Prodigal Blues

Christopher pulled something from the tool box and set it to the side, then closed the lid, locked it with a padlock, and tossed the key outside into the darkness.

Something moved inside the box, made a muffled sound, then kicked out at the edge, causing the box to move a few more inches in our direction.

"I'm surprised he's got that much energy left," said Christopher, walking over to the box and moving it aside.  The back had been cut out so as to set flush against the wall.

Christopher threw the box down, then kicked it over by the bodies.

The man chained up against the far wall looked like a skeleton covered in fish-belly skin.  He was pale, emaciated, and covered from the waist down in the semi-dried remains of his own filth.  He too was naked, except for the heavy layers of bandage covering the stump of his right leg, which had been removed just above the knee.  Both his right and left arms were manacled, and none-too-gently, judging from the open sores encircling his wrists.  The chains on his arms were short—less than three feet—and were soldered into opposite walls.  The chain attached to the manacle around his left ankle was much longer—easily eight feet—and was soldered into place just below the other left-side chain.  His mouth was stuffed with a small rubber ball held in place with a thick rubber band that encircled his head, which had been scalped; sections of skull were visible here and there through the ragged, bloody, chewed-looking tissue that remained.  Darkened trails of dried blood ran straight down over his face, pooling around the top edge of the blinking electronic collar around his neck, then dribbling down onto his chest.  His body was covered in gashes, cuts, and burns, all of them in various stages of healing. Directly behind him hung an IV packet from which snaked a clear, thin plastic tube whose other end disappeared up his nose and was held in place there by medical tape.  I assumed the IV was some kind of liquid nutrient used to keep him alive.  He glowed with sweat, making his pale flesh seem all the more ghostly in the harsh light.  His face was drawn and hollow, covered in ten-day-old beard speckled with gray.

But his eyes were the worst.

Have you ever noticed, whenever you see pictures of serial killers, rapists, mass-murderers, that all of them seem to have the same dead eyes, forever frozen in a cool, detached, hundred-yard stare, as if they've given up trying to make you understand the logic behind their actions and so are content in themselves by staring at their goal you'll never be worthy enough to gaze upon?  Once, in college, a friend of mine was doing a photograph collage for an art project.  She took photos of Ted Bundy, Jeffrey Dahmer, John Wayne Gacy, Charles Manson, and about a dozen others whose names I don't remember and don't want to, and she cut out their eyes, interchanging them with each other—Dahmer got Gacy's, Gacy got Manson's, Manson got Bundy's, and so on.  When she was done we both stood back and looked at the results.

You couldn't tell she'd done a thing to any of them.

They all had the exact same eyes—

—You are not worthy enough to understand—

—just like Grendel's, that stared out dispassionately and patiently from within dark circles and above puffy, discolored bags.  He did not blink as Christopher approached him, checked the IV, then removed the ball and rubber band and gently pulled the tube from his nose and stomach.

"Don't swallow, don't swallow," he said to Grendel in a soothing voice.  The tube came out and flopped on the floor, snaking around and spitting out clear liquid.  Christopher grabbed the free end of the tube and clamped it closed, then stood up and walked over to the chain and manacle holding Grendel's right arm in place.

Not once during all of this did Grendel look at Christopher.

Instead, he stared unblinking at my face.

Unlike the "distributor" at the rest stop, Grendel's gaze nailed my feet to the floor.  Until this moment, I had never really embraced the idea of evil being something pure, something compelling, seductive, charismatic, and attractive.

Now I did.  What stared back at me from behind those eyes was something so purely evil, so flawlessly degenerate, so perfectly perverse and mad that it seemed almost benevolent.

I managed to look away just before he spoke in a voice that sounded like rusty nails being wrenched from rotten wood.

"You have a new friend, Christopher."  So sing-songy in that voice from nightmare.

"Yes, I do."

"Does your new friend have a name?"

"Why don't you ask him yourself?"

Grendel's head snapped around in Christopher's direction.  "Never use contractions like that in my presence!  Do you understand?"

Christopher paused and smiled down at him.  "Oooooh, I'm shakin' in my shoes."  And then kicked Grendel squarely in the chest.  Grendel jerked backward, banging the back of his head against the metal wall, then groaned, shook it off, and glared up, his breathing heavy and fast.

"I suppose you feel that I had that coming to me," he said.  "Very well, my little boy.  I will give that to you."

"You're too kind.  There are no words to express my gratitude."

"Do not mock me, Christopher."

"Seems to me you're not in much of a position to do anything about it."

"Situations change."

They glared at one another.  Then Grendel gave a short, phlegmy laugh and look toward me.  "I do not believe I have had the pleasure, sir.  Who might you be?"

"One of the listening North Danes."

His eyes widened and his smile widened.  "Then you know of me already?"

"'Rage-inflamed, wreckage-bent, he ripped open the jaws of the hall.'  Yeah, I've heard some things."

"How marvelous—though the passage you quoted leads me to believe that you have been exposed to one of the more bumbling translations of the story."

"My education is what you might call incomplete."

"I see.  And do you not find me attractive?  Even in this unfortunate state?"

"Not particularly."

"Then you must allow me the chance to redeem myself in your eyes."

"Not possible."

His smile slithered wider.  "Everything is possible, good sir."

Christopher unlocked his right arm, letting it drop free, then stepped over beside me.  For a few moments Grendel neither said anything nor looked at us; he was too busy shaking some feeling back into his arm.

"You should pick up the rubber ball and squeeze it," said Christopher.  "It'll help get your hand back in working order."

"How ingenious," said Grendel, picking up the ball.

It was only after he'd grabbed the ball and was squeezing away that something else caught his attention; he leaned forward—insomuch as he could—and looked at the floor.

At the maps that had fallen from my pocket.

"My, my, may," he said, looking up at us and smiling.  "Do my eyes deceive, or are those maps of the lovely Kentucky hills?"

Christopher looked down at them, then at Grendel.  "Yeah, so what?"

"'Yeah, so what?'" Grendel repeated in a mocking, childish voice.  "My God, how ugly your voice has become, how sloppy and ungracious your speech.  I am ashamed."

"I'll learn to live with your disappointment."

Grendel made an amused noise, then twisted his head slightly to get a better view of the maps.  "Kentucky, indeed."  His eyes looked up but his head remained still.  "So we have come home, have we, Christopher?"