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  The silence was finally broken when asked, “Do you know me, boy?”

  “You’re Summanus.”

  Summanus smirked. “You know my voice?”

  “The sound of monsters are hard to shake from one’s mind.”

  Summanus chuckled. “It’s a damn shame you didn’t get to know me better,” he said before sitting on the bishop’s vacant seat. “Enough of the formalities. Your father was” –

  “Where is he?” Mezox demanded.

  Summanus’s grin dissipates into a vague sulk. He hopped back to his feet and leant over the table. “Interrupt me again and by God, I promise to redecorate this very floor with every drop of your blood,” he angrily declared.

  Mezox quelled his tongue.

  The lead bishop interjected. “Your father’s helping with our enquiries.”

  “And if you wish to see him again, I suggest you co-operate accordingly,” said Summanus.

  Mezox pleaded with the bishop. “Please, what did we do wrong?”

  “It seems you have stolen something of great significance,” said the bishop.

  Summanus reached into his pocket while advancing on Mezox. The lost metal disk emerged as it was presented to him. “This was found on your person with a note describing it as a ‘revolutionary energy drive.’ Tell us about it.”

  Before Mezox could ask how it was acquired, the answer came to mind. The Director treated him to biscuits and soda while discussing future goals just the day prior. His jacket remained suspended on a hook in the office while venturing to the toilet. There were too many opportunities for the Director to examine his belongings.

  “It’s part of a failed idea and experiment.”

  Summanus breathed out heavily through his nose. “I don’t believe you,” he announced. “I don’t think you understand the situation. You must know that we are also aware of your father’s nefarious activities.”

  “Activities?”

  “Are you playing coy or struggling to understand what crime I’m referring to?” asked Summanus, who began to walk around Mezox. “It can all vanish if you surrender what rightfully belongs to us.”

  Mezox was tempted by such a proposal. Thanks to a lack of education and training, any promises to satisfy the offer would fall short. Alex’s participation was paramount.

  “I will need my father’s help.”

  “I don’t think you do,” said Summanus.

  “Then you’ll never have what you seek.”

  Summanus huffed with a mild snigger. In the next instance, he grabbed a fistful of Mezox’s hair before yanking his head back. He yelled to a near scream, “Obey, or you shall receive a taste of my wrath,” and showering Mezox’s face with excess spittle. “Either way, you’ll give what I desire.”

  Without a fresh chance to comply, Mezox was dragged along the ground via his hair towards the ropes and pulleys.

  “Let’s see if we can persuade you,” said Summanus.

  The two jailers unshackled Mezox’s hands and rebound them with rope behind his back. His feet were also leashed to a set of weights.

  The larger jailer seised the rope’s end and began hoisting Mezox’s arms. And as they raised, there was no choice but to stand and delay any onset of pain.

  On the verge of unbearable discomfort, Summanus commanded the jailer to pause. He closed in and said, “Redeem yourself. Just disclose your creation and you shall go.”

  Under that condition, Mezox possessed enough understanding to placate the situation. However, there was a premise and a promise to uphold. “Is it too much to see my dad?”

  “I know your father lured you into this,” said Summanus. “You belong to me, along with that technology. Now give what is duly mine.”

  “By what right do I or my ideas belong to you?”

  Summanus pointed into the air. “God.”

  Mezox considered what Joe stated in the prison cell. “Well, you can take your imaginary friend and shove it where the sun doesn’t shine.”

  The rope puller was infuriated and sought to ever-enthusiastically to administer pain. Mezox’s arms went beyond their natural position. His reverse hanging via the strappado sent him wailing in pain. His toes could barely graze the floor.

  “Not yet,” declared Summanus, and Mezox tumbled to the ground as the torturer heeded his superior’s demand.

  “We’ve heard this nonsense before,” he said before speaking directly to Mezox. “Only, you’re the one in a place where the sun doesn’t shine. And I promise the same goes for death as well as life.”

