Inhuman: Detective Chase hunts an animal who protects his own Read online

  INHUMAN

  Detective Chase hunts an animal who protects his own

  Nathan Senthil

  Published by

  THE BOOK FOLKS

  London, 2020

  © Nathan Senthil

  Polite note to the reader

  This book is written in US English except where fidelity to other languages or accents is appropriate.

  You are invited to visit www.thebookfolks.com and sign up to our mailing list to hear about new releases, free book promotions and other special offers.

  We hope you enjoy the book.

  I dedicate this book to the strongest person I know. My mom.

  “One doesn’t have to operate with great malice to do great harm. The absence of empathy and understanding are sufficient. In fact, a man convinced of his virtue even in the midst of his vice is the worst kind of man.” ― Charles M. Blow

  Contents

  Gourmet

  Death of Hope

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  More fiction by Nathan Senthil

  Other titles of interest

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  Part I

  Gourmet

  Death. That word used to hold a different meaning for Barnabas—an ugly meaning. A bleak certainty tucked away safely in the distant future. Now it meant only one thing—release. He expected death like it was Christmas morning, and was thrilled about it like it was his first kiss.

  It shouldn’t have been like this, though. Barnabas had everything a man would want in life. Though he was a millionaire, he never drank or smoked. He ate healthy and kept his body free of toxins and full of vitamins.

  Hmm. Maybe that’s why his abductor said he was going to consume him.

  He had been stripped naked and locked inside a small crate. A short tether was tied around his neck, its other end bolted to the floor. His movements were restricted to lying on either his left side or his right. Flatfeet—a name Barnabas had given his tormentor, because that was all Barnabas could see through the gap under the crate’s door—had never let him stretch since he’d abducted him. Sores and cramps were not passive discomforts anymore, but an unavoidable part of life.

  Initially Barnabas tried bribing Flatfeet into letting him go and got ten lashes from a wet rope in return. Then he threatened him with his political power and was thrashed black and blue until he passed out. When Barnabas woke up, Flatfeet showed him a series of photographs that put an end to his misguided escape attempts, once and for all.

  They were photos of Barnabas’s daughter, tied the same way as her dad. Flatfeet said he would kill and eat her, too, if Barnabas didn’t cooperate. And if Barnabas did, he promised he would let her go. Since then, Barnabas had accepted his fate and lay there between the four wooden planks, biding his time, awaiting release.

  When Barnabas hit three hundred pounds, he would be ready for harvest. He had been 287 at the last weighing, and ever since, Flatfeet had forced formulated milk down Barnabas’s throat six times a day. He believed he had now bulked up and covered the remaining thirteen.

  * * *

  “Chow time,” said a soft voice, from above.

  When Barnabas had been given the chow the first time, it tasted sour and thick like spoiled milk. He was so disgusted that he’d thrown it up right away. But gradually his taste buds learned to change their expectations. Pride learned priorities from survival instinct, and hungry intestines learned to appreciate the nutrition and keep the goop in.

  “Excited about today?” Flatfeet said, in his southern drawl, sounding chirpy.

  “I am,” Barnabas replied.

  “Good. Now eat up.” Flatfeet dropped one end of a long tube onto his face.

  Barnabas held the tube and put it inside his mouth. Plastic lined with dried crumbs from the previous session acted as an appetizer. After he had chugged the last portion of the slop, Flatfeet yanked the tube away. Then the wooden door before him was opened, and Barnabas saw something just inches from his face. Flatfeet waited without a sound as Barnabas’s vision cleared. It wasn’t his first rodeo.

  When Barnabas’s sight was clear, Flatfeet pulled the harness and unlocked it.

  “Get up. Now, now, watch the vertigo.”

  Barnabas nodded.

  “By the by, I understand you’ll feel the need to throw a punch or two. So let’s just get it over with.” Flatfeet backed away two steps.

  Funny. Barnabas’s muscles and organs had been atrophied and soaked in fat for so long he couldn’t even breathe properly. Where could he find the energy to throw a punch or two?

  Barnabas planted his tender palms on the floor and pushed. His arms balanced his torso, but his knees seemed to have forgotten that he was a descendant of Homo erectus.

  “Again, be careful. I don’t wanna carry your three-hundred-pound ass up to my kitchen.”

  Barnabas grabbed the top of the crate’s door and heaved himself up, praying the rickety wood didn’t come off its hinges. It didn’t, but when he tried to balance his center of mass on top of his hip bones as he straightened up, his knees buckled under him. He fell and his forehead banged on the door.

  “You pathetic, baldheaded fuck. You want an incentive?”

  “No, please.” Barnabas touched the skin on his forehead, appealing to Flatfeet’s mercy—if he had any hidden in his subconscious.

  Apparently he didn’t, because he said, “Then hurry. I’m starving.”

  Barnabas held the crate again and repeated the motion, but he hesitated halfway through. He wasn’t scared of death—Flatfeet had given Barnabas enough time and reasons to prepare himself for it—but he was scared to look at Flatfeet because he’d never seen his face before.

