Page 70 of Property of Necro
“What happened today?” he asks, as if we’re an old married couple discussing our normal, mundane day, not sitting in a basement with prisoners just outside. One of which is now deceased.
Not sure what’s safe to share with Rot, as I don’t wish to get on Coffin’s bad side, I twist an imaginary key to lock my lips and toss it over my shoulder.
“Really, Red?” He smirks and waits patiently for me to share. Which I won’t. I’m serious about my imaginary lock and key. I’m a vault baby—one of those big ones you see in the spy movies with infrared lasers.
“What?” I shrug and open the pack of wet wipes, pull out a few, and give myself a quick whore bath.
“You’ve clearly passed Coffin’s tests.” Rot taps my chin, so I don’t miss a spot.
“I guess so,” I reply, attempting to play it cool when, on the inside, I’m downright giddy. I couldn’t tell you the last time I was this proud of myself. Not that I should be proud, I suppose. But that’s what it feels like. I’m just glad we got to get to know each other. Plus, the sun. That was a huge bonus. I love the outdoors.
Not pushing me to divulge further, Rot says, “Now check this out.”
On the desk beside me, he opens his laptop, taps a few keys, and the screens attached to the wall behind me flare to life. He hits another button, and every monitor fills with Necro and blood. So much blood. At six different angles.
Shoulders hunched forward, his skin coated crimson, Necro’s entire scarred torso rises and falls with laden breaths. Sooty war paint is smeared around his blue-white eyes up to the top of his brows. It blends down into his mask and descends further into the contours of his corded neck like you’d expect to see in a Viking documentary.
In the corner of the video is a number that keepschanging—8,584. 8,598. 9,210. Back down to 8,573, all in a matter of seconds.
“What’s that?” I ask, pointing to it.
“That’s how many watchers we currently have.”
“This is streaming on the actual web?” My voice jumps a few too many octaves.
“Sure is.” Rot chuckles and pats the side of my leg. “Welcome to Kings Cursed and our club’s revenue stream.”
“Wait. People pay to watch this?”
Holy moley.
“Yes. A lot of money, too. Today’s a slow one. People get bored when Prez plays too much.”
On the screens, Necro looms over a heavyset man sprawled out on the floor. The bald biker’s head glistens under the eerie mood lighting. Holding a machete, Necro whirls it around like it’s an extension of him.
“Is that man dead?” I ask when the body doesn’t move.
“Yep. He killed him about an hour ago. You missed the screams.”
I… I don’t even know what to say.
There’s a dead man on the screen. A dead man in the jail cells. Dead parts of women in jars in a trophy room.
Death.
Death.
Death.
“Now, what’s he doing?” I ask when Necro slinks around the room like a predator, his shoulders rolled forward, transfixed on his kill.
“The same shit he’s been doing for the past twenty-four hours. Creating art.”
The pictures plastered to his office walls floodmy mind. As if on cue, Necro swings the machete and severs the arm clean off the man’s body. Fat jiggles and bone cracks as it drops to the side. What little blood is left in the corpse pools on the concrete floor beneath him, funneling toward the center of the room to what must be a drain.
A rush of little gold coins fills the bottom corner of the screen.
“What’s that?” I nod toward the counter, racking up numbers faster than it can keep up. The metallic trill of a quarter machine dispensing coins echoes throughout the room.
