'GRAB HIS HANDS!' 'He can't beat him. No one can beat him. ' Mr New smashed the Flesher's head off the bars again. 'GRAB HIS FUCKING HANDS!' The Flesher looked up, hollow eyes latching onto Heather's. He was the Dark and he knew. This was a test. 'No.' 'HEATHER: GRAB HIS FUCKING HANDS!' 'I can't ...' 'Don't get involved .' The Flesher turned and grabbed a handful of Mr New's shirt. Then buried a fist in his face. Mr New staggered, slipped in the puddle of vomit, and fell back against the wall. BOOOM ... He lay there, groaning, and the Flesher kicked him in the head. Mr New's skull clattered off the metal wall. A spray of blood burst from his lips, spattering down onto the rusty floor. 'No one can beat Him. He's eternal .' The Flesher lurched back a couple of steps, and kicked Mr New again. Then grabbed him by the throat, dragged him upright, and slammed him against the bars. Mr New's arms hung lip at his sides, and then his knees gave way. He slid sideways down the bars, his head bouncing off the floor. Two minutes later the Flesher was hauling the tin bath into the prison - Heather nearly wet herself. She scrambled back into the far corner, biting her lip, trying not to cry, trying not to draw attention to herself. She'd been good, she'd been good, she'd been good ... Mr New groaned and tried to get up, arms and legs trembling with the effort. He didn't even make it to his knees: the Flesher reached into the tin bath and pulled out a small plastic rectangle - no bigger than a TV remote control - and clicked a switch. Lightning crackled between the two electrical contacts at the end. Click-click-click-click-click ... He rammed the tazer into the small of Mr New's back and the man convulsed - one leg sending the tin bath flying, spilling its contents all over the floor: chains, the wire rod, the lightsaber, knives ... one skittered up against the bars. And then Mr New was still, lying on the floor groaning - all the fight electrocuted out of him - crying and twitching as the chains were fastened around his ankles. The Flesher winched him up into the air, cut away his clothes, grabbed his face in one hand. And brought the lightsaber down on the crown of Mr New's shiny head. CRACK. Mr New didn't stop twitching until the bright blue rod was rammed into the hole in his skull. Two quick cuts - clean and deep - and dark red flooded into the tin bath. Mr New's body hung still and silent and pale.
Вы читаете Flesh House
