The Warlord's Physician Ch. 10

"Am I hearing this right?" Snake asked as they drove down the highway, back to the fort and its factory. He had lowered his heavy metal enough to hear his son argue, but could still recognize the lyrics. The sun was high in the sky and his hangover was damn-near lethal. He'd packed the captive Martha in the truck cargo along with Needle.

"It's not that big a deal," Warcry insisted. He wondered which of those bastard highwaymen had told his father.

"Not a big deal? Not a big deal?" Snake demanded, blood rushing to his father and teeth clenching rigidly. His knuckles turned white at ten-and-two. Grey highway sank beneath their tires as they traversed miles in minutes. "That runt insulted our highwaymen - our highwaymen! - and you let him get away with it. Haven't I taught you anything? Slaves need to have respect beaten into them, otherwise they remain insolent. Shit, I am gonna tear the Canyon Crazies apart over this one."

Warcry placed a gentle hand on his muscular arm, though it did little to calm him down. "Listen. I was watching him the whole time. You know how fickle highwaymen can get after a battle. Especially after they're injured. If he'd acted all servile and obedient then they would never have cooperated, and a lot of them probably would have died. He did his job perfectly."

"That does not mean he gets to disrespect an Overdog," Snake said between gritted teeth. He spoke slowly, one word jaggedly slipping off the last, as he fought to control his temper. "When we get back to the palace, you will take care of this."

"What?" A small wave of panic surged inside Warcry's chest, accompanied by cool sweat on his brow. The last thing he wanted was to hurt the chained runt, and he knew exactly how slaves were punished.

"Don't worry, I'll help you," Snake said, calming himself down. "We'll make sure the flog is nice and fresh, no dried blood to fuck with the way it cracks. Besides, having a slave isn't all orders and servitude. You gotta keep the scum hurtin' otherwise they talk back to their superiors."

Warcry stared out the dusty windshield, too shocked to say anything. And yet, he should not have been shocked at all. In fact, he should have expected precisely this sort of reaction. Not only based on his father's all too predictable behavior, but by the fact that the world was poised to rip happiness away from the newly joyous. That was why a world at its cultural and technological zenith was utterly destroyed in atomic fire, in an instant. That was why warlords ripped babies from their mother's arms and sent them to live in chains. The wasteland was a harsh, cruel place and he should have known better than to expect anything kind out of it. The wasteland is pain and kindness is tentative.

"Just trust me," said Snake, when he saw the tired and baffled expression on his boy's face.

But Warcry could never truly trust him. He'd watched over the years as Snake descended from a lowly drug pusher to a heinous warlord. He'd seen all the pain and destruction wrought across the desert, and all the friends and allies who had to be pushed aside.

And the fortress they approached was the greatest testament to that sinister agenda. Smoke columns stained the sky above with the ink of industry. He'd seen the slaves toiling away in there, in the heat, in the smoke, their eyes burning as much as their skin and as much as the lead they melted down for bullets. And those bullets went into guns, the very same guns that put them on their knees and would inevitably bring in more slaves to replace the ones who broke down. And steel was crafted there as well, fashioned into chains and manacles to keep the slaves docile as they toiled in the flame-light darkness, and into armor for highwaymen and vehicles to go on murderous raids against other vile monsters.

It is not enough that lowly slaves toil away without mercy or reprieve. Warcry had seen highwaymen, loyal men and as mean as the rest of them, thrown into shackles for crimes as simple as flirting with another man's slave. They soon found themselves slaves as well. They had the hardest push into the dust and howled in rejection all the while. They were free men, they insisted, before they were pushed down to the dirt where they belonged.

Warcry remembered the wonder years when justice was tempered with mercy and juries decided guilt. He only saw these things transpire on television, but they still existed. He was not built for a world without such trappings of civilization.

He was able to forget all these things until his father did something like this. Then the things he learned in his readings and from his lessons came to the surface, and he was forced to recall the civilized world that preceded this one. It was easy to forget the violence when he was so surrounded by it, but moments like this jarred him and he was forced to examine the world the way an old rotting philosopher would.

