Everyone Dies in the End #49

Katarina

1

Kat twisted away from the swirling eyes. At least that was the plan, but the grip was strong, the blade was sharp, and the plan turned out to be less than optimal. The slightest hint of movement only drew more blood, and she quickly understood the twisting would accomplish little save slice her neck. She relaxed, there would be other chances, she would not allow herself to be enslaved as Ramzke had.

“Good,” whispered the lips, “you understand.”

“I understand that one day I’ll those cut eyes out of your head and make them a trophy on my mantle,” Kat hissed in reply.

The lips laughed softly. “You would not be the first to try, but for now, relax.” The hand released her arm, but the broad blade remained firmly against the skin of her throat.

Katarina felt pressure on her neck, the ebony fingers against her deltoid, and then everything went dark.

2

She woke to the sound of coughing. There was no disorientation. Katarina instantly recalled her attack on Vader, and the encounter with Mbande. She knew that was who it must have been, Ramzke had described her, she had seen her on the stage, but then in the heat of the moment forgotten. How stupid of her. And she was paying for that stupidity now.

She kept her eyes closed, feigning sleep, attempting to sense her surroundings. She was on a bed, not a soft bed, but there was some type of mattress beneath her. Slowly moving her leg, she could feel the edge of the bed, so it was small, probably a cot. Beneath her she felt wool; on top of her she felt nothing. She still wore the same clothing.

A slight breeze touched her face, carrying the putrid smell of unwashed bodies and feces. What was it with these people? Hadn’t they ever heard of water? Although she could smell humans, filthy humans, they weren’t close by, she would have felt that, heard the blood in their veins. At least that was how she defined the sensation. After 400 years, she still wasn’t sure how, exactly, she felt, heard, or divined the sensation of fresh blood in pulsing veins, but felt it she did, and now she only felt it in the singular. One human, no doubt the cougher.

The human hadn’t been made that could hold Katarina captive. She smiled, and then opened her eyes.

The smile died as quickly as it birthed. She saw the human. It was a man, no more than five meters distant, but between Katarina and the man were bars, thick, strong bars. She was in a cell. Her eyes flicked around the interior. Except for the stark, cinder-block walls, there was only a sink, a toilet, and the cot that she slept on.

“Ah, she wakes.” The man spoke, and then coughed yet again, the sound rough and phlegmy. The cough worsened, doubling the man until he spat a wad of mucus on the concrete floor. Straightening, he lit a cigarette and smiled. “It’s killing me,” he gestured with the smoking cigarette. “Doesn’t much matter in this fucked up world, huh?”

The butt of a big gun, rifle or shotgun Kat couldn’t tell, protruded from a holster strapped to the man’s back. A fleshy gut drooped over the man’s belt. A plaid shirt covered the gut, and blue jeans his legs.

“Fucked up is a relative description,” Kat answered. She rubbed her face. “Where am I?” she asked.

The man laughed, which led to more coughing. He took a drag on his cigarette after the hacking subsided. “Same place you were last night, sister. The City of Brotherly Love, Philadelphia.”

Kat snorted. “I was free last night. Not now.”

“I wouldn’t bitch about it. It could be worse. You could be in the pen.”

“What’s the pen?”

“Pray you don’t find out.”

“I don’t pray.”

The man laughed and his prodigious belly shook. “Yeah? Well you’re still young.”

“Not hardly.” Kat stared at the man, sending subliminal messages, sending them hard. The man laughed.

“Hey girl, your Jedi tricks don’t work on me. Why do you think he put me here?”

She stared a moment longer. She could feel nothing, read nothing. His mind was impenetrable. Strange stuff.

She stood and walked to the bars. The man didn’t move. He stood on the other side of the hall. If he was scared it didn’t show. He did speak. “Don’t get any ideas girly. You aren’t getting out. This scattergun,” he lightly touched the stock which was visible above his left shoulder, “will cut you in half, and I won’t hesitate to use it. He wants to talk to you. You should feel lucky, just relax.”

“Who is he?” she asked, smiling, still working the man.

            The man picked his nose, unaffected. “He?” the man chuckled. “The big he, sister. The man. Vader.”