Stung (Zombie Gentlemen) (14 page)

“Wasn’t I supposed to give
ya
a home?”
Crunch chuckled. The offer was so honest and generous, he could hardly believe
it.

Victor smiled and brushed his fingers over
Crunch’s broken nose. “You did. But I think my father will feel better if I am
back home.”

“Give me the address and I will visit when things
quiet down. This place will be kept going with paid workers. We don’t want to
destroy it. They’ll need me ‘ere.” Crunch couldn’t stop looking into Victor’s
eyes and it seemed the sentiment was mutual. His body was heavy with warmth.

“I bloody hope so, because I feel like an idiot
already.”

Crunch finally broke the hug, worried he’ll never
go through with the lashing otherwise. He got a piece of clean cloth from the
cupboard and passed it to Victor without a word. He watched him wrap it
carefully around the hand, securing the impromptu bandage with a loop around
the wrist.

“Would you...?” Victor asked, showing him the two
threads that had to be fastened together.

Crunch tied the cloth gently, feeling like a bear
doing a precise job with his big, clumsy hands more fitted for hitting someone
than helping them.

“How many lashes am I supposed to get?”

Crunch's head bobbed up, and he was met by
Victor’s frown.

“T--twenty... but I was thinking...” Crunch bit
his lips. “Maybe... I would do five... uh... four. And say ya fainted, so I
didn’t do more.” He swallowed, trying not to show much emotion. It would only
get Victor more scared than he already was. The tension in his naked shoulders
spoke volumes.

The lad gave a stiff nod, his eyes wide. “Does it
hurt like being caned?”

“I’m not sure about the difference, but skin will
probably break. They will want to see evidence.” Crunch swallowed again.

Victor’s face sunk. “Oh...” He hugged himself,
dropping his gaze to the ground. It seemed he was far more worried about scars
than the pain itself. The vain creature.

“Four, yeah? Let’s agree on four.” Crunch licked
his lips. “Ya want to be in the stocks? Might be easier.”

Victor nodded, his throat working nervously.
“Whatever you say.”

Crunch didn’t even try to say any stupid phrases
like: ‘It will be all right’ or ‘I’ll try to make it as quick as possible’. He
just approached the stocks and opened the top bar. Victor hesitated, his body
shifting its weight to the leg further away from the stocks, but he finally
came to a decision and moved to kneel in the proper spot, sliding his wrists
and neck into the openings like he was offering himself to some bloodthirsty
God.

“Just... if you know how, make them small?” Victor
slouched, curling his toes as he put his pale back and arse on display. He wasn’t
thin or small, but in this position, in the stocks and ready to take a beating,
Victor looked more vulnerable than ever.

Crunch sighed and closed the top bar as gently as
possible, locking it with a latch.

C’mon, Crunch. Be a man and get it over with.

Victor slid his knees together, clenching and
unclenching his hands. His body was moving with the harsh breaths he took.

“I’ll make it fast,” Crunch said, even though he
planned not to. What else could he say? He grabbed the short, thick leather
whip and took a farewell look at Victor’s smooth back. Muscles shifted under
his skin, softening under Crunch’s gaze.

“Do it, Mr. Crunch,” Victor rasped.

Crunch bit on the inner side of his cheek until he
felt blood. He didn’t want to do it. Didn’t want to hurt Victor. He realized he
was on the verge of crying and as much as it shocked him, he was glad Victor
wouldn’t see it. Was this his punishment as well? For all the times he turned a
blind eye to the horrors of Honeyhill?

The young man arched his back, his breathing
becoming erratic as seconds passed. Crunch couldn’t wait anymore. The
anticipation was probably more torture than mercy, so without warning, he swung
the whip straight at Victor’s back, marking that lovely pale skin with a harsh
whack.

Victor made a choked little sound, but the way his
body thrashed in the stocks, making the wooden bars rattle screamed volumes.
His shaking thighs slid apart as he braced himself for another blow and Crunch
didn’t make him wait for it, following with the next hit just moments later. He
couldn’t help it though. A tear streaked down his face. Was he the worst man
alive? Should he have stood against the order? Tried to hide the lad somewhere
until tomorrow?

By the last blow, Victor slumped in the stocks,
his marred skin trembling. There was some blood from the one open cut, but the
rest were just angry red welts. A soft mewling called Crunch over.

“Yeah, it’s over, darling,” he panted, quickly
opening the top bar of the stocks, just to drop to his knees and pull Victor into
his arms with a sniff. The other man flung his arms around Crunch’s neck,
crawling into his lap with a shaky gasp.

“Hurts.”

