214. The Brig
214
The Brig
M aya
I don’t know why I didn’t anticipate this. Maybe A’Dar did. Maybe this is why he didn’t want us to rush in, guns blazing. Because the mayhem I’m watching in the brig is as terrifying as it is swift.
Zedd, sadist that she is, hasn’t opened the brig doors. The males who had been crewmates, traveling the galaxy together, turned on each other the moment the words, “Only one can live,” were out of her mouth.
Just as I witnessed in the white-tented holding area before we were herded into this vessel, the aliens that evolution gifted with claws, fangs, and spikes perform better than the others. I guess it doesn’t matter how much information is stored in larger humanoid craniums, in a situation like this, brawn will win over brains.
The tech is excellent. TGN must have spared no expense with their cameras and microphones. The majority of the blood is vermillion and plentiful. There is some black, green, and a sickening yellow added to the pallet of bloody splotches painting the floor. The grunts and expletives carry perfectly over the vessel’s speakers.
So much carnage has happened in such a swift amount of time that one of the tallest males, with horns and hooves, slips on the blood. The moment he hits the floor, before he can regain his footing, two of the sharky males lean down, and, working in tandem, bite through the carotids on either side of his throat.
The entire galaxy, at least those paying for the Havoc Packages, are treated to an up-close-and-personal visual feast of every moment of his death. A few hours ago, this would have repulsed me, would have made me go running to the bathroom to hurl. Right now, I simply watch, my body barely registering the horror as I mentally prepare myself to finish the job these males have started.
I’m not proud of my metamorphosis. But survival is hardwired into our brains. I’m not exempt. If I live through this—fat chance—I’ll have time to regret and repent. Right now? I clutch my flamethrower tighter in my grip.
Only one set of brig doors click open and most of the pirates leave at a run. A few stay behind, either too weak to move, or they’ve plunged too deeply into their primitive brains and can’t stop killing long enough to remember the original mandate.
A’Dar puts our computer screen on scroll for us to view the hallway. When we see the coast is clear, he asks, “Do you want to stay here? I think you’ll be safe.”
“We’re a team, A’Dar,” I say, amazed my words came out strong and steady because I’m shaking like a leaf inside. “Let’s go.”
Just as he’d instructed, I stay close to his left side while we travel the short distance to our goal. He stands in the brig’s open doorway and blasts his flamethrower. Luckily, I’m not watching the carnage. I stand tall, my back pressed to his and my darning in hand, ready to immolate any comers.
I wasn’t prepared for the sights and sounds escaping the brig. I should have been, though. When I was in high school, my cat jumped onto my dresser and set his tail on fire from a candle I had burning. I learned two things that day: you can’t have candles and safely own a cat, and burning hair has a distinctly acrid smell.
The sounds escaping the room? They’re something else entirely. In my experience, burns hurt worse than any other injury. The shrieks are so full of pain I imagine I’ll remember them years from now. If I live that long.
I will deal with this later, I say sternly to myself. If I’m alive when all of this is over, I will say prayers for those who died on this ship, whether they were friend or foe. Right now, though, I’m focused on getting us out of this at any cost.
No, not any cost, I correct myself. A’Dar can’t be a cost. Nor can Anna, Emily, Mel, or Ran. We’re a team.
Something’s wrong. The fiery whoosh of A’Dar’s darning has stopped, but the sounds of scuffling have not.
I risk a backward glance and see one of the shaggy blue guys advancing on A’Dar.
“I think my darning still works,” I shout, realizing his flamethrower quit working.
“Save it,” A’Dar says. I’ve never heard his voice in this timbre before. He sounds fierce and unfeeling.
Backing up until my spine hits the doorjamb, I wedge myself at an angle so I can monitor the hallway, yet still turn to watch the events unfolding in the brig.
Shaggy blue has an impressive set of choppers, but nothing deadlier than A’Dar’s. Same with his claws. Blue was a pirate, and his muscles are still probably rubbery from being in stasis. I’ll trust A’Dar to tell me if he needs my help.
The sounds of hand-to-hand combat, the grunting, and the concussed noises of a big body being slammed against a wall float to my ears. When I can’t contain my urge to steal a glance, it’s just in time to see A’Dar, in a one-legged kneel, slam the blue guy over his upthrust knee.
The crack of the blue male’s back breaking is so loud it could probably be heard back in Utah. The male is moaning now, a pitiful sound that pierces to my very soul. It’s a mercy when A’Dar finishes the job with his knife to the heart.
“Eight bodies in here,” A’Dar says as he silently steps next to me. “There are 32 maniacs on the loose, and…” he pauses, obviously inspecting the vid screen in the brig. “29 females.”