As The Ocean Bites At Our Rusted Shores

Chapter 8: Creosote

Chapter 8: Creosote

The first thing Russell felt was the tube leaving his throat, and he gagged and spat as it left him empty. But for a moment he had no cares; someone had pulled the covers off the bed but his eyes were still closed and he could pretend he wasn't late for work for as long as he wanted. Then he realised he was naked, and for once he felt a wonderful lack of concern about it, which had never happened before.

"What do you mean, 'put some more clothes on'?" she shouted angrily at him. "I mean that every man out there is staring at you!" he replied hotly.

Despite himself, he opened his eyes a crack. Veiny light drooped into them and slowly the world came into focus. Immediately, he felt less comfortable. This was no bed. He was laying on metal - he could feel the dimples of the ground digging into his naked hip. Parts of the floor were wet with something that was more viscous than water. He slowly ran his toe into one of the puddles, but his toe couldn't tell him what it was. Maybe it was blood? For a second, his heart froze - blood? A darkened living room flashed behind his eyes, and he forced himself up to make sure that it wasn't.

Sure enough, it wasn't blood. It was... well, the rainbows dappled across it made it look like petrol. Now Russell's eyes were open properly he was able to adjust some more to his environment. There were more people here - two men, and one woman; all naked, all lying on the floor like dropped puppets, their limbs splayed out. Russell's vision fuzzed over as he looked to the right. He was surprised to see another man, actually wearing clothes. Whatever had left his throat was hung from the ceiling at one end and stabbing wildly at the man with the other end. He grabbed one of the wires, but another had twisted round behind him and stabbed viciously into his side. The man gasped in pain and winced as the wire retracted, dribbling blood. Another still of the cords dropped silently and wrapped around his tight young throat. Russell nodded slowly and wondered if he ought to be more concerned. The kid seemed to have it under control, but maybe he should go and get some help. He rose, slowly, and made his way over to one of the people in the room.

"Say..." he urged, poking at the strangers shoulder. "Say, excuse me, do you know the kid over there?"

He glanced over at the young blonde, hands grasping and clutching, eyes rolling back in his head, on his dirty knees, and all of a sudden felt like he should be much more aware of something, like there was something big he was missing.

"Excuse me!" he murmured, pulling the stranger round so they were facing each other.

That face. That smug, smiling, sliming, vitriolic, punchable, fucking piece-of-shit face, he recognised it. The tall guy behind him, with his hulking, child-grabbing muscles, shining with sweat. So that kid-! He twitched involuntarily, Lester beneath him still hanging from his hands and beginning to come round. That was Sebastien, the blonde, his idiot grin turning blue as he choked, he was the one who left him alone at his house, told him not to bother coming along, walked away with Lester to leave him to his fate. He was with them again. He remembered melanie, that crow-bitten corpse lying in some rusted dust-bowl somewhere. If it weren't for them... she would still be...

He screamed incoherently and launched himself at Lester, punching him again and again, straddling him, his mouth getting bloody as his fist landed on his face again and again. Russell could see that smug face deforming little by little as he worked at it, in a mad, vitriolic rush to hurt anything. As he raised his fist again, something grabbed it out of the air and the loss of momentum was such a denial of pleasure he felt more like weeping than punching. Dresdens grip tightened and he brought Russells arms to his sides and he was bound and impotent again

like working in an office all his life

He exploded, imploded, writhed about, gnashed his teeth, anything to get out of the suffocating, choking, penetrating hold he found himself in. Dresden pushed him to the floor, hard, so he felt his face chalking up against the floor. Squinting, he halted his assault. He felt like a baby, writhing about like he was. Lester bent down so he could speak to Russell.