The Warlord's Physician Ch. 02

"Up," barked a Canyon Crazy.

Needle arose slowly, wrists and neck chafed from weeks in irons. The smell of shit and piss filled the air. Thick metal bars separated him from the rest of the kennel, where other slaves were held in much the same way. There was scarcely enough room for him to move a step. He was lucky, though, because the Crazies were training him for a purpose, and that meant they had to keep him alive. The others were mostly expendable, if they got unmanageable.

The kennel was mostly without light. Why waste the electricity? So, the Crazy sent to retrieve him was brandishing a flashlight. He never learned the names of any of his captors, with the exception of Lady Smythe, who often oversaw his training. There was a certain power someone held when others could not name them. There was even more power when your name has been assigned to you by captors. He was Needle because doctors use needles. It was better than the laborers, who were simply referred to as drones.

She unlocked the cell door and looked over the doctor-slave. He was thin, but not starved, and the rags hung lightly over his skin, irritating it with their coarseness. His hair was mangy and unmanaged, but his face had been shaved as soon as thin hairs began to appear on it. While he was a blond, he spent so much time in the dirty that he looked nearly brunet, and in fact could not recall the last time he had been hosed down. Thin as he was, his chin was sharp and his eyes were narrow, and this made him reasonably attractive. So much so that several Crazies had, quietly and only on occasion, treated him like a bed slave. They would have gotten in a great deal of trouble for using the merchandise without permission, but he never told anyone, because he would much rather be a bed slave to beautiful women than a doctor. But he was designated a physician and that's what he became.

He could not remember if this was one of the women that used him, and he did not particularly care. Beneath the dirt and armor and occasional war paint, highwaywomen all looked the same. He could say the same for highwaymen, but had far less experience with them due simply to the circumstances in which he lived.

"You've been bought." She led him down the winding cavern corridors toward the main village. The other slaves watched him as he was dragged off, jealous or mournful of their now lost brother.

Needle didn't say a word. He learned long ago that sarcastic comments earn beatings. The flog had stripped those sardonic remarks out of his very being, replaced by an intimate knowledge of bullet-removal and stitching techniques.

It would be easy for him to hate life. After all, he had been taken from his family and crafted into something else by women who loved to inflict pain on him. Instead, he found happiness in the small things. One of his favorite things was getting to walk through the village. Most of the roads, which were just the dirt pathways between barracks and mess halls, were filled with slaves and the Crazies transporting them from one area to the other. Some were going off to be disciplined or trained or branded, all in different areas of the vast complex. Needle had not seen them all, but he had heard other slaves share whispers about them.

He was taken to the edge of the village, along the craggy walls by the entrance. He hadn't seen the tunnel that leads to the mouth of the cave since he was brought in, but he knew there was a secret exit for when the carmada had to operate. It was not often that the Canyon Crazies went off to retrieve slaves themselves, but it did happen when trade was floundering.

A hulk of a man, shaved head and square jaw, looked Needle up and down. Suddenly, the poor slave felt very self-conscious, and there was a wringing in his gut. He felt nervous, which was strange because he didn't recall himself feeling much of anything lately. Perhaps it was the knowledge that he was going to be taken far away from the familiarity of the canyon. Maybe it was the fact that this brutish man was judging him, and may find him unworthy. Perhaps it was the rippling muscles, or the knowledge that a man twice his age held the key to his collar and shackles.

The strange fear stirred in his chest, coiled in his stomach, and forced some movement in the rags that passed for pants. He didn't seem to notice.

"Got a name, boy?" the man asked. His voice was like a crashing boulder.

"Needle," he said, not fumbling over his words for even a moment. The new owner was so tall that he had to look up just to meet his face.

"Name's Snake, of Overdog Enterprises. You'll be calling me 'sir'. Your handlers say you're a physician, trained and true. That right?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good, because I don't like wasting company assets. And if I've found that you are a waste, you'll be liquidated property. That clear?"

Needles eyes widened and he gulped nervously. "Yes, sir."

Snake looked over the rest of the slaves. The laborers were only distinguishable from the breeders by one trait: sex. Nine times out of ten, the men were forced to work in the fields while the women were forced to work in the beds. As such, the men were hard and calloused, and even somewhat muscular. The women were soft and sweet smelling. The workers had lost fingers and toes and even teeth, often as punishments or in accidents. The breeders had to look acceptable, however, so their punishments came in the form of isolation and starving. They were all broken down, in their own ways, by the Canyon Crazies.

