makes me happy, I think that does.
While Esteban’s fucking me, that prick Che steals my rags. Bastard.
Esteban comes loud, grunting and pounding the desk by my head, so I don’t hear the noises at first. Then I do, hollow popping sounds outside, and then yelling. Esteban jerks out of me, dragging me by the leash and throwing me in the cage. He stuffs himself back into his pants and pulls out the pistol he keeps in the holster at the small of his back—he doesn’t keep it anywhere I can get a hold of it—and crouches by the window. Swearing, he pushes the window sash up an inch or so and pokes the barrel of the gun out and starts shooting. Che’s nowhere around.
I reach up and unhook the leash from my collar. Then I look up and I realize Esteban latched the cage, but forgot to lock it in his haste to go shoot people. Very carefully, I unlatch the cage. He’s still shooting. I freeze when he pauses to pop the empty cartridge from his pistol and slap in a new one, but he’s forgotten that I exist.
The leash makes a handy garrote; just slide the end through the hand loop and drop it over Esteban’s head. And pull. Hard. I can’t stand all the way up, but with him in a crouch I’ve got enough leverage to yank him onto his back; he drops the pistol and I kick it away. Then I shove him back over onto his stomach and I stand on his back, pulling on the leash like some circus bareback rider. I don’t know where I get the strength. He’s got to outweigh me by a hundred pounds, but he’s down, and the leather’s thin but strong, and I find the stamina to pull. And pull. Until he stops fighting me. Until he’s lying perfectly still. Until the stench of voided bladder and bowels fills my nose, and I know he’s dead. Then I let go and stumble off him, falling exhausted onto my knees.
The popping noises outside stop. I don’t know who’s out there, but I figure it’s probably a rival paramilitary group; Esteban’s been complaining about some locals lately. I giggle a little hysterically to myself—no more complaints from that corner. But no matter who wins that little battle out there, I’m dead. Esteban’s men will kill me for what I’ve just done; a rival group will kill me because I’m here. It doesn’t matter, really, but something makes me drop the leash and crawl into the corner on the other side of the dog crate, cramming myself into as small a space as I can get into. Then I curl in on myself and wait to die.
Chapter 2
Two years later
D AVID had the cab drop him off at the east gate of the compound, the private gate. The arch still displayed the twisting initials GK, belonging to the cattle baron who’d originally built the house and outbuildings back in the early twenties. The stone structure beside the road, though, had been put in about ten years ago to shelter the remote access to the computer that now managed the big, wrought-iron gates. David ducked into the shelter and keyed in his security password.
“Hello, David,” the tinny voice said from the speakers on the panel.
“Hey, Andrew,” David replied. “How they hanging?”
“They aren’t hanging at all,” the computer replied. “I possess no sexual organs, as you well know. It’s been a long time since you’ve been home.”
“It sure has,” David sighed. “Just the foot gate, Andy.”
The computer didn’t answer; it had acquired sufficient voice recognition patterns to activate David’s security access, and the smaller gate inset into the larger one swung open.
“Thanks, Andy,” David said.
“You’re welcome, David. Welcome home.”
It was all preprogrammed text; even the comment about sex organs. David had programmed it into his access codes years ago, in his smart-assed teenage years. But even preprogrammed badinage made David feel like he had been welcomed back. Too bad he wasn’t as sure of his welcome by the flesh-and-blood residents of the Tyler compound. He picked up the duffel
While Esteban’s fucking me, that prick Che steals my rags. Bastard.
Esteban comes loud, grunting and pounding the desk by my head, so I don’t hear the noises at first. Then I do, hollow popping sounds outside, and then yelling. Esteban jerks out of me, dragging me by the leash and throwing me in the cage. He stuffs himself back into his pants and pulls out the pistol he keeps in the holster at the small of his back—he doesn’t keep it anywhere I can get a hold of it—and crouches by the window. Swearing, he pushes the window sash up an inch or so and pokes the barrel of the gun out and starts shooting. Che’s nowhere around.
I reach up and unhook the leash from my collar. Then I look up and I realize Esteban latched the cage, but forgot to lock it in his haste to go shoot people. Very carefully, I unlatch the cage. He’s still shooting. I freeze when he pauses to pop the empty cartridge from his pistol and slap in a new one, but he’s forgotten that I exist.
The leash makes a handy garrote; just slide the end through the hand loop and drop it over Esteban’s head. And pull. Hard. I can’t stand all the way up, but with him in a crouch I’ve got enough leverage to yank him onto his back; he drops the pistol and I kick it away. Then I shove him back over onto his stomach and I stand on his back, pulling on the leash like some circus bareback rider. I don’t know where I get the strength. He’s got to outweigh me by a hundred pounds, but he’s down, and the leather’s thin but strong, and I find the stamina to pull. And pull. Until he stops fighting me. Until he’s lying perfectly still. Until the stench of voided bladder and bowels fills my nose, and I know he’s dead. Then I let go and stumble off him, falling exhausted onto my knees.
The popping noises outside stop. I don’t know who’s out there, but I figure it’s probably a rival paramilitary group; Esteban’s been complaining about some locals lately. I giggle a little hysterically to myself—no more complaints from that corner. But no matter who wins that little battle out there, I’m dead. Esteban’s men will kill me for what I’ve just done; a rival group will kill me because I’m here. It doesn’t matter, really, but something makes me drop the leash and crawl into the corner on the other side of the dog crate, cramming myself into as small a space as I can get into. Then I curl in on myself and wait to die.
Chapter 2
Two years later
D AVID had the cab drop him off at the east gate of the compound, the private gate. The arch still displayed the twisting initials GK, belonging to the cattle baron who’d originally built the house and outbuildings back in the early twenties. The stone structure beside the road, though, had been put in about ten years ago to shelter the remote access to the computer that now managed the big, wrought-iron gates. David ducked into the shelter and keyed in his security password.
“Hello, David,” the tinny voice said from the speakers on the panel.
“Hey, Andrew,” David replied. “How they hanging?”
“They aren’t hanging at all,” the computer replied. “I possess no sexual organs, as you well know. It’s been a long time since you’ve been home.”
“It sure has,” David sighed. “Just the foot gate, Andy.”
The computer didn’t answer; it had acquired sufficient voice recognition patterns to activate David’s security access, and the smaller gate inset into the larger one swung open.
“Thanks, Andy,” David said.
“You’re welcome, David. Welcome home.”
It was all preprogrammed text; even the comment about sex organs. David had programmed it into his access codes years ago, in his smart-assed teenage years. But even preprogrammed badinage made David feel like he had been welcomed back. Too bad he wasn’t as sure of his welcome by the flesh-and-blood residents of the Tyler compound. He picked up the duffel
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