Muti Nation (35 page)

“Run,” Leila croaks. “Go, find help.”

“Help is coming.” My throat is thick with grief. “I’m not leaving you.”

“He’s insane, Esmé. He’ll kill us both. Go.”

“No, we’re going to get you out of here.”

She cries, stifling her sobs whenever they start to get out of control. When she’s managed to pull herself together again, she says: “Even if you can free me, he cut my ankle. I can’t walk properly.”

“Then the fucker’s going to have to go through me to get to you,” I say. “I am
not
leaving you behind.”

I’m on my feet again, using my cell phone to light the way back to the workbench where the tools and instruments are. There must be a key here somewhere, or a hand saw,
something
to get Leila out of her chains.

With shaking hands, I rummage through the workbench, pushing aside jars and tools and trying to ignore the human tissue scattered across the surface. Cockroaches and maggots scuttle and squirm across the table, grossing me out further. My muscles are hesitant, and every movement feels like I’m wading through more black custard. “I can’t find a key. Where’s the key? Damn it!”

“Esmé, leave it.”

“Pull yourself together, for fuck’s sake!” I yell, my voice rebounding from one concrete wall to the other, off the floor and the ceiling.

She hiccups her tears away.

“Sorry, Lei.” I give up on finding a key and settle on a hammer and screwdriver instead. A feeling of malaise falls over me as I return to Leila’s side.

How am I going to get her out of here in one piece?

I don’t want Leila to see I’m out of my depth, so I turn the padlock onto its rounded back, position the screwdriver, and start hammering. If I can just hold on until Detectives Mosepi and Louw come, all will be well. All will be fine.

Leila cries out, her broken nails digging into my shoulder. I’ve accidentally pulled the chain too far away and it cut into her wound.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Hold on, okay?”

“God damn it,” she hisses.

“Relax, Lei.” The hammer pounds against the back end of the flathead screwdriver.
Bam! Bam! Bam!
But the lock doesn’t spring open as I’d hoped it would.

“Es—”

I cut her off when the hammer comes down with a mighty, hollow blow.

“Esmé!”

Chapter 41

When
Him
noticed the splash of crimson in the long grass, he knew he’d fucked up properly.

He blamed his headache for not being as focused as he always is. How could he not have noticed he had a tail? Blame shifting won’t help
Him
out of his predicament, though. No, he needed a plan, one he could use to turn the situation in his favour.

The headache hadn’t improved, but there was no time to fix it.

He peered through the window of the decrepit house, seeing Esmé dash across the field and towards the slaughterhouse. She would find her friend there; the slutty one he’d had to keep gagged thanks to her incessant shrieking. Jesus, her voice could burst eardrums.

Him
stretched his neck one way, far enough to hear the crack and feel the release in his tight muscle, before he does the other side. He grabbed his hunting knife from the table, and slipped it into the holster on his belt. The time had come to put an end to the game, even if Esmé was a few days early.
Him
walked out of the decrepit house, clearing his throbbing mind of whatever negative clutter is housed there. He no longer had the luxury to lose his head.

He entered the office, through the open door, and quietly slinked across the room to the slaughterhouse. Their voices were somewhat muffled, but not enough.

Tsk-tsk. You’re no good at sneaking,
he thought, allowing himself to be swallowed up by the shadows. His eyes adjusted to the darkness swiftly, giving
Him
an advantage over Esmé and her need for a flashlight.

“Pull yourself together, for fuck’s sake!” Esmé shouted at the blonde woman, her nervous voice filling his workshop in echoes, while her friend exchanged sobs for hiccups.

He moved closer, quiet as the grave, barely breathing to keep himself from being noticed.

Esmé whispered something to her friend he couldn’t quite make out. An apology? Maybe. It didn’t matter. Neither of them have figured out he’s with them yet, waiting to pounce.

Esmé hammered at the lock, but metal and metal held fast as she tried, in vain, to free her friend.

The woman cried out.

Esmé said, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Hold on, okay?”

Him
moved a few feet closer, well-hidden until he no longer needed to be. He knew this place like the back of his hand, every crack in the concrete floor, each meat hook in the ceiling, even the drains’ position. He knew exactly where to step and not to step to remain a part of the fixtures.

“God damn it,” the woman hissed.

Nearing them, he slowly clipped open the hunting knife’s holster. Just in case Esmé wasn’t in the mood to listen… or play. Whatever movements and sounds
Him
might have made were drowned out by Esmé’s desperate hammering.

“Relax, Lei,” she said pounding away.

Bam! Bam! Bam!

Him
moved within a couple of meters from Esmé’s hunched over form.

The other one looked up, straight at
Him
. Even in the darkness he saw how absolutely terrified she was. Her bottom lip quivered, while her eyes stayed glued to
Him
.

“Es—” she started to say but the hammer came down with a mighty, hollow thud again, cutting her off. “Esmé!” she shouted.

Him
smiled as Esmé turned slowly. She dropped the screwdriver to snatch her cell phone from the blonde, but held on to the hammer.

The flashlight suddenly shone directly into his eyes, and he let out a hiss of annoyance, covering his eyes with one hand.
Him
hadn’t expected her to do that, but this momentary lapse would be the last.

