Gima The Beginning : Gima: Escape by barkingdog |
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Dear Reader: 'Gima' has been listed as Sci-Fi Horror, actually it is Fantasy-Adventure-Horror, but there is no category for it on FanStory. I do not intend to offend anyone, but language and behaviors used are essential to the characters' and storyline contrasts. Scenes are meant to arouse a range of emotions. I hope that they do. The author notes' GLOSSARY is included by request. It's not a required part of the reading. It's merely to assist a new audience. Have fun reading. :) barking dog Recent Backstory: Trolious has spewed acid to destroy Sadie's and its patrons after seeing Trell, his son, who he had sent to the Arena and deemed dead. It is a humiliation for a Vermel to have Vertant off-spring. The band of Vertants led by Picar, Trell and Jami have escaped from the booths to the Mural Room where a Vermel named Larue is helping twenty Vertants escape. End of Chapter 17 Larue walks ahead of the pelt-clad line of marching sham disobedients, as they file into the once glorious Cobra atrium which is now filled with puddles of acidic gore -- melted elite patrons of Sadie’s. Heads with horrific expression are the last to be dissolved and float atop what was earlier this evening the rest of them. Larue exits, nonchalantly appearing to be another of many single Vermel, out for the evening. “Good evening, Mr. Larue.” “Good evening, Mr. Arnst.” Chapter 18 The vermel guards receive priority and lead the vertant boys through the rapidly dwindling crowd. The maimed hobble out of Sadie's double-door entrance, down the front steps where many lay dying. A scattered few drag themselves to safety up the street. “Move aside for the mutants who have caused all of this trouble.” The guards swat patrons who want to touch, taste or seek revenge. “Move aside. Let the captives pass.” Fortunately, the make-shift pigskin pelt ponchos armour the Vertants from sharp claws and curious sensory particulates, but Vermel anger remains. “I knew it was a Vertant problem.” “Sadie should be more careful than to let so many untrained mutants run free. She endangered us all.” “Animals will attack if given the chance.” “She swore they were all trained, dear.” “They should all be chained to the floor.” Many nod and ah-hum in agreement. “And, if you own one, beat it regularly.” Free, free, free …Twenty minds all say the same thing as they pass one by one through the jeering crowd and out the double brass and glass doors onto the concrete-patched, cobble-stone street. Outside, the smells of oil burning in the street lamps and sweet roast pig replaces the copper and acidic stench of Sadie’s. Many thoughts run through the silent vertant line. Look … a street. I want to cry out. I smell food. Am I really free? Bow my head. Be submissive. Hush until it’s safe. Shuffle along. Slowly. Patience. The guards momentarily halt the march and chort loudly over the line of submissives. “Mr. Larue, sir? Are you there, sir? Where’d he go, little buddy?” “Dunno,” the rear buffoon answers, while his wandering eye jumps to distort his searching vision. “Well, we’re here, now 'n I'm not goin' back in there." "Me neither." "We'll go on to Jacknel's.” “He didn’t say so.” “Yes, he did, weevil-head. That Larue guy said that this bunch was goin' to Ticum’s holding pens for the games. Sadie's orders. Remember?" "Kinda." "And that he needed our help to move 'em?” “Oh, yeah. OK. Sure, sure, boss.” He pokes the nearest Vertant who yelps. “And no damaging the merchandise, dangle-brain.” He threatens severe reprimand, branishing his large fist in the thick night air. “Yes, sir. I didn’t hurt him permanent, sir.” “Ready, guys?” The lead guard plods beside the line of twenty, knocking them in place with an extended metal probe. Trell, Picar and the others hang their heads to feign obedience and tighten the line’s order. “OK. Let’s move it out.” The guards strut and nod at passers-by as they proceed with one guard in the rear, and the other leading the strange procession. They are quite the conversation piece. “I wonder where they’re going.” “Aren’t those the dangerous mutants from Sadie’s. I saw that one in Booth Eleven.” “He’s Trolious’ offspring.” “Hush, you’ll be killed for saying that. Shhh.” “Shouldn’t there be more than two guards with so many prisoners?” “They look calm enough, now.” “Yeah, they probably dosed them on validium.” The guards hear none of this. They’re lost in visions of posh nights on the town and succulent pig and truffle feasts. They walk along, proudly grinning, sure of the bruicks or possibly critons this duty will bring. Over-time pays very well. Meanwhile, Larue