“I know, I know... It’ll get better in no time.”
Crunch kissed his cheek. His jaw. His ear. He’d gladly kiss him all over, just
to make it up to Victor.

“It’s already getting better.” Victor’s shining
eyes locked with his and the young prisoner leaned forward for a kiss. It was
gentle and tasted like seawater. “How’s my back?”

“Beautiful, it will be good, I’ll wash it and
dress it.” Crunch quickly rubbed his eyes, embarrassed at how emotional he got.

Victor smiled at him, curling against his chest in
silence. With his ear against Crunch’s chest, he closed his eyes, as if
listening to Crunch’s heartbeat.

“I’m sorry,” Crunch sighed, looking down at the
bloodied back, at the raw-looking flesh of the opened cut. He wanted to throw
up, and not because he found the sight disgusting.

“Don’t be. It’s all this prick’s fault,” muttered
Victor, his features twisting into an angry snarl.

“They’re going down tomorrow. Can’t wait to get my
claws into Sharpe.”

Victor sighed, sitting up straight and turning
Crunch’s face to look at him.

“I want to help.”

“Ya do? I don’t want ya to be in danger...”

“Crunch, I’m not some frightened lady.” Victor’s eyes
narrowed, forcing a smile out of Crunch.

“Nah?” He tousled the lad's hair.

“You of all people should know. You sucked me.”

“Bastard!” Crunch felt his face flushing. “I guess
ya can ‘elp.”

Victor’s face lit up as if he was promised a
present not participation in a riot.

Chapter
10

The kitchen was smaller than Victor had suspected.
Crammed into a thin-walled barrack were several makeshift stoves made of brick.
In the sparse morning light, the female cooks looked like ghosts in the thick
white mist evaporating from the huge kettles. It would have been eerie if it
wasn’t for the overwhelming mixture of smells. Victor stumbled on a stool,
almost spilling water from the bucket of water he was carrying. Cursing, he
shoved it under a table so that it wouldn’t happen to anyone else.

“Do you have the water, boy?”

Victor looked up at the middle aged lady in charge
of the kitchen. She was a prisoner as well, but unlike most, well fed and
strong. One of the benefits of working with food, he supposed.

“Yes, it’s right here.” Right here and spiced up
with a tin of white powder.

The lady nodded, calling him over with a broad
gesture of her somewhat swollen hand. “The guards want their morning warm up.”

Victor strolled over, careful not to bump into a
girl, who was carrying a huge basket of black bread, and tilted his bucket over
the sweet-smelling pot. It was some kind of fruit tea, with cloves, cinnamon
and other spices he couldn’t recognize from the aroma alone. He swallowed and
gently swung the bucket to move all the possible residue from its bottom. He
was sweating, and it wasn't from the heat. He did everything just as Crunch
told him to, used all the powder and now, the drug was just another spice in
the cauldron. No one would notice a thing.

His skin tingled in anticipation. Today. Today
freedom was within reach. The night before, he returned to his barrack with an
aching back and a heart on fire. He could barely force a smile away from his
face even as he laid down next to his smelly bunkmate. He hardly slept, his
mind alternating between the impending rescue and Crunch’s rough hands that
felt so very gentle on his skin. Back in the torture cell, after cleaning and
dressing Victor’s wounds, Crunch held him close, gently caressing his pain
away, and Victor felt all right again. That night, Crunch didn’t smell of the
cologne he used when they were meeting in secret. Victor sensed dust and the
spicy aroma of male sweat that for once, didn’t bother him at all. With Crunch,
he felt safe even in the torture room, even when he was being whipped. How
silly of him to get attached to a stranger because of a bit of kindness.

Victor swallowed and walked out of the kitchen to
join the team he would be working with today. The cooks were already distributing
the food, so he quickly grabbed an empty bowl and got in line for his share of
porridge and bread. He didn’t intend to look for Crunch, but when the cauldron
of spiced tea emerged from the kitchen, he couldn’t help himself. His eyes
followed it to the guards' table.

Crunch gave him a quick once over, but nothing
more, joining in on the conversation at his table. Victor sighed and continued
to the spot he chose but stopped mid-way to the wall when he noticed a cross
painted on the wooden floor in angry red. Unable to breathe, he scanned the
wood below his feet and spotted several other marks. He supposed they were here
as a reminder of what awaited those who defied the rules of Honeyhill, but
apart from that, work was as usual. He knew from Crunch that the policy was not
to make the slaves’ efforts to escape look like something worth elaborating on.
They tried to escape - most were dead. As if it was meaningless. Victor's chest
tightened and he had to willfully keep his hands from trembling. All those men
could have left the camp alive, had they waited one more day.