He could see that this sort of violent mentality had helped his father do great things. He was on the cusp of forming the first empire the world had seen in years. But something was lost along the way and it made the world inhospitable to people like Warcry. It was not his asthma or his leg that made him feel this way, though these were obvious symptoms of the problem. The real reason was that he was a coward, a fact he only admitted to himself in private moments, and he was not daring enough to live in such a chaotic world, no matter the false order Snake imposed on it.

That was the guise of this punishment. As Needle was strung up, arms toward the ceiling, chains taught around his wrists, Snake lectured him on the nature of order. They were deep in the basement of the palace and all the other slaves had been vacated. It was once a wine cellar, though they drank the wine long ago. The walls still smelled of it, and it was still cold enough to keep wine. The walls were sheer stone and the only light came from a single electric light buzzing above. It scattered Needle's shadow across the wall where it intersected with Warcry's,

"This is about will," Snake said, cracking the nine-tailed flog in the air like how boxers punch the air to practice. "Order is about imposing your will on someone else. Making them obey. Becoming their god. You need to know this if you're going to rule."

Warcry took the flog in his hand and it somehow felt as heavy as a car tire. The tails cascaded down, black and severe, made of fine leather. He had to wear his leg-splint because flogging someone with a crutch was impossible. Oh, how he hated that rusty, splintering device. Too tight, pointy in all the wrong places, and some idiot tutor's idea of a gift. Still, it was better than trying to balance on one leg.

Needle didn't cry. He didn't say a word as the highwaymen dragged him into the dungeon, or when they strung him up. He didn't say a word when he saw Snake draw the flog. But when he saw him hand it to Warcry, he let out a shuddering gasp. The air slipped between his lips, cooled by the freezing cellar air.

Warcry looked at Snake, then at the boy's bare back. He'd been stripped without any sign of affection, down to his tattered pants. His skin was so soft, and his thin arms were clearly strained by being slung up toward the ceiling. The last thing he wanted was to tatter this poor slave with red ribbons, like some common factory worker. But Snake stared him down, eyes like lightning bolts, until he made his first swing.

The tails brushed off Needle's back, far too gentle to do any real damage. The yelp they elicited was not one of pain, but of surprise and anticipation. The twisted leather was smooth against his skin, and the blow did not sting in the slightest.

"Put your whole arm into it," Snake advised, like a father training his son for Little League. "Try to come at it from the side. Might work better for you."

Warcry tried again, swinging from a horizontal angle as his father advised. The blow connected and sharp pain rang out across Needle's back. He yelled out as the flog cracked against his back. The black tails spread across his back, stripping his skin pink.

"Don't forget your wrist," Snake reminded him. "It's not like a bat. It's more like a tennis racket. Shit, that doesn't help. Just keep your hand limp, but not too limp. Get it? You know, you kids think you don't need the fundamentals."

"I get it," Warcry said, if only to silence his father before he started another long rant about 'kids these days.'

Another blow against Needle's skin and he cried out again, slumping in his chains, straining his arms and chafing his already sore wrists. He panted heavily, unaccustomed to such sharp pain, even in his time with the Crazies. The pain subsided for a moment, but the cool cellar air pressed against the pink stripes and made them sting once again.

"Do you know why you're being punished," Snake asked, placing a firm hand on the boys head and yanking it back by the hair.

"No, sir," he said.

"Tell the runt what he did," he commanded Warcry.

"You disrespected the highwaymen you were operating on," Warcry explained meekly. He wished his father understood what had happened. Shouldn't his own explanation be enough? "Slaves have to respect their superiors."

"I was under the impression the Canyon Crazies taught their slaves better than this," Snake said, snarling in disgust. He let go of the boy's head and it slumped down.

"I'm sorry, sir."

"You will be. Warcry, hit him again."

Another flash of pain, another cry into the pitiless walls of the cellar. Walls that had seen punishments like this every day for years. Needle was only the most recent of many slaves to suffer down there, though his punishment was far lighter. As all slaves would come to know, the kiss of the flog was far more merciful than that of the bull whip.

The tails lashed against his skin, raising bumps in the same patterns of the strike, just before the next hit came. Tears welled in his eyes and spit dribbled off his lip, and each strike forced out another cry of pain.

