach considered the humiliation of dying from such a small wound over the course of weeks, then rage pushed all doubt from his mind. “A nice move, welp,” he said, “but you have not been underestimated. You can’t win just by having a good plan; you have to follow through with it. Bluffs are worthless out here in the world.”
Wodan’s eyes went wide and Wallach’s lips pulled back to reveal cracked teeth, the spines of a monster. He tightened his palm against Wodan’s mouth and nose, then shouted, “Go ahead and do it! If you can!”
Wallach did not remove his hand from Wodan’s gut to block the knife. Instead he bore down on him and waited, waited for Wodan to turn red, then purple, then waited for his eyes to roll back.
“FIGHT’S OVER!” said Wallach. He rose quickly and, as Wodan coughed and gagged, he swung his foot out and slammed it into Wodan’s stomach. The boy rolled away, too stunned to breathe, and curled into a ball of pain.
Wallach bent and picked up his knife, but hesitated to put it away.
“Leave him be,” said Barkus. “I think we just got ourselves a new slave tonight. That is, if you didn’t break his spine.”
“I broke his back alright,” said Wallach. He pushed through the crowd and sucked directly from a keg’s metal teat. The younger Ugly laughed with the release of tension.