  “I don’t know why you’re stalling the inevitable, but I’m gonna use the ropes to find out.”

  Fear pushed Barnabas up. As he stood there, his eyesight darkened because the blood now flowed vertically to the brain—a direction it had been made to abandon.

  Once the dizziness had passed, he looked down at his flabby arms, which felt so hefty he didn’t recognize them to be his own. He couldn’t see his legs because of his protruding midsection, which ungracefully slid down onto his naked crotch.

  Instead of processing shame, he adverted to his short-term goal—the humongous task of taking the first
step. Falling again would only infuriate the hungry man. Barnabas’s eyes watered, and teardrops fell on his body.

  “Don’t you go bothering yourself with salting my food,” Flatfeet said. “No time for that. Can’t you hear my stomach grumbling?”

  Fear, or perhaps the apathetic comment, made Barnabas lift his head and look at Flatfeet.

  He was standing five feet away, holding his hands behind his back. Taller than the six-foot Barnabas, but predictably a lot slimmer, he wore a tight white T-shirt, khaki cargo shorts, and not surprisingly, no footwear. His body was built like a wrestler, but appeared stronger and more menacing, with bulging veins on tanned skin, like a bull running on steroids. He had a long face and broad forehead that tapered to a sharp chin. His hazel eyes were almond-shaped. His matte black hair combed to the left. A thin layer of freckles peppered across his nose gave him a schoolboy look.

  “Well, now that you’ve seen what I look like, maybe it’s time to take your second step.” Flatfeet tapped his watch-less wrist.

  Barnabas skipped a heartbeat when he saw what he was holding—a rope coiled in two loops.

  “I’m trying.” Barnabas took his second step.

  And he didn’t fall. Then he took the third and fourth in quick succession, but stopped because he had to let go of the crate to take the next step.

  Now or never.

  He released his sweaty hand from the crate, leaving a smudge behind.

  Yes! Yes! He could stand without any support, albeit shaky.

  “Come on! You can do it!” Flatfeet sounded like a proud father watching his child take his first walk.

  Barnabas smiled, feeling good. But when he took the next step, he came crashing down.

  “That’s it,” Flatfeet said. “Incentive time.”

  Barnabas saw those demon feet approaching him.

  “No! Please don’t. I can do this. I can get—ah!” Barnabas screeched, as Flatfeet whipped him on his buttocks.

  The next stroke landed smack-dab on his back. The sound the ropes made as they sliced through the air to strike his blubbery skin was the unholiest thing he’d ever heard. Barnabas surprised himself when he crawled away with speed disproportional to his weight.

  “I can move—ah! Fuck! Stop hitting me, for Christ’s sake, and listen!”

  The blows stopped.

  “I can move on all fours. I will come with you like this,” Barnabas begged, and waited.

  The color on Flatfeet’s hand gripping the ropes returned.

  “Know what?” Flatfeet swung the weapon over his shoulder. “That’s fine by me.”

  Barnabas moved like an animal, tears dotting his trail.

  “Follow me. And don’t you dare think you can… um… crawl away. I’ll catch you.” Flatfeet laughed, and headed out.

  Barnabas followed him out through the door that opened into the middle of a narrow corridor. At its end, they took a right and he came face-to-face with steps. His vision skimmed through the surface of the stairs that ended at an open door. White light shone from within the house.

  Flatfeet stopped in the middle of the stairs and turned back.

  “Let’s go. Hurry up.”

  Grainy sand poked Barnabas’s palms and knees as he climbed. He bit his teeth and persevered, knowing full well that not every stairway with a bright light at its end led to heaven.

  Death of Hope

  Clambering up sixteen steps was apparently too much for Barnabas’s stamina. By the time he reached the landing, his lungs were burning holes through his ribcage, and the floor under him had become slippery with his sweat.

  Flatfeet’s living room had a TV. It was playing some cartoon. An old couch with holes in its back faced the TV. The carpet seemed like it had never been cleaned.

  He crawled behind Flatfeet, who led him around a partial wall separating the kitchen from the living room. He couldn’t see the top of the island from his position, but by the look of the living room, he guessed they’d be riding on grease and grit.

  In the kitchen there was a hook drilled into the right-side wall, and a harness resembling a leather dog collar on a short leash hung from it.

  “Yup. That’s where you’re gonna go,” Flatfeet said.

  Barnabas traversed to it, laid his wet back against the wall, and secured the collar around his neck. It turned out to be synthetic, not leather. Flatfeet took the lock—the same one that had held Barnabas in place in the crate—and secured the collar. Then he handcuffed his wrists.

  But why? He couldn’t fight Flatfeet.

  “So tell me. What dish you think your leg’s best for?” Flatfeet straightened up and removed his T-shirt.

  Tattoos of weird-looking pyramids covered his eight-pack.

  “What?” Barnabas said.

  “You heard me.”

  “I… I don’t know.” Tears fell on his dirty thighs.