Snake grew tired of hearing the boy yell out, so he tied a knotted rag around his head, the knot in his mouth. It forced his jaw open and spit started to slip down even more. But there was nothing he could do about it.

Warcry continued whipping the boy even as his back went through all the shades of pink and red. Stripes lined their way up and down his back, from waist to shoulders, and he could barely hold himself up. Had he been a bed slave, this torment would have ruined his resale value. He would have likely been sent to the factory after that. But he was a physician, so appearance didn't matter.

It was difficult for Warcry to ignore the swell of pride he felt in his chest. That poor slave was taking quite a beating. And not just any slave. His slave. And if he was being honest with himself, he was starting to enjoy inflicting this kind of pain on someone as lovely looking as Needle. The way his eyes bulged out whenever he heard the flick of the tails, or how he struggled to cry against his gag, or even how his feet danced on air after each hit. There was something enchanting about that sort of control, or about that sort of weakness.

He was mid-swing when the basement door slammed open. Some pathetic highwayman, scrawny and missing a few too many fingers, ran down the stone stairs.

"Boss," he yelled out. Then he saw Snake's snarling face. "Sorry to interrupt, boss. But we got news."

"You interrupted my son's education," the warlord said, gesturing to his flog-wielding boy. "Apologize to him."

The man looked over at the boy, startled and unsure of what to say. So, he said, "Sorry for the interruption."

"Don't sweat it," Wacry said, knowing full well that he could flog this man next, if he so desired. And his father would only be proud. "What's the emergency."

"Heritage soldiers attacked an outpost up north," he said. "Freed the slaves, killed the highwaymen."

"Well, I guess that poor city is about to find out what the apocalypse is all about," Snake said. His temper didn't seem to flare, at least not on any visible layer. He knew that the outpost was new, a result of his recent conquests. Too close to Heritage, apparently. They probably thought their mercs would have killed him by the time they made their move. "Warcry, you finish up here. War council at sunset, and I expect you there."

"You got it," Warcry said, turning back to Needle to finish his work. He swung a few more times as Snake and the highwaymen left, then a few more in case they decided to come back. In the silence, there was only the sound of Needle's ragged breathing.

It felt like an eternity, waiting and hoping that no highwaymen would stumble in. Warcry's breathes were shallow and nervous, and he couldn't help but feel bad for his poor slave. When he was certain they were safe, he pulled the gag out of Needle's mouth and dropped it around his neck. Drops of spit dribbled down his bare chest, so thin his ribs could be seen with each labored breath.

Needle rested his head on his master's shoulder, and Warcry just held him tight and stroked his hair. Then the tears came, slowly at first, and then uncontrollably. Warcry didn't let go. He let the boy have his few moments of exhaustion, resting in his arms and weeping gently.

"Hush now," Warcry told him. "I'm sorry I had to hurt you."

"I know, sir," Needle said. His face was scrunched together from sobbing and he couldn't stop crying, try as he did. "I should have behaved."

"Don't say shit like that. I should have defended you better. You were completely and utterly perfect. Highwaymen are just assholes."

"You're not an asshole." He was still hanging by his hands, but his fingers had gone numb at that point. He barely even noticed.

"I'm the biggest asshole of us all. Now be quiet while I get these damn chains off you."

He fell to the floor when the chains came off his hands. Gravity was an odd comfort in that time of pain and confusion. He just lied there, still sobbing gently, as the cool air stung his back. It was an odd sort of chronic sting, constantly nagging at his back, piercing him all the way through. He shuddered on the floor, Warcry stroking his hair gently.

For all the pain he had just inflicted, Needle could not help but desire more of Warcry's attention. The hand that just beat him was the same hand stroking him so gingerly, like he was afraid another touch could break him like porcelain.

"I'm so sorry," Warcry said. His stomach was tied into a knot. He could hardly bear that he'd hurt the boy who, the night before, had given him so much comfort.

"It's my fault," he said, and on some level, he believed it.

But Warcry didn't. Seeing that poor boy's tattered back as he quivered on the ground, it changed something inside of him. Like a switch flicked on, or off. It brought a new urge he could never quite recall feeling before. It was the urge to leave this whole wasteland behind, to find a new place to call home. It was the urge to escape.