***

The day was cold, so for once, Victor was glad to
wear the bee-keeping clothes. They weren’t thick, but at least it was another
layer over his skin. Even the sunlight looked cooler than usual, seeping
through the fog as two guards led Victor’s group to the dome. Victor was the
last in line, which would have made him nervous even if it wasn’t Sharpe
walking behind him. He took extra care not to slack, but that didn’t spare him
from unwanted attention.

“Ya don’t seem hurt much.” The words came with a
stab to Victor's back with something blunt and rounded. Victor staggered onto
the man before him, instinctively fleeing what had to be the guard's rifle.
They almost tripped and Victor excused himself, hoping the commotion would
somehow amuse Sharpe enough to let him be. His body became oddly stiff, and his
stomach rose up to his throat.

“I heard you fainted, you little pussy. Only got
four lashes, huh?” Sharpe kept on hovering behind him like one of those
horrifying zombie bees. “I’m gonna have to execute the rest of your punishment
tonight.”

There was something so sinister about that promise
that Victor had to bite his lip to keep from making a frightened sound. He
clenched his gloved hands into fists, looking straight at the man walking in
front of him. The edges of his body seemed to pulsate where the bright sunlight
outlined them and for a moment, Victor closed his eyes to calm down. “I am
sorry, Mr. Sharpe, I didn’t mean to...”

“Oh yeah, such a toff you are...” This time both
Sharpe and the other guard, Marlowe, laughed. “I doubt you’ll toughen up before
ya die.”

“Oy, Sharpe, just don’t break his fingers, will
ya? We need those hands to work for his keep,” came from the front to the complete
silence of the prisoners.

Even knowing it would all be over later today,
Victor felt his knees going weak at those comments. “I am working on it, Mr.
Sharpe.” He winced at how unsteady his voice sounded, but he couldn’t help it.
Iron Teeth made him break out in goosebumps every time he was near.

“I know what you need, pretty boy.” Sharpe laughed
yet again and Victor didn’t like the sound of that at all, so he didn’t answer.
He didn’t want to hear anything Sharpe could possibly want to say to him. He wanted
Sharpe dead or in jail. His feet felt heavy with that villain behind him, and
another poke of the rifle to his aching back got Victor’s stomach up to his
throat again.

“You’re gonna come with me before you start,”
Sharpe said and grabbed Victor’s arm. “You all can start working, and I’m gonna
deal with this one in the meanwhile.”

“But... the group’s small today.” Victor looked at
the column of prisoners, already knowing none of them would even spare him a
glance. They moved towards the dome like a group of monks going to their
morning prayer.

“Take your time!” called Marlowe, waving at
Sharpe, opening the door to let the workers inside. Victor’s breath rasped as
he watched them disappear one by one until all he had left was the horrible man
who introduced him to the apiary in the first place. The weal still hurt when
touched, but that seemed the least of his problems when Sharpe’s mouth opened
in a vicious domino-like smile.

The weight of his hand on Victor's arm was enough
of a threat to still any protests that tried to roll of Victor's tongue. Iron
teeth guided him to the wall of the dome, close to the entrance, and when the
hand fell off Victor’s shoulder, he was too stunned to do a thing. The short
command that followed was like a punch in the gut.

“Kneel.”

Victor blinked at him, air leaving his lungs with
a hiss. There was only one thing he could imagine a man like Sharpe could want
for him to do on his knees, but it made no sense at all. His head went into a
spin when Sharpe’s words from moments ago came back to him. ‘Pretty boy’, he
called Victor, and now he demanded submission out in the open.

Shaken by an uncontrollable tremor, Victor glanced
towards the camp, but it seemed the guard didn’t worry about anyone seeing him
getting sucked by a man. Did Sharpe somehow find out about him and Crunch, or
was this just another way of humiliating him?

“Sir... please...” he whispered in a harsh, broken
tone, too stiff to move. His throat was blocked by nausea, and he kept his eyes
on the ground, not daring to even skim his gaze over the guard’s crotch. No, he
didn’t want this. It was all too much.

“What?” Sharpe frowned. “You need me to repeat
myself? Kneel, fucker.” He squinted and nudged Victor with the rifle, pressing
it all to close to the swollen weal. His face was shadowed, but the sun shining
at the back of Sharpe’s head made his hair look like it was aflame. With that
horrific, piano-keyboard smile, he resembled a grotesque god of death.

Victor bit his lip, and he didn’t even notice when
his hands had begun to shake. For all Victor knew, Iron Teeth was only
interested in female prisoners. God, how he wanted Crunch to be here now.
“Please, don’t...”