  There was a second of dubious quiet before he heard the ungodly swoosh and the damp ropes hit his fatty chest. Barnabas bit his teeth and grunted, hand raised to protect his face.

  “Please, stop. It’s—” He swallowed. “It’s hurting so much.”

  “Then tell me, what can I cook from your meat?”

  “There...”

  Barnabas struggled to talk, not able to believe what he was being made to do. Who asked a cow what dish would taste best from its beef? Maybe Barnabas was in hell and Flatfeet was the devil. His soul must have been trapped in this place, believing it was alive, and this was one of the devil’s tricks to impart maximum suffering.

  “There, what?” Flatfeet said.

  “Wiener schnitzel, cotoletta, veal scallopini—”

  “Veal? Nice. Let me get your daughter’s slender leg.”

  “What the—” Barnabas took off from the floor, but the collar snatched his neck back violently. “You promised you were gonna let her go.”

  “I lied. Duh.” Flatfeet shrugged. “I mean, I torture and murder people and eat them. You think I wouldn’t lie?” Flatfeet pointed at him and laughed. “What a dumb fuck!” He took a dishrag from the island, gagged Barnabas, and tied it behind his head. “Be right back.”

  Flatfeet disappeared. Barnabas screamed into the dirty cloth and tried to free himself. He dug his fingers into the collar and jerked, but it only scraped off his skin. Maybe Barnabas should try getting up. He turned around and sat on his haunches. If he pulled with enough weight, the lock might break, or the hook would be yanked out of its hole.

  A piercing shrill froze him.

  No, no, no.

  Barnabas tugged at the tether in desperation, but a kick on his ass drove him onto the wall, and the rag came loose as he crashed and fell.

  “Trying to escape, huh?”

  Barnabas rolled blindly until he got his bearings, and sat up. After what he had been put through the last couple weeks, he’d come to believe that nothing could ever hurt him. But what he saw in front of him proved otherwise.

  Fresh blood dripped from Flatfeet’s mouth and cascaded down to the pyramid on his stomach. A dozen red streaks ran across his shoulders and arms. There were small handprints on his skin, too.

  After catching Barnabas’s gaze, Flatfeet said, “Whoa! You raised one fierce bitch. But this ain’t my blood.”

  “Wh-what did you do to my baby?” Barnabas whispered.

  Flatfeet pulled a face as if Barnabas was the stupidest person on earth.

  “Are you blind, Mister? I just snipped her jugulars and hung her body upside down. Gotta drain the carcass before I can slice—”

  “You goddamn coward! You goddamn demon!”

  “Yeah, yeah, whatever.” Flatfeet waved his hand and turned to the island.

  He took a pair of thin yellow tubes from it and walked over to Barnabas, who in blind rage tried to claw his eyes, but Flatfeet punched him in his mouth, and he passed out.

  * * *

  When Barnabas came to, he sensed a pang at the tip of his tongue. He must have bitten it when Flatfeet knocked him out cold. Something pinc
hed below his crotch. He looked down and spotted two tourniquets coiled around his right thigh, a few inches above his knee.

  He looked up. Flatfeet had rinsed his daughter’s blood off and was wearing the white T-shirt again. He was doing something on the island, whistling the cartoon’s theme tune while clattering the utensils.

  Barnabas tried to talk, but constructing words was strenuous. “K-k-kill me,” Barnabas begged. “I can’t… my heart is literally… please… it’s so painful.”

  “Is it hurting?” Flatfeet said.

  “Very much.” Barnabas bawled into his cupped hands.

  “That’s good.”

  “Please, just end this. I have more than ten million dollars in my account. Take it all. I will pay you to kill me.”

  “You know, Barney, that’s a tempting offer, no doubt.” Flatfeet turned, holding a hatchet. “But I’m afraid I’m gonna have to pass. No amount of money in the world can tame my passion.”

  He crouched beside him. Barnabas saw through his terrified watery vision that the tool was raised over Flatfeet’s head, its edge gleaming menacingly.

  “I just love to hurt people.”

  * * *

  “…may I come in?”

  “Why, Detective Chase? Is something wrong?”

  “Let’s discuss it inside.”

  “But—”

  “Invite me in, asshole.”

  “Well, if you insist.”

  Barnabas woke with a strange feeling of hope. Detective Chase? Hadn’t he heard that name somewhere before?

  Yes! Detective Gabriel Chase. This famous detective, who the papers had dubbed madman, had caught a notorious serial killer—Mr. Bunny. Now he’d come after Flatfeet.

  “In here!” Barnabas said, with all his remaining energy.

  Heavy boots stomped over the floor. An unkempt guy with unruly hair and ragged clothing entered the kitchen, followed closely by Flatfeet. He looked like a hobo, not a detective.

  Gabriel gawked at Barnabas in horror. Barnabas looked down. Most of his right leg was missing. His femur protruded from the shredded flesh, and yellow fat hung over thick blood pooling under the stump. Thank god he’d passed out.