Him
righted himself, cupping one hand over his forehead so the light didn’t irritate his eyes further.

“Our final meeting was not scheduled for today, Esmé,” he said. He made sure his disappointment overshadowed his accent. “I don’t like surprises.”

She doesn’t respond with words. Her expression, however, was one of defiance and rage. Oh, yes. She wanted to play. Good.

Him
sighs, the same way a father would sigh if his child was being irksome.

“Since you’re here, I suppose we should get started. But please take note, I am not entirely prepared.” He strode across the slaughterhouse, calculating his steps past Esme and Leila, moving towards his workbench.
Him
kept an eye on her, the same way she kept
Him
in her sights at all times.

When he gets to his workbench, he sensed how her hand itched to attack him with the hammer, but common sense kept her feet frozen in place.

“Have you ever known anyone to achieve a godlike status?” he asked, reaching to a glass jar without needing to look.

“I cannot say I have,” Esmé answered.

Him
nodded, glancing at his hand where a fat cockroach scurried. He shook the insect off his hand, and opened the glass jar.

“That will change today.” He threw the contents of the jar into a filthy mortar. “I will free myself of this mortal shell, these chains made of flesh. And you, my dearest Esmé, will witness it.”

Next, he tossed pieces of the already cut up organs into the concoction before finding within a drawer a special herbal elixir made a few days ago by a friend of a friend. “It’s the grand prize for finding me. You should feel honoured for getting this far.”

“I feel disgusted,” she hissed.

“That makes two of us,” her friend concurred.

Him
sneered at the blonde’s remark. She was never worth his time but she would be useful for this last hurrah.

“It’s a pity you feel that way, Esmé. Perhaps I can change your opinion on the matter.” He dusted his grimy hands off over the mortar, placed the pestle in it, and slipped the hunting knife out of his holster.

Then, he stepped away from the workbench and towards Esmé. “I just need one more thing from your friend. Do you mind?”

“Don’t come near us.” Esmé made a show of wiggling the hammer in her hand, but the action only amused
Him
. “I’m warning you.”

“Now you’re being childish. Step away,”
Him
said, walking closer.

“
I’m warning you!
” she roared, clutching the hammer.

Him
didn’t so much as flinch. He kept going, fearless. She wouldn’t hit him. No, if anyone was interested in the evolution from man to god, she would be the one. Esmé Snyders had always been the one.

She aimed to hit him square in the face, but when she pulled the hammer back, he flicked his hand in her direction and the weapon flew out of her hands. It fell an impossible distance away, clattering loudly against the concrete, and disarming her once and for all.

He saw Esmé stare into the darkness where her hammer flew, dumbstruck.

Him
bypassed her, chuffed with his ability to entertain, heading straight for her friend—who’d been placed in this situation because of Esmé’s failure to humour his simple request to find him. It is her fault, after all.

“NO!” She charged
Him
just as he’d angled his knife in his hand, and bent over to take the blonde woman’s heart.

But the blonde wasn’t as helpless as he thought her to be.

As
Him
is tackled from one side, the blonde is up on her good leg, wielding the screwdriver Esmé had dropped earlier. She would have killed
Him
, too—the flathead screwdriver had been aimed at his heart—but Esmé’s attack shifts him. As it happens, the screwdriver found his shoulder instead, burying itself hilt deep between muscle and tissue and arteries and veins.

Him
roared in pain. Momentum drove him to the side, and backwards onto Esmé.

The blonde woman cussed in victory, falling to her knees as Esmé and
Him
wrestle nearby. They’re a flailing ball of limbs, scrambling to get the upper hand.

With the knife still angled, still gripped tightly in his hand, he realised a decision needed to be made. Esmé had gone rogue, off-script. He had two options, kill her and search for a new opponent, or let her win this bastardised version of
his
game.

With his head still pounding, the ancestors still screaming, he wasn’t thinking as clearly as usual. Then, somehow before he could make up his mind his knife plunged into her torso, fast and easy. It is as if fate chose for him.

The action doesn’t prevent her from attacking or defending herself, and the battle continued.

He needed to kill Esmé now, absorb her powerful essence into himself and accept his godlike powers. To do this, he needed her heart. Yes, the blonde would have sufficed, but why waste a more potent ingredient when it’s within reach?

The blonde bitch screamed in her “dying-cat” voice, tugging at his clothes, trying to pull
Him
off Esmé.

He smacks back with one hand hoping to catch her off guard, but the world had gone off-kilter.

No. No! NO!

Footsteps rushed from the other side of the slaughterhouse. He couldn’t do a damn thing to stop this turn of events if he does not harvest, does not mix and ingest his concoction.
FUCK!

A male voice shouted commands. Beams of light project into his eyes, blinding him. Nails raked down his face, before an almighty wall crashed into him.

Him
, lying under a great weight, felt his lungs being crushed, and couldn’t figure out what was happening until Detective Mosepi’s voice barked out his rights.

Before
Him
had a chance to fight, the overweight detective had already turned him onto his stomach and was forcefully twisting his hands behind his back.

Him
never admitted defeat, but he wouldn’t allow himself to be shot either. Instead, knowing he was beat, he quietly consented to being handcuffed and watched Esmé bleed out on the cold concrete.

“What a waste,” he sighed.