  Summanus signalled a continuation of the reverse hanging. And as Mezox thrashed in agony, Summanus sought to enhance the experience by delivering several blows to his abdomen.

  Five strikes in and Mezox had mustered enough mental control to laugh back. And as his breathlessness eased, he said, “Stop tickling me, boys?”

  The joyous adolescent-like smirks of his tormentors withered from the charade. The lead bishop called for Summanus. They talked as Mezox continued to hang there. Thirty seconds later, and Summanus permits Mezox’s release from the device. Mezox tumbled to the ground like a ragdoll.

  “And now?” asked Summanus.

  Mezox gasped several times before responding. “I need time to think.”

  “Time?” he said, having expected an immediate act of compliance. “You’ll get time to think alright.”

  Mezox was untied and dragged across the hall in a debilitated state. A new cell awaited him - albeit one over-subscribed with wounded and half-starved men. The jailers threw him with such excessive force that he couldn’t avoid adding further injury to those strewn across its floor. However, their presence did cushion his fall.

  “Let me know when you’ve made the right decision,” said Summanus before he and his cronies disappeared in search of fresh meat - all to Mezox’s personal relief.

  Mezox came to notice how few had expressed any form of discontent with his violent introduction. The majority laid upon their stomachs, exposing a myriad of whipped and gashed wounds to the open air. Broken bones and dislocated joints were also apparent. Many were impassive and unsurprisingly deceased.

  As on the streets, it wasn’t always easy to discern between the living and the dead. Mezox migrated towards a vacant corner, apologising for every step taken. The challenge was difficult enough for any able-bodied person.

  To sit and stand again was no trivial feat in itself, made so by the strappado. And yet, he preferred his condition over those of cellmates. He too could have suffered a dislocated joint. The speculation for his favourable state was simple. And so, the game aimed to maintain Summanus’s sights on the prize without its acquisition.

  Someone strived for Mezox’s attention before he had a chance to doze off. The man sat against the far wall resembled Alex. Such a possibility was met with an otherwise impossible burst of energy and agility. He rushed across the cell, trampling on and between bodies without care, collapsing before the man upon realising it was his father. Alex’s battered face had elicited an unfamiliar throng of emotions.

  Alex opened his eyes the best he could. “Why are you crying?” he asked as though mumbling.

  “For what they’ve done. Why this?”

  “It’s just a few bruises,” he said as Mezox attempted to feed him with bread. Alex refused.

  “This is all my fault. If only I hadn’t plucked that metal from your shack,” he said while parking next to Alex.

  “No,” Alex protested. “I knew curiosity would get the better of you, and it’s something to be proud of.”

  “But why?”

  “Because it conveys intelligence – the sort that will one day guide us towards the stars.”

  “It sure doesn’t feel like it,” said Mezox while eyeing the horrors around them.

  “I understand. Yet, as much as they try, you must never hand them our invention.”

  “Your invention. And I haven’t,” he protested.

  “It was meant to change the course of history.”


  “Will anyone ever know of it?”

  “Not if my secret room remains undiscovered.”

  “Even if the Church had it first, could it not spurn a new era of enlightenment?”

  Alex couldn’t stress the following enough. “Not before the passing of eons and billions of lives.”

  Mezox swore an oath, fearing the moments that would come to test his resolve. And as Alex tired, he dozed into a deep sense of contemplation. The slow march to sleep would offer little reprieve.

  A series of vigorous shrugs awoke him later the following day. And through the murky morning dew of his eyes could he recognise Joe as the culprit.

  “I’m not trying to be funny but you’re holding the hand of a corpse,” said Joe.

  Mezox inspected his father’s vitals, hoping that Joe was mistaken. He was not. Alex’s body laid stone-cold and undergoing the early onset of Rigour Mortis. Mezox couldn’t shed a tear, but stared while his mind processed the situation. The pain was greater than any form of physical torture.

  “He was my dad.”

  Joe was stumped for words.