“Why are you still standin’? You wanna piss me
off?” Sharpe shoved him into the wall and Victor bowed his head frantically to
avoid hitting it against the bricks.

“I’m... I will be working hard today, Mr. Sharpe,
please let me go so that I can help my team.” He raised a pleading gaze at the
guard, clasping his hands in front of his chest in a gesture of prayer. The
thought of sucking off Iron Teeth was enough to push his breakfast up his
throat.

There were no more niceties. Sharpe grabbed at
Victor's hair so hard it felt as though he was being scalped. Victor fell with
a scream, his knees hitting the ground, but he forgot all about the pain when a
sharp glint made him close one eye. There was a knife in the guard’s hand. The
blade was dark in the shadow of Sharpe’s body, but still hurt not only Victor's
eyes, but his whole body, which stiffened with fear. Would he be slaughtered
like a pig right here, by the apiary? Victor couldn’t hold in a strangled sob
and he cowered as much as he could with the guard yanking on his hair.

The slash of steel he expected never came.
Instead, there was another pull on Victor's hair, progressing up his skull like
a cockroach, close to his scalp. It was then that Victor realised Sharpe wasn’t
going to fuck his mouth. He was cutting his locks off. It hurt, but relief
almost made Victor numb to the pain. But when he looked down, the soothing
feeling that spread all over his body was replaced by choking in his throat
when he saw his chestnut locks falling on Sharpe’s boots. It was all too much.
He tried to reason with himself, but the proximity of a blade, the loss of
something he was so proud of combined with agonizing fear made him lose control
over his eyes. He bit his lip, intent on keeping the tears at bay.

“There.” Sharpe sniggered with the last scrape to
Victor’s scalp. “Now you look tougher. You should thank me. No bees are gonna
tangle in there now.”

Victor looked up into Sharpe’s cruel eyes. The
bastard was enjoying himself. He liked it. “Thank you, Mr. Sharpe,” he tried
through clenched teeth. He didn’t want the man imprisoned anymore. He wanted
him dead.

“That’s a good boy!” Sharpe patted him on his
aching head like one would a dog, and Victor noticed blood on the guard’s palm
when he pulled it back. His eyes started blurring up again. “Now go on to
work.” Sharpe took a step back and put his knife back into its sheath.

Victor reached out with his stiff hand and slowly
got to his knees, using the wall for support. His knees felt like they were
made of cotton, but he managed to turn around and walked towards the entrance
without a word. It didn’t mean a thing. Victor’s misfortune would end today. He
grinned, thinking about the fruit tea.
Drink, Sharpe. Drink your fucking
tea.

He wasn't ready to touch his head, already too
self-conscious with how light and cold his scalp felt. He had to look terrible.
Numbly, he made his way to the changing room, reached into a chest with
equipment and put on the beekeeping hat, fastening the loose ends of the veil
around his collar. He refused to think about his hair. It would grow back.
Maybe he could somehow avoid showing himself to Crunch in such a sorry state.

The other prisoners were already hard at work, and
with only five people instead of the usual ten, they had to rush things. The
work in the Hive was lighter than many other jobs, but with the hungry mouths
on the ground, one wrong step could mean a gruesome death. Victor could never
get used to the buzzing and even with the protection of his outfit, the
closeness of the bees made him flinch. Their plump bodies were heavy enough for
him to feel when a few sat on top of his hat. Could they possibly sense the
blood on his head through the fabric?

As he was distributing rotting human remains to
the undead flowerbeds, Victor kept peeking at the guards and his chest heated
each time he saw them drinking. He half-expected them to collapse any moment,
but it wasn’t happening, and his anxiety slowly boiled. He didn’t know how much
time had passed, every second stretching into an hour. He groaned, looking up
into the sun only to discover that it hadn't moved as much as he expected it
to. How long would the drug take?

***

The day stretched even further when Victor was
assigned to one of the machines designed to keep the domes warm. To him, they
were merely fancy ovens, but that didn’t stop him for cleaning all the pipes,
nooks and crooks more thoroughly than he would if he weren’t so stressed.

The worst thing was, Victor wasn’t sure if Sharpe
was drinking the tea or just sipping something else from his flask. With the
heat in the dome, they didn’t have as much gear on as the workers in the
fields. Hats with veils tucked into the collars of their shirts and long
leather gloves were all they could be bothered to wear as protection. After
all, they were supervising the workers from a cube-like shelter with walls of
thick net made of the same fabric as the veils they all had over their hats.
The guards kept chatting and paid little attention to the workers, but it
didn't escape Victor's attention that Marlowe had been coughing for the last
hour. He hoped it was the drugs.