| Chapter 9 He wondered where the damn laughter was coming from. It’s braying was beginning to get seriously on his nerves. Then he realized it was only in his head. It was Fate laughing. Or at the very least his minds belief that Fate was having a belly chuckle at his expense. He’d out run Fate for over two years. Always knowing in the back of his mind that Fate had time on her hands. And Fate WAS a ‘she’, because Fate was a bitch. She had bided her time well, patient and unruffled, then had viciously asserted her ownership of his life. Punishing him, and those in his life, for their audacity in believing they could live their lives without giving Fate its due. If it had just been himself getting the ever loving shit kicked out of his body and mind, he could’ve dealt. Kept on running. Conceded this round to his ever present and ethereal mistress and then started the next bout. A vicious, though expected, circle. But Zar was now trapped in the cycle of ‘run, fight, lose, run’ with him now. And she was going to die for that association unless he did something about it. Richard Riddick stared into the dark of the room. Sweeping his vision over the glowing pink, white and gray of the furniture. Breathing in the odors of blood and shit and fear. Waiting on the occupant to come back from the end of the day. The events of the last five days replaying in his mind with ruthless clarity. Why in the Hell hadn’t he grabbed Zar and high tailed out of the Dee System?! The dream had been a warning. They should’ve heeded it. He’d back pedaled down the mine tunnel as he watched the strike force swarm. Turning to run only when the over head door light became a dim glimmer. The drive to escape ingrained deep and tenacious. Not letting him stop to think, to grieve, to absorb the greatest loss his life had ever experienced. His last sight of Zar had kept running through his mind...over and over and over. His acute hearing picking up the sickening thud of a blunt object hitting vulnerable flesh. He knew that sound well as both wielder and victim. He’d seen her go under the wave of dark uniforms. Knew that there was no way she could have survived the assault. Another woman had died saving his life. Carolyn Fry and Zarifa Cholena both had decided that his life was worth more than theirs. He just didn’t see it. Couldn’t even begin to grasp their logic. Because as sure as he knew that putting one foot in front of the other made a step, his life came no where near the worth of either of his savior’s. Fuck!...it didn’t have the worth of MOST of the people in the galaxy. But both women had sacrificed their lives for him. One out of a sense of duty and guilt. She thought of him as part of her crew. A crew she had once came close to disposing of in self-serving terror. The other out of love. A love she swore was greater than death itself. A love he once swore of the same. The old numbness had started to settle in. The minds ability to harden the heart against the pain and anger. Turning the rage into fuel for flight. Telling him that living was the best revenge. Quickly obliterating any thought of giving up. Of ending it all. Even if it was on his own terms. It wasn’t that life was precious. At least his wasn’t. But dying meant the fuckers won. And that Zar had died for nothing. The only thing left to do was run. Till it ended...who knew where or how or when. A day later and the Profearaben juiced adrenaline rush had worn off. It had been over twenty four hours since he’d last slept and he was deep into the mine network. His every sense told him that he hadn’t been followed. His body demanded sustenance and rest. A mine workers break area had been easy pickings. There had only been three miners sleeping the slumber of the over worked. Dead to the world for all intents and purposes. The only light and noise in the room that of the vid screen rolling its typical blast of images. Good cover for him, though with his talents it wasn’t really needed. Rummaging through the food containers, he paid only slight attention to the vid screen. Only turning to watch when he heard the name Rick and Zar Miller. Their faces had been plastered on the screen. Obviously a surveillance image, it showed them walking from some store in the shopping area. The voice of the announcer excitedly reporting that Rick Miller had brutally killed Molly and Esker Huvanec outside a local cantina and had kidnapped his own estranged wife Zar Miller. If anyone had any information leading to her rescue and his apprehension, a sizable reward was being offered. No mention was made of the two men he’d killed. No mention of the fact that Richard B. Riddick was alive and well. Somebody wanted to keep his name out of it. He wondered if it was to keep the public calm or for some other nefarious reason. He was leaning towards the latter. Another mans face then came on. Obviously an ASF spokesman by his uniform. A Major Bernard Bigsby the caption read. He pointed out the gruesome facts of the murders to the waiting reporters. Feeding their frenzy with words like ‘mentally disturbed’, ‘vicious’ and ‘blood thirsty.’ Little hope was held out for finding Mrs. Miller alive. Normally a quick man, it nevertheless took a few seconds for the truth to sink in. To recognize as the tactic for what it was. If she WAS dead, they’d be splashing her body all over vid screen like they were Molly and Eskers. Instead they were using her as bait. For him. Slowly he let the joy fill his soul. It tried to come out in a roar of triumph and relief. His whole body began to shake with the effort to restrain his voice. Eyes tightly clenched shut, teeth grinding, hands fisted, he managed to keep it inside. Where it warmed a heart gone deathly cold. That was why he still felt the beat of her heart. It must be. The rhythm of her heart had been apart of him since the strange incident in the service tunnel with Leffner. The time when Zar knew she would die a brutal death and her soul had called out to his. His had answered. Something similar had happened once before, a memory he strongly and instinctively quashed. But never the linking heart beat. He’d originally thought it was his mind playing tricks on him. The torture done by Miriam Gonzalez had come perilously close to breaking him mentally and physically. He knew that if Zar hadn’t come for him, time and his own self-destructive tendencies would’ve finished the job. But once on The Hollerste, when he’d placed his hand over her breast as their bodies welcomed each other home, he’d felt the matching cadence. Two separate and distinct tempos beat within his body even though he had only one organ. He’d never told Zar. The knowledge precious and special. A wonder he knew he could never fully appreciate or explain. It was enough to just know she was always with him. It also made the dream that much scarier. When he’d seen her go under, he hadn’t paid attention to see if the sound had disappeared. He had never handled grief normally. The foster care system, the ASF and the penal system had taught him the hard way that grieving made one weak and vulnerable. And served no purpose. But the mind needed some form of release and numbness did the job. And that was what he’d been as he doggedly made his way deeper into the mines. Numb. Focusing on the original goal. The only goal since childhood. Survival. He should’ve known. Should’ve listened to his instincts. Along with his eyes, they were his best tools. Now that he’d opened his internal ears, he knew that Zar was still alive. She had to be. Not only with the proof of her heart beating but also, if she’d been dead, they would’ve just pinned her murder on him right there. Added fuel to the fire. Instead they were using her as bait to reel him in. He knew what they were planning instantly. Get the word out to him that she was still alive, in their custody and in dire need of rescuing. Hope he came running with more balls than brain and spring the trap. When she served her purpose, it would be easy to kill her and dispose of the body. Nobody wiser to the facts of her death. Too bad, so sad. For two seconds the old Riddick chimed in as he always did when his life was in danger. Telling him it would the best opportunity he had to escape Dee 7. They would be more intent on guarding her than the escape routes. That she, no...BOTH....of them would in all likelihood end up dead if he went for her. Better if at least one lived. Right? But the ugly little voice was quieter this time. It’s whine and demands drowned out by the beat of Zar’s living...and loving...heart. He’d come running, no doubt about it. But it hadn’t been straight for her. He knew he needed to be smarter than that for her sake. Squelch the burning rage and need to inflict pain on those who would use an innocent woman to get to him. Instead he’d gone back into the mines. Trailing the ASF search parties sent out for him. Listening to their conversations. Reconnoitering their individual fire power. Finding out which people were in charge of which areas. And killing them. He did it for more than revenge. Though each time he felt the blood flow over his hands a little piece of him rejoiced. The primitive side that reveled in the vengeance of his woman. Mainly he did it to keep their attention on the mines. Letting them think he was waging a war of attrition. Intending to make the mines and the dark his domain. Knowing they’d focus their fire and man power on what would seem a typically psychopathic course of action. His plan worked perfectly. The mines were crawling with ASF squadrons. Talkative, informative and nervously unhappy about chasing what they thought was a demented killer. The idea went through his head the ‘disturbed’ label wasn’t ever far from his name, or necessarily wrong. No matter, it hadn’t meant shit to him before Zar, and he’d fully embrace it if it meant he could be more effective in rescuing her. He killed a little over a dozen. And only soldiers, never miners. The miners had little love of the ASF. Many of them being ex-cons or escapees like himself. Besides their sympathy and help might come in handy later. In the quiet in between the ambushes he wondered at his easy return to killing. The old Riddick might be well contained by Zar’s gentle love, but the basic mentality that had