Free My Black Beast by Randall P. Fitzgerald Page B

into the plush robes.
He thrashed wildly against the wall.
    “ NO, FUCK YOU! YOU DON’T TOUCH
THAT! THAT BELONGS TO ME!”
    He was screaming wildly and the guards were
struggling to hold him still, both looking terribly nervous. The
crumpled form pushed up from the ground and stood, clutching his
ribs. Fair dues by any count. The Elder said a few words through
hushed, heavy breaths and the guards let Lowell go.
    “ A precious thing. I do understand
it. I make apologies again, Lowell.”
    The tone of the broken English didn’t match
the words. He was sorry, certainly, but it had nothing to do with
keeping him prisoner or the events that led to the kick. He wanted
something. Something Lowell didn’t have.
    Whatever he wanted was elsewhere and so the
Elder Werra turned and left without another word.
     

Chapter 9
     
    Counting the passing of days by way of
sleeping seemed to be a decent enough way to go about things. He’d
just invent days and sort of keep track in his head. There was
nothing in the room strong enough to mark the walls in any
meaningful way. He’d tried to keep his jacket on as well, so he
wouldn’t lose it or so that they couldn’t take it but the room was
so standard in its temperature that he’d given up on the idea that
he’d need it. He tossed it around from time to time just to give
himself something to look at.
    Lowell wondered what his mother must be
thinking by now. Cops had probably been all over his apartment
looking for stuff. It had only been three days or so but that was
likely enough for them to start looking for him. He doubted they’d
look wherever he was now. Didn’t seem like the sort of place that
was on the SPD patrol list. Did they rule that sort of thing a
suicide? Seemed likely in his case. No one was apt to talk about
how chipper and full of life he generally was.
    A frown swept over his face and he looked down
at the locket. He’d been holding onto it a lot more since the old
man had last visited. He opened it for the first time in years and
it squeaked a high pitch little squeak. Inside was the picture of a
girl of twelve. She had a soft face and a big, dopey grin. Her long
brown hair was a mess in the picture. Lowell shut the locket and
shut his eyes. He gripped the jewelry tightly and muttered
apologies into the stale air of the white cell.
    Another sleep crawled by and Lowell decided to
do something at least. Marka was probably dead by now. That had to
be what that old asshole had meant. He was doing some jumping jacks
and pushups and the like when he heard shuffling on the observation
area. A guard he’d never seen before had come by and was talking to
his watchers. They looked down at him a few times and laughed
occasionally. One of the guards mimed a large bite being taken and
they all looked like they’d die from how hilarious whatever he’d
said was.
    What was he miming? Lowell remembered the
creature that Marka had killed those nights ago and there was a
sinking feeling. They didn’t have one captive, did they? Not that
he was exactly stoked on the idea of being killed by weirdoes in a
sewer city, but this was across more than a few lines. They were
bringing him bowls of meat slop a few times a day, maybe he could
catch the door and pull it open.
    He took up his perch in front of the door and
waited. And waited. And got bored and started drawing things on the
door with his finger. Or, at least, he was pretty sure he was in
front of the bit that was the door. Whatever seam there might’ve
been was hidden completely. His legs had started to hurt from
sitting on the floor so he got up to move around a bit. He hadn’t
been pacing for long when he heard a few faint thuds from above. He
ran back to look and the guards normally overlooking his cell
weren’t at their posts. He ran back over to the wall, waiting
expectantly for the door to open, but it did not. He kept himself
at the ready in spite of the lack of movement. He couldn’t miss
this