Stranger Bait

“Is he Stranger bait?”

“Goodness no, that's Defoe Emelianenko.”

“His time will come,” replied one rat to another, peering out from between the jail bars that doubled as air ducts.

Like a lump of clay lay the prone body of the fat man who was once a hero. His body was round and lithe, like an icecream salesman who doubled as a judoka or boxer. His head was pudgy with flat hard eyes that protruded like balls of playdough, his rough lips stung by the neon light that blared from the “PRISONERS UNITE” sign.

His teeth were chipped, his fingers thick and frighteningly strong, the Masters had seen those fingers cannon into cheeks no other would dare, carry maces, lead warcries. In the words that he might have taught, like silent raindrops, were stories of futility and prayer and his breath came like the roar of a crowd high on blood lust. The rats wondered if the Strangers would come soon, having sent the signal and regretted it. But they could not blame their professions for Defoe’s fall, or for his thinning hair. In the space between saying nothing, they left for darker paths.

Around Defoe’s prone body marched rows of pensioners and prisoners like shackles, squinting into the thin daylight that barely penetrated the translucent castle walls. It was like walking through a massive igloo. The people’s lurid descriptions of their petty quarrels and fights, their violent suspicions and delights, religions and superstitions filled the corridors of the castle, which had caved in on one corner. Their stories of tragedies, tales of dragons attacking and killing, tentacles of sea horses taking their children meant nothing to Defoe, who slept on oblivious.

The Professor split off from other Senate Gang members and crouched next to Defoe’s body. He prayed for rain and wondered whether life was worth living, idly thumbing the contraband in his pocket. Soon the Strangers would be here –

“The power’s going out.” Somebody said significantly.

It was too late. The professor sighed. The blood gangs and the chained mutants were oblivious – they were downwind. Defoe mumbled: “I can’t go back. There’s a big black box.”

“Someday I’ll show you what this all meant.” said the Professor.

“I can hear the dogs.” murmured Defoe groggily.

“Rats.” The Professor corrected him sadly.