“I am Ethan,” he announces after a moment, still pacing, “Welcome to the Tomb.”
Four
Axle
Istand at the edge of my room, watching out the opening as Ethan greets the new arrivals. The excitement in the air is palpable, the men love fresh fish. It has been a while since we had new arrivals, and the violence in the air is so thick you can taste it.
Ethan is on his way to bring those sad sonsofbitches up here to me. Their real introduction. I’ll inevitably kill one or two, to set an example, and the rest will leave here knowing who is in charge, and what is at stake for crossing me.
My favorite knife drags slowly across the skin of my forearm, not quite piercing the skin but caressing it. I wait as the prisoners are cut free. My blood begins to boil under my skin, and I can’t be patient anymore. I press the blade down harder, sighing as it cuts in and releases the fire. It’s not as good as cutting someone else, but there isn’t anything I won’t do to release these demons from me. Even with my recent kill, the demons The Tomb has forced into my blood and bones demand more.
Monsters aren’t always born, sometimes, they are bred.
I’ve been here since I was only six years old. One of the few so young that survived to adulthood. Put here for being in the wrong place at the wrong time. I have thrived despite it all with only one real consequence. My insatiable need for pain and death, for suffering. The need I accept, yet am constantly at war with.
I was sixteen when I challenged the leader at the time, Brenan, for his title.
Brenan was weak.
I killed him, and all of those in his circle, and took up the mantle of leader. Boss. Doesn’t matter what the title is, it amounts to the same. Fifteen years later, and no one has managed to usurp my position. And part of keeping it means scaring the piss out of all the new arrivals.
I don’t stop dragging the blade along my skin when I hear the shuffling of many bodies enter the room behind me. As I pull it away, I see the blood well up and pour over, dripping to the ground. I smile watching the droplets before schooling my face as I turn.
“I’m Axle, and I am in charge here.” My voice is firm and steady.
You could hear a mouse fart it’s so quiet.
There are about two dozen men in front of me, and I look them over to measure what types they are. We get a variety in here, and it’s good for me to get a feel for how the fish will change the dynamic here. Or at least the ones that survive today.
There are a few sporting a glint in their eyes telling me they also have violence in their blood. A few are crying, and I gnash my teeth at the sight. There are always a few and nothing pisses me off more than cowards. All men have weakness, that is inevitable, but cowardice is another thing altogether. Only a stupid or narcissistic man would claim to never have weakness or fear. But a brave man, a real man, fucking owns his fear. As I look over the rest, a small one catches my eye, but I keep moving. The small and weak don’t last long here, cowardly or not.
“Does anyone here wish to take my position?” I challenge, pacing in front of them. I flex my arms, squeezing the bloody knife I’m still carrying. No one has ever stepped forward, but I can dream. I catch one man’s eye and can see the indecision there. He has a scar down one of his cheeks I won’t forget. He wants it, but he’s smart enough not to challenge me now. I stare into his eyes until he looks down and I smirk. He’ll be one to watch for.
When it’s obvious no one is stepping forward, I pick another one of the men I can feel the hate and anger rolling off. He’s no threat, no challenge. Not to me anyway. But outwardly, others may fear him for his size alone.
“What’s your name?” I ask and he glances up at me. He’s big, even on his knees he barely has to look up, and I am not a short man.
“Ronan,” he answers, a gruff and deep tone.
I nod thoughtfully.
“Why are you here, Ronan?”
He hesitates a moment. “Murder. I killed a militia member and got caught.”
“One of us then,” I reply, and a few others laugh. I chuckle for a moment too, before darting forward. I stab the long knife into his neck and relish the feel of it. There are a few small gasps around me as Ronan hits the floor, still gurgling. I stand over him and watch critically as he bleeds out in under a minute. Pulling my knife free, I look along the row, picking another.
“What is your name?” I ask and he literally whimpers.
“W-William, sir,” the man squeaks. I stand in front of him unmoving, loving the aura of fear washing over me. The feeling of power and death is addictive, and I’ll take this over the drugs passing through this place any day.
“William,” I say before reaching out squeaking his neck, pulling him towards me, “don’t be such a fucking coward.” I stab the blade into his gut and twist, relishing the feel of it, before dropping him to the ground too.
The rage and craving in my blood cools, but I don’t want to stop now.
I look over the line one more time, a lion stalking its prey, when my eyes land on the small one again. A boy?
“You. Take off your hat,” I bark. He doesn’t pause as he lifts the hat from his head and brings it down, keeping his head lowered. His hair is cut short, so his face is visible. Long eyelashes look at the ground. He isn’t quite as young as I first thought based on his size, probably closer to twenty, though his face is clean-shaven so maybe younger. He reminds me of myself when I took over.