driven him was alive and well evidently. Being ruthlessly honest with himself, he admitted that the planned killings hadn’t been as repugnant as it should have been after the years of Zar’s influence. But, as he shrugged mentally, he had always known that he would never be totally civilized. Play the role within limits...yes. Truly turn the animal inside off...never. It was just too much a part of him. A part he intended to wring every advantage out of it he could. He’d live with the consequences. As long as Zar was safe. Due to those advantages he now found himself sitting on the floor in the blackened room. His shined eyes easily making out the rooms layout. Going over it one more time in the careful preparation drilled into him in his early ASF elite forces days. Waiting for the person who would give him the information needed. That information was exact whereabouts of Zarifa Cholena and who was willing to go to such lengths to kill him. Their only chance was for him to get to her before they trotted her out to trap him. It had slim hope of succeeding. But it was better than letting her die a death at the hands of whoever was behind this to kill him and everyone who was involved in his life. If...when...he got to her, and the situation had no hope of working out, then he would make sure her death was a kind one. She wouldn’t be slaughtered like a cow, but brought gently into the night. He promised himself that, and the extra heart beat inside him. A thought for Audrey, Hill and Imam flashed through his mind. All he could do was hope the murdering bastard didn’t know about them on New Mecca. If he did, well, Riddick knew first hand Audrey’s street smarts. She could be one tough little bitch when need be. He knew she’d protect Hill with her life. And even Imam had shown admirable survivability on Taurus 2. His attention was brought abruptly back to the room. Sounds from outside the door were coming nearer. The cheap mining colonies always had inferior soundproofing in their living quarters. The same could be said for their environmental systems. It had been laughably easy to sabotage the lighting grid. Money figuring to be spent on more important things. Like bribes. He brought himself to a squatting crouch. Shiv in hand, goggles off, tucked into the back of his pants. Light spilled into the room as a bar of yellow that reached almost to the opposite end. It lasted only the few seconds it took for the door to close. A man’s voice ,“Lights!” When nothing happened, “Fucking backwater, piece of shit place! Can’t even get their fucking enviro’s to work right.” Richard knew the exact moment the man noticed the bar of light coming from beneath the bedroom door. The pink and white form turning his head instinctively towards the only light available. Them moving purposefully towards it. Just as he knew he would. Watching as the door slid open, he stood up. Slowly, silently moved into a position just inches from the man’s back. A man who was frozen in terror at the sight the greeted him in the bedroom. Blood splatters marked the ceiling and the rooms walls. Negligible amounts compared to what soaked the bed. A bed occupied by what was once his lover. Face down and spread-eagled, the dead body of the young, well-shaped, blond man was bare of both clothes or sheets. Covered in blood and wounds, reddish glistening chunks surrounding him. The young soldier had been waiting for the man, as per his instructions. His only crime being unlucky enough to catch the eye of his superior officer. His lack of good fortune extending to this being the night Richard B. Riddick stole into the room. But it was enough to guarantee his death. A very ugly demise, driven to painful lengths in the name of love and vengeance. The rooms owner sank to his knees as the stench of death roiled over him. He’d caused many a death, knew the condition well. But he’d never had it rammed in his face like this. His mind refused to function. Refused to acknowledge the information his eyes were feeding it. Only the most basic of emotions, terror, had a foot hold. His shock and fear were compounded by the feel of a hand, almost gently, taking a handful of his hair and yanking back his head. Shined eyes, burning with a cold, cold rage stared down at him as a shiv was placed against his throat. “You took something that was mine. I took something that was yours. The only difference being that I’m getting mine back...” as the hands owner ran a dispassionate glance over the blood and gore covered body on the bed. “...and you’re not.” Bigsby stared into Richard B. Riddick’s eyes and knew he was dead. That wasn’t a question. What was unknown was how long it would take for him to die. A small choking sound escaped as the shiv drew a shallow line across his throat. Letting blood bead slowly along the cut. A larger sound emerged when the hand holding his hair cruelly tightened as it twisted his head, forcing his body onto his back as it dragged him farther into the room. Any hope of coming out alive matching the door his desperate eyes latched onto. Closing in the darkness. |
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