  Mezox stood and pressed his face against the window slit. “First, my mother when I was six, now this so-called Summanus took my father..”

  Joe remained silent.

  “I’m going to kill him,” declared Mezox.

  “Hold on,” said Joe. “Was your mother’s name Mrs Watson by any chance?”

  “Was, yes,” Mezox confirmed.

  “Oh wow,” said Joe in happy disbelief, only to tame his unbefitting rush of over-excitement. “Your mother’s the goddess-like pinnacle of Hypatian society, revered for her courageous stance against the theocratic elite.”

  “Hypatian?”

  “You’ll know it as the realm of infidels or the infidel’s corner.”

  “My father never told me this,” said an indignant Mezox.

  “I’m sure he had his reasons,” said Joe as he covered Alex’s body with torn clothing.

  “I was never good enough, that’s why.”

  “I’m sure he was protecting you. He was a bit of a spy and smuggler like me.”

  “A what?”

  “Well, he trafficked materials exotic materials, and I – well, now I know you’re not an informant - someone that smuggled people into Hypatia.”

  A door slammed in the distance, and a voice resembled that of Summanus. Mezox leapt over bodies to reach the cell bars. He yanked the cage sadistically and yelled at the top of his voice, “Fight me you bastard. Fight me now.”

  Joe attempted to peel Mezox off the bars. An initial attempt to plead and physically remove him didn’t work. Mezox was stronger than anticipated. Joe adjusted for the level of force required to restrain him. That, and the addition of a leg-sweep proved effective in Mezox’s grounding.

  Joe applied his bodyweight in restraining him. “Act like that and they will kill you.”

  Mezox found Joe to have the upper hand. “What do you care. We’re going to die here.”

  “We’re just turds to them, and they’re about to flush us into the coal pits,” he informed. “I’ve done this a few times now.”

  Mezox’s facial muscles eased. “Has anyone ever escaped from there?”

  “Will you remain calm?”

  Mezox nodded, and Joe responded by releasing him. Arm and shoulder pains returned with a vengeance thanks to his outburst and a drop in adrenaline.

  “I’ve heard stories. We never know of their accuracy.”

  Mezox stared deep into Joe’s eyes, and with sweat dripping from his face, he said, “Well, mark my words, we’re going to write a new story.”

  “A good one, I hope?” responded Joe when a thudding of doors drew closer. He pleaded. “Fine, but you must remain calm.”

  Mezox faced the hallway in silence. Fearful of his unpredictable temper, he remained seated to quell thoughts of a surprise attack. The throbbing of shoulders was the primary discouraging factor.

  As he fantasised of a future encounter, Summanus appeared alongside his henchmen.

  “Now that you’ve seen daddy,” said Summanus with a sarcastic overtone, “I trust you’ve come to the right decision.”

  “I’ve come to the right decision, alright.”

  “And that is?”

  “In your dreams.”

  Summanus huffed with dissatisfaction but forced a happier face. “I hoped you’d say that. You will be my plaything until you concede or die.”

  As Summanus and Mezox stared each other down, Joe asked, “Could you get the chef to whip up a goodbye breakfast like a kebab? I’m peckish,” to the jailers. They ignored him and left.

  “Why did you ask them that,” enquired Mezox.

  “You were asking for a fight. I required a tangent, and it worked.”

  An hour later and Tower slaves were forced to remove corpses as jailers shackled anyone with a pulse.

  As they were escorted down the hall, Mezox glanced back to find Alex’s corpse getting carried off. The torn fabric slipped from his face. Mezox turned back to the direction of travel with fresh tears pouring down his cheeks.

  Outside, and while crossing a courtyard, a chimney unleashed evidence of the Church’s sins upon the city and beyond.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  The gamble

  Those fortunate enough to have survived the conveyor belt of horror were upgraded to ‘slave’ status. All were carted off like cattle heading to the slaughterhouse. A skeletonised coach of insufferable comfort awaited their transfer to the abattoir.