meets with his long-time friend, Mr.Arnst, at the local canzu bar. Arnst’s been drinking fitzel with his young companion, Rom. Together they’ve come up with a plan. Mr. Arnst, mumbling and stumbling with a bottle of fitzel, weaves along the line of pelt covered Vertants. He bumps into and winks at Trell on the way to the front of the line. “Ossifer, I would like to buy that,” Burp! “that blonde one.” Arnst bumbles about, causing the procession to halt. “Move, on. None are for sale.” “Everything has its price.” Mr. Arnst opens a leather pouch brimming with critons. “How much," he glares, dropping his bottle, “for that one,” pointing to Trell. “I insist.” In the dim light far to the rear, Larue and Rom pick off the other lackadaisical officer. With a silent slice his gullet sprays. Without a gasp, he slumps and is eased onto the stone walkway. Larue and Rom sign to Trell, Picar and Jami. “Cut your restraints.” The fore-officer has decided what he wants Mr. Arnst to pay for Trell. He rubs his sweaty palms together and clicks, “How about …” Trell, Picar and Jami leap like cats in the night, their blades drawn. They pounce with airborne magnificence on the sadistic front guard. The first, fatal strikes are to his eye, wide with surprise. Soon he is full of many small holes, as each boy is allowed his revenge. Lem is given the honor of being first to dissect a trophy from the hunt. His shyness dissipates with a knife in his hand. His face ages with revenge for the brutal murder of his sister, Dyrel. “Remove as many parts as you wish and do with them what you will.” Trell encourages Lem forward toward the corpse which is surrounded by crumbled toofie bars, the snacking guard's favorite. The other boys fidget waiting their turns. “I’ll wear an ear.” “A finger is mine.” Lem straightens from stooping and no longer looks so small. Barefoot he strides over to and squats beside the last one to see his sister alive. Her scent is still on her tormentor. Lem smells the evidence of what he only heard and shakes with anger. “My turn,” Lem clicks. He emits low menacing tonal growls as he rips open the guard’s frontal leather flap revealing a still churning double pouch. The others move closer and crowd around. “Go ahead, Lem.” “Do it!” Lem holds the knife like a craftsman and splits one side of the pouch then the other. Still alive, the exposed dangles withdraw to nowhere. Lem toys with them with the tip of his knife. They jump about reflexively when Lem's tears dilute their vermel blood. He wipes his childhood away, and with a smile of satisfaction, he cuts deep, to sever his trophies. “Dyrel. For you, my sister. For you!” Lem, waving a severed limp organ in each hand, is satisfied. The boys cheer and pat him ceremoniously, as they move to take their turns at trophy disection. Lem chooses only these two parts which he feeds bit by bit to a wandering stray, a well-groomed and expensively collared pet -- somebody’s ten-pound, white, Gambian rat. Trell reads the purring rat’s collar-tags. “His name’s Petie, Lem.” A bit of the boy returns, as Lem sits cross legged and calls, clicking, “Here, boy. Come on.” Petie alerts to a familiar command and rushes over to Lem who pets him and teases him playfully. When Petie sits down, Lem rewards him with a chunk of fresh dangle. Panting attentively, Petie greedily sits up twitching his silver whiskers, begging for more. His small red eyes glimmer to match the slick blood on his fur, while he chomps heartily on a savory treat. The small juicy ones he gulps down whole followed by a wet, snorty sneeze. Finished, he licks his five-fingered paws clean, farts a thank-you and belches a straight toothy smile. “Petie’s the only one who ever, really … liked that guard.” Larue’s crooked smile of double rows shows beneath his laughing chocolate eye. Mr. Arnst’s belly jiggles him backwards with laughter. “Oh, oh, oooh.” He slips and bounces like a spring on his cushy Vermel backside. “Larue, my man. That’s a good one.” Rom reaches to catch the old warrior but ends up falling beside him. “Oh my, what a motley sight we all are.” “Yes, especially you two on your asses.” “And us, the pig-pelted brigade.” Trell puts his thumbs in the belt of his make shift attire. “ and him …” Lem points to Petie. As nonchalantly as Petie had arrived, he waddles over, pisses on what’s left of the fore-guard, whips his tail in salute and goes on about his solitary evening stroll with one of the guard's toofie bars clutched between his teeth. The group is near insanity with happiness, as the twenty Vertant boys join the three Vermel dissidents and laugh with tears of freedom.
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