They didn't reject his wandering hand. It caressed each of the female slaves, slipping beneath their rough blouses, checking for lumps and bruises and protrusions. He even invaded a few mouths to ensure that they had healthy teeth and gums, like he was inspecting livestock.

Needle accepted the fact that he was livestock to these people. The alternative to this acceptance was a painful death, the kind he had witnessed before. So, he let Snake's fingers wander into his mouth. He opened it proudly, more than happy to show off his relatively straight teeth, even if his new owner tasted like motor oil and sweat. He had become accustomed to such inspections just as he got used to the weight of the chains he wore. The way the rust flaked against his raw skin and how they clanged while he tied to sleep. It all seemed to quaint compared to the finality of death.

"I'm satisfied," Snake said to the Crazies. He didn't seem too happy about his purchases, but didn't want to start any unnecessary controversies. "Tell Garcia that she's a lovely lady and that we'll be doing plenty more business. If she has any requests, she can send them to Chef through the usual routes."

"Of course." The woman was suddenly a lot more respectful, and seemed to blush a bit as she smiled at the warlord. But the sun was near to rising and he could not stay any longer, even if he wished to entertain her a few hours. Besides, he just acquired a great many new assets, all of which he would need to try out in due time.

A common problem in taking slaves from the cavern for the first time is helping them deal with sunlight. Many will spend years in training and never see the sun for that whole time. They had become cave dwellers, crushed and oppressed in yet one more way.

Needle was blinded by the sunlight. His corneas burned as it rose in the distance, along the edge of the valley, dust hanging in the air but only dimming it slightly. As his eyes teared up, he remembered the sunlight that he no longer knew to miss, and how it shone so dimly when he was a child, choked by the ash and dust of a dying world.

The newly purchased slaves were marched off, far from the home they had known. They trod passed the decaying body of that fallen coward, whose stench was already beginning to mingle with the bitter odor of the bog.

It was rough walking, chains clanging the whole way. Each step dug into the mud, lifting it and embedding it beneath the toenails of the poor slaves. Highwaymen glared at them, guns raised in case someone decided to run. They didn't know what disrespect that was to the Canyon Crazies. Random farmers put in chains were certain to run at the first chance, but those trained and disciplined by the Crazies had all that rebellion demolished.

Needle was too thin and petite for this sort of marching. Each step drained him of what little energy lived in his chest. Somewhere between cramped sleeping conditions and the gruel they were fed had made him so weak. He didn't need to be strong like the laborers.

The physician trained into him identified the symptoms of muscular atrophy, brought on by disuse and lack of nutrition. It would be resolved with exercise, food, and massages. He had never received a massage but understood they were wonderful.

"Keep it moving!" Snake clapped his hands enthusiastically, mushing the slaves onward to the edge of the swamp.

The mud gave way to dry said, a symptom of the wasteland that would never heal. It was just grey dust for miles and miles around, though there were rumored oases nestled throughout the desert. Needle had read about deserts when he was a child, but they were usually hotter. And as bright as that sun was, its warmth just didn't quite reach through that atmospheric veil of dust. Nuclear winter. He had heard people using that phrase before.

Sweat dripped down his brow. It brought the smell of salt to the bitter stench of dust, which faded as they approached the carmada.

Each car was unique in its own way. Spikes and plated armor cut from scrap metal were welded onto the sides and front of the vehicles. The ultimate protection in road warfare, the way of the wasteland. Needle used to watch highwaymen approaching his village in those gilded monsters, engines roaring and gasoline in the air. It was strange to see so many of them so sedentary.

"You're driving," Snake said to one of his men, throwing his keys. He didn't even aim, just chucked them in any direction. "Load 'em up. Except her. She's with me." He seemed to pick a woman at random, and she was thrown in the back of his pickup truck. It was a huge truck with an expanded cargo, tented on top for the privacy of whatever was being transported. He climbed in the back after her as his man started the engine.

The rest of the slaves were packed into the back of an eighteen-wheeler, just as heavily armored as the other trucks and cars. It reminded Needle of a can of sardines he once salvaged from some ruins, all packed together and slimy with sour sweat. There were no seats and no source of comfort, and just enough space between those metal walls to allow an inch of freedom between the captives. The whole place was rank with sweat and rust and certainly feces, and there was not enough room for them to sit down. The engine revved and the truck pulled forward, and they all lost their footing and fell onto one another.

Snake, on the other hand, was getting comfortable with his newest acquisition. His truck pulled out and led the pack back to base, but he rested on a stained mattress on the back, kept warm by the slave woman he'd chosen. Her skin was darker than his by a few shades and she was so warm against his skin, even through her coarse rags.

