The door swung open with enough force to crush a man. The dog jerked its head up abruptly and promptly lowered it again. He knew who it was.
He looked at the dog's smashed face and closed the door with some control, his arm still stinging from the melee outside. He calmly walked over to the cooler and poured himself a drink.
The dog registered every drop that hit his cup's plastic bottom. Like a storm brewing slowly but steadily – ready to break at any moment.
He nodded at the other men to leave the room, and they did so without question. Now it was just him, the wooden table set with two chairs on either side and the dog sitting on the one opposite him.
He sipped from the cup.
"You knew what was there."
With a creature like this, you had to keep statements matter-of-fact. Their kind needed help understanding questions. Their kind didn't need another reason to make an excuse. That was fine by him. It was the way he'd often liked to operate during interrogations.
The dog cocked its head at him.
"You with the IRS? I swear, buddy, if you wanted me to pay my taxes, you could at least buy me a drink first."
He gulped down another swig of water. "You knew what was there." He said again. "You knew."
He heard the dog give a long, drawn-out sigh.
"Yeah," he said. "I knew."
He flipped the table before the dog could react, reached across, grabbed the scruff of his neck, and threw him against the cold chrome wall, all in a few seconds. The dog scampered around uselessly while he came at him again, grabbing him by the ears and tossing him into what remained of the table, splintering it to pieces. As the filthy creature started to bark some form of protest, he administered a quick series of kicks to its face once, twice, and three times in the nose. He heard it snap under his boot. He took him by the neck again and pinned him to the floor.
He'll know, he thought. He'll know that this time I'm going to kill him.
He placed the muzzle of his pistol against the dog's whimpering, whining mouth.
"Stop," it said through tears. "Please, stop."
"Give me a reason," he said, cold and calculated, flicking the safety off inside the dog's ear and keeping his hand steady.
"I can...I can..."
He waited. He was listening.
"I can get you passed it."
"Bullshit," he said. Nah. Not buying it. He'd seen what that thing could do to a man.
"It'll only let through something that it knows!" the dog whined as it thrashed beneath his hand. "It'll only let through its brother. One of its own."
Hm.
"In other words, it'll let you through."
The dog struggled to look around at him. "Exactly. And anyone with me."
The little bastard was clever, he thought, pressing the snout of the gun further into his ear, hearing him panic more. He'd told them enough truth to get them to the right place. He'd wanted them to see it for themselves.
And boy, had they seen it. He'd never forget it as long as he lived.
He withdrew the gun from his ear but kept his hand on his throat, turning him around so they both looked into the eyes of the other.
"You'll come with us and get us through," he said. It wasn't a question.
"One condition," the dog breathed.
You gotta be fucking kidding me.
"You think you're in any position to bargain?" he asked.
"Take Nicole with us."
He thought for a second; then, he almost laughed. It didn't happen much, but he felt his diaphragm give way in that strange way it did when he watched the creatures of the wastes burn beneath him.
"I'll take her with us," he said. "And if you make any wrong moves or try and cause the deaths of my men or me again, I'll peel the skin from her bones, and then I'll do the same to you."
He slapped him hard across his face once, then let him go, leaving him pining away. He suppressed the smile brimming under his exterior. It was unprofessional. But the little shit had some balls on him.
It was convenient enough to take the girl anyway. Once he had Callisto, he'd throw them both from the top of the tower it was perched on.
Before he left, he lit a cigar and glanced back at the downed mutt.
"I lost five good men today," he said. "Three of them were boys you used to play cards with. Those new shiners on you are for them, not for me."
And he closed the door behind him without another word. He had plenty to prepare for tomorrow.
...
"Hey! Hey, Sarge?"
He snapped back to the world in front of him. The charred, still-warm bonfire in the middle of the suburb glowered over him – some of the remains of the bodies that had been chucked here were still visible through the wood and scrap. One of them looked partially eaten.
"What d'you make of all this? The other man was asking him.
"Try not to think about it too much, son. It slows you down. This here's Tribal custom. They burn their dead. Our little friend must be traveling with some Tribal right enough."
The other man spat into the smoking dirt. "Fucking savages."
He was angsty. Good. He could use that. Young, enthusiastic men were stupid but loyal to their masters. It was good to let them see this stuff. Put a little fear into them. Keep them on their toes.
It felt good for them to let loose out here a little. Two things on this earth made a man feel like a man: fucking a good woman and making a kill. The boys hadn't had much of the former, so he let them have the latter whenever possible. Maybe he felt some small degree of guilt because, for him, life had mostly been how it'd been before: he'd hunt with his boys, head back underground, and once he'd banged that Nicole whore he'd beat the dog, and call it a night. It'd been a sweet deal, holding the reins for a while. But he was still in command of nothing more than a piss-filled hole in the ground—King of a dull, grey realm.
He touched the dry earth and felt the heat from the bonfire's remains. Yeah, it was still warm, alright.
Power's a funny thing. When you get it, you feel like lightning coursing through your veins. You feel like you could swallow the world and shit it out your backside into space, then let it float out there and watch it poison the stars. But humans are limited creatures. We're sacks of meat with brains. He'd taken enough of his kind apart to see that time and time again. How could any power we have to compete with the kind of limitless strength that came with something like Callisto? It had come, and it had conquered us all overnight. Or, at least, it had allowed us to destroy ourselves. Give that kind of power to a weak man, and he'll go nuts and blow up the entire world. That was the lesson the Cataclysm taught.
He was a good learner. And he was not a weak man. This world was his. He'd earned it by right of conquest - by right of pure, naked aggression and ambition – the only two things that matter. He'd been patient; he'd waited for the right moments and then taken everything he wanted.
But this little voice, somewhere in the back of his head, whispered to him sometimes at night in the bunker. It said: Out there, mate, it's a shithole. Out there, it's Callisto's world. It's not yours; it'll never be yours if you sit on your arse down here. And the first time he heard this voice was the first time he'd ever awoken in a cold sweat, his breath ragged.
He'd asked it, What the fuck do I do, then?
And within him, he'd heard the voice chuckle.
You know what you'll need to do. You've always known, haven't you?
He nodded. Of course, he had. He'd just never had the chance. His useless human shell had limited him. But no more. Now he knew Callisto was out there still, waiting for him. It was waiting for him and him alone, like a good, obedient little pet. Only with Callisto could he burn this shithole to the ground – start fresh, start over. Do things the right way. His way.
He was going to have to make the whole damn place his.
The dog will try to get it first, the voice warned him. He knows where it is. Make him tell you. Don't let him touch it.
"Fuck the dog," he had spat back in the darkness of his chamber. "I'll put a bullet between his skull and the skull of that lying bitch he serves."
Good, the voice had whispered back. You're a strong man. Show the world how strong you really are.
He smiled despite himself. It wasn't like him to reminisce like this, especially not on the field. But it was the same the last time he came to this place. Something about it played on your mind—it made you think back.
He returned his attention to the macabre monument. Who knows why the Tribals did this shit? Leave speculation to the bug-brained anthropologists. He didn't need to know anything about the animals he hunted. Everything burns – that's the only truth he ever needed.
"Ready, Sarge?" the young man asked him expectantly.
He glanced back at the waiting chopper, then for a moment looked towards the towers of the city where it was all going to end.
"Let's do this."
With fire and sword, he'd take back his world.