  Joe’s experience showed as he appeared unaffected by his seat’s metal framework. A few minor shuffles and he was relaxed. The coach couldn’t move until all prisoners’ legs were chained to the floor.

  Out the windowless pane was the cremation tower. It billowed thick and fast, reminding Joe of his friend’s recent vicissitudes. Aware of Mezox’s fixation on the tower, he sought to comfort him. His reiterations about Alex’s procurement of rare materials in aid of Hypatia’s improved self-sufficiency offered little absolution.

  “I understand you’re trying to help. I’m only interested in knowing how to get out of this mess,” said Mezox.

  Joe issued a faint smile. “There’s always a way,” he said before allowing Mezox time to reflect and adjust in silence.

  The vehicle’s engine fired up, rattling seats with a rambunctious attitude against muscle and bone. Mezox wondered, “How long will the journey take?”

  “Little over three hours.”

  “Which coalmine?”

  “Kent collieries,” replied Joe as the vehicle moved forward. The action of wheels over cobbled roads added to the discomfort.

  Mezox wished for God to grant him the strength to break chains as Samson could pillars in the bible. In silence did he tease the chains until his face turned red. Such an epic failure wasn’t surprising. Every chance to retain his faith proved futile, exposing a painful level of dissonance and a re-evaluation of existentialism in a universe without a deity. A desire to see his parents again had blocked all paths to a reasoned conclusion.

  The countryside offered a small but fleeting measure of peace, only to vanish upon the colliers’ sighting. Two double-fenced perimeter barriers cordoned off a wide area. Sentry position were stationed every hundred to two-hundred feet apart, depending on the terrain. Each of the two levels had a checkpoint where outgoing vehicles were extensively scrutinised. Other coaches arrived from various parts of the country with their weekly deliveries.

  Coaches continued their journey until the outskirts of a ghetto were reached. Once detached, military wannabes ordered the unloading of passengers and their formation of a line outside. An old man in a white vest and military fatigue trousers came to welcome the new arrivals.

  “Here, the rules are simple. You will obey or suffer the consequences. No speaking unless told, no stealing food and bedding, and no fornicating,” said the old man pacing up and down.

  Joe made a light groan of displeasure. It c
aught Mezox’s attention when Joe blew a kiss at him. The old man glanced Joe’s way as he attempted to explain the move as a joke, prompting his silence.

  The old man continued to Joe’s relief. “If you’re injured, lose a limb and become disabled, we’ll put you out of your misery. If stories of a salacious nature emerge, those involved will also die. The latter will always go first.”

  Registration was the final step. In a queue, prisoners could talk amongst themselves again. Joe’s attention turned to keeping his new friend nearby. “Look. Just say to them, ‘Unit seven as before.’”

  “But I wasn’t here before,” said Mezox.

  “I know but they won’t,” he claimed. Ten minutes later and his registration was complete.

  Mezox came afterwards and dared himself to follow Joe’s request. The administrator suspected little of his nervous disposition given the number of those with wet trousers after their introduction.

  He caught up with Joe through the sloppy overtrodden ground toward their lodgings. The units were like giant upturned rain gutters. Shrouded in a thin skin of metal, they offered little in the way of insulation. Others were a bit run-down and patched with old sheeting as they flapped in the wind.

  As far as they went, unit seven didn’t appear too debilitated. Each construction had a wide entrance at either end, offering Mezox a glimpse inside. Their lengths were occupied by double bunks down each wall, with just two feet separating it from the adjoining beds. From foot to foot between beds, an aisle seven-feet wide was obstructed by a fixed and continuous table. Little stump-like seats under the table served as a space-saving technique.

  Their new home smelled like an old barn, although more preferential to that at the Tower. Its occupants were in the pits, and new arrivals had the privilege of recovering that one day.

  Joe paced ahead and chose a particular bunk before climbing on the top bed. “Take the one below,” he suggested. It was always left vacant in the past.