"I've always found something really sexual about cars," he told her, caressing her thigh. "The purr of the engine, the hum of the engine, the roar of the engine."

The bit her lip and nodded as if she was interested, just as the Crazies had taught her. Her chains rattled as the truck traversed sandy grey roads. The clothe tent framed on top of the cargo was shaking as they traveled, wind catching the flap at the back. She considered her odds of escaping, but knew what highwaymen did to escapees.

"I'm gonna call you Delilah. Do you like that, Delilah?"

"Of course, sir," she said in one of her many rehearsed responses. She had known many named. Ophelia, Desdemona, Julia, Bertha. This was just one more word that she would learn to respond to.

He pulled her in by the chains that bound her, so close his chapped lips almost met hers. Then she exhaled, smiled, and let him go to work.

His rough hands explored her body, patiently peeling the rags off of her, only slowing down when there was a bump in the road. They jostled about and she shuddered under the weight of his hands. He wasn't forceful. In fact, he might be the most tender lover he had ever known. Slow, steady, knowing exactly what he wanted.

He traced a circle around her nipple, gave it a pinch, and started moving downward. She gave him a laugh, but not one of her usual forced ones. Men liked when their lovers laughed, except when they wanted silence. There was something about knowing how pleasing they were. It made them a little gentler, a little kinder in the aftermath. But this was not a fake laugh. His hands on her breasts, his lips against hers, really did elicit some kind of joy inside of her. It rung in her chest and danced on her skin and she felt like a girl being tickled by a feather duster, and the noises she made were joyous and pleasured and unlike any of the pained cries she had made the whole rest of her life.

And she was not afraid to touch him. He was not as fat and disgusting as her previous owners, all lesser warlords. His chest was firm beneath her delicate touch, faint scars etched between plates of rusted armor. He stripped that armor off, one lash of leather at a time, trying his hardest not to take his lips off of hers.

Delilah could not recall a time she had felt something so breathtaking, and she finally understood the word. The air actually escaped her lungs as he held her, pushing her against the mattress with nothing but his firm hands and the weight of his waist. Even the smell of sweat and smoke and oil was hypnotic. Even the engine humming, shaking the bed of the truck below them, added to the sheer thrill of the act.

Eventually, Snake stopped taking his time. His lips were growing dry despite the saliva pooling in his mouth, and he panted like a dog. A knife appeared in his hand, seemingly from out of nowhere. For a moment she thought he might kill her, but then he slit open her pants, which were hardly even pants at all, just rags that went over her legs.

She was accustomed to such exposure and had come to appreciate the open air against her skin. He ran a hand through her hair, smiled devilishly, and put his face between her legs. The truck was filled with the sound of her laughter, for he was an expert at his craft and knew just what to do. Shivers ran up her spine as his tongue swirled and darted about. She writhed against the mattress, her chains rattling, but she barely noticed the noise. It was like her soul left her body, and she could not even recall a time that someone had touched her like this warlord was.

He rose from between her legs, licking his lips, a grin on his face. "Tastes like fish. Haven't had fish in a while. You been eating fish?"

She shook her head. "No, sir." She couldn't help but smile.

He pushed her back down when she moved to sit up, not too forcefully, but with enough power to remind her that he was in charge. As if the chains were not enough of a reminder.

Snake threw a leg on either side of her, straddling her chest, trying to maintain his balance in the shifting car. He cut off her shirt the same way he had her pants, freeing the moderately sized breasts and throwing them into the open air. They shook ever so slightly with the hum of the car, with its sharp twists and harsh bumps.

"Keep the damn thing steady!" Snake shouted to the driver. "I'm workin' here."

She was about to sit up again, as he unzipped his tattered old jeans, when the sound of gunshots filled the air.

The tenderness he had shown her faded as his eyes widened. A different instinct took over, a more violent one, and he reached for that knife he had used to cut up her clothes.

"Don't move an inch," he instructed her, knife just before her nose. He had to yell over the sound of bullets flying. That instinct felt powerful in his chest, like a shot of heroin right into his heart. The world faded into blurs, and he pushed his head out of the tent flap to survey the state of his carmada.

An armored helicopter flew in the distance, a gunner pointing his rifle out the side and unloading at the carmada. It flew triangular flags of orange with a black bullet depicted, marking it as part of the Bronze Bullets.

"Pussy and bullets," he remarked loudly, hoping his men in their cars could hear him. "And it's not even noon."