He saw the other man with things under his arms … things wrapped in white cloths … things that wailed … cried … sobbed …
Babies. They were babies.
“Okay, here they are,” said the man who had carried them out. “Let’s get to it, guys.”
Lying on his back and watching, Cole tried to count the babies. There were three … no, four men. Or was that guy over there the fifth? He couldn’t tell, and quickly didn’t care.
One of the men lifted a baby high by the ankles. He unwrapped the white cloth until the baby was naked, then he handed it to another man, saying, “Remember, the shoulder, that’s where it’s gotta go.”
“I know, I know, whatta you think I am, some kinda amateur?” He took the baby roughly in his left hand.
Cole gasped when he saw the large, barbed hook in the man’s right hand.
The hook went through the baby’s shoulder.
Blood spurted, then flowed from the wound.
The baby screamed so hard and so long that its face turned dark red as its arms and legs flailed and kicked.
The hook was attached to a cable and was thrown over the side of the boat. A couple of the men laughed loudly.
Cole’s eyes were so wide they hurt as he gawked at the men. He felt as if he might throw up.
A man at the other end of the boat holding an enormous fishing pole — like no fishing pole Cole had ever seen before — shouted, “Oh-ho, well, I guess we’ll see what I get here, huh?”
One of the men bent over Cole then, clutched him with both hands and lifted him up.
“I’ll hold him,” he said to another. “You cut the ropes.”
Another of the men some distance away bellowed, “You know, I never thought about it before, but hey, this way we’ll make the liberals happy ’cause we ain’t killin’ any dolphins, right?”
The others, including the one holding Cole, roared with laughter.
Someone cut the ropes and his limbs were free.
Big hands with fat, rough fingers ripped his shirt off and peeled his pants from his legs like the thin seal from a sausage. They pulled his shoes and socks off and tore his underwear away until he was completely naked and shivering.
“Okay, you take him,” the man said. “Give ’im to Corny — he’s good at hooking the bigger ones.”
Moments later, Cole was looking at a big man with huge moles on his face. He smiled at Cole. “Tell ya what, kid, I ain’t gonna hit any a your organs or arteries or nothin’. It’ll hurt, but you’ll be okay, I promise.”
The man stabbed a large barbed hook through Cole’s right shoulder. The excruciating pain made him scream for an instant, then he passed out.
He woke to big hands slapping his face.
“Kid! Hey,
Once Cole was alert and crying out for help, one of the big men wrapped his thick arms around Cole, sending explosions of pain from his pierced shoulder through his entire body, lifted him and threw him over the side of the boat and into the cold water.
Under the water, Cole held his breath, cheeks puffed out like little balloons on each side of his face. The pain was unbearable, but at the moment, he was more interested in breathing.
He began to thrash and kick.
He found the surface, got his head above it and cried, “Help me! Please help me help me help me help —”
Through bleary, watery eyes, he saw the men looking over the edge of the boat, grinning at him.
“Go get ’em, boy!” one of them shouted with a laugh.
He went under again, quite unexpectedly, still kicking and flailing, mouth closed and eyes open. He saw it.
The shark.
It came out of the darkness aimed directly at him, its predatory, dead-black eyes staring, teeth showing in his half-open mouth, rows and rows of crooked razors.
Cole felt the impact and was jerked through the water.
His own blood clouded the water around him until the silent predator looked like a nightmarish ghost moving through the night.
Cole let out his breath and screamed under the water as the shark’s face came out of the darkness again, mouth open.
Closer and closer …
Painfreak
GERARD HOUARNER
“Painfreak” was first published in
Gerard Houarner works in a psychiatric institution by day and writes at night, mostly about the dark. Recent publications include “Tree of Shadows,” in the Crossroads Press electronic edition of the novel
Fear knotted Tony Lambert’s stomach as Lisa hopped out of the cab that had stopped in front of the closed Brooklyn warehouse half way down the block from his hiding place under the Belt Parkway. Once again, she was going to Painfreak.
Lisa, anonymous in her black rain coat and hat, trotted through the night’s light drizzle to the loading docks. Her slim, petite figure danced in and out of the light from the occasional functioning street lamp. He had followed her from her girlfriend’s apartment to the floating club’s latest secret location a week ago, and had watched her enter every night since then. He had not yet gone in after her. The fear in his stomach warned him not to pursue her any further. Guy had said people didn’t always come out from Painfreak.
So far, Lisa had. Of course, Guy had called the both of them tourists, not players, the night seven years ago when he had introduced Tony to the club and they had met Lisa. Players took the real risks. Like Guy, who Painfreak had claimed with AIDS. Tourists just watched, and wished they had the guts to join in the fun. To give themselves up, surrender to their fantasies. Tourists were afraid to go all the way. Guy had been right; Tony and Lisa had given up the club circuit, and Painfreak in particular, after they met. But they were still alive.
Except now Lisa had left him and gone back to Painfreak. Tony didn’t know why. They had started living together the night they met, and had married soon afterwards. In the seven years since, Tony had never been tempted to chase after another woman. Lisa had paid her share of the expenses, never complained or mentioned kids. They had lived quietly, with few friends or family to distract them from their private games. And it was the private games, like the milder ones at Painfreak and the scene to which it belonged, that had kept him faithful to
