Bathory Blood

Under Town

After what he had seen, Jock knew precisely where to take the information. He knew that Femi was high on something, but no drug he had ever seen turned a man like that. It was like something from a movie. Jock's destination was Under Town, a thriving community of the great unwashed who had learned to hide from the streets above as much as was possible. Too many of them had been disappeared, as they called it.

Nobody had yet guessed that the true reason many of the homeless were disappearing was due to being slaughtered. They assumed they were being shipped out to a foreign country somewhere. Like the old days when the poor were shipped to America and Australia, left to fend for themselves. Many starved to death or were overcome by the weather or even local tribes who didn't take kindly to pale people invading their lands.

At least, if that was the case, the poor people, as slim as it may have been, had a chance of survival. With Minerva and her rich cronies, they were like penned sheep. Nobody had ever escaped to talk about what goes on, but the windowless, black trucks that drive around have been seen many times scooping up the homeless on the pretext of helping them find their way in life.

Not as though Jock had pieced all of that together either. All he knew was that there was a crazy new drug on the streets, and he wanted some. If it was on sale anywhere, then it would be found in Under Town. You could buy anything there if you've got enough to pay for it.

Jock moved away from the main road and crossed a field, climbing a broken, three-foot fence at the other end. Beyond that was another field that ended at another fence, this one six-foot, and beyond that, the river Salem. It was a well-trodden path, so even the six-foot fence didn't have to be climbed as somebody had smashed a section of it down. Jock was always looking for an excuse to exercise his muscles, so he chose to climb and did so easily, landing nimbly on his feet the other side. There were a couple of entrances along the riverbank, each leading to the disused sewer system that became the home for those the city would rather not see.

Rats squeaked warnings to each other as Jock walked each section of the dark tunnels. Old fluorescent strip lights lined the curved walls just above head height, but very few of them worked, and there was often some way to go between each light spot. The rats tried to keep out of the way but feeling them scamper across your feet in the darkness wasn't for the faint of heart. Not that the rats weren't afraid also. Since the humans moved in, rats had become a part of the staple diet. The smell of their brethren being fried and barbecued was a constant taunt.

The tunnels were like a labyrinth and very easy to get lost if you didn't know where you were going. The homeless residents felt it best not to signpost things just in case the authorities came for them one day – of which, they were all certain, would happen soon. Jock never really understood this logic because he could hear the civilization. It was distant, and it was deep, but the closer you got, the noisier it became. If you listened really hard, the first thing you could hear was the distant thrum, thrum, thrum of bassline, delivered through massive speakers. The homeless of Under Town was always partying and had a never-ending supply of free power. The city had tried to shut them down a few times, but they had always managed to rewire it. The thing with the homeless was that it contained people from all walks of life, and there was always plenty of electricians.

As you got closer to the music, the sounds as people chattered while going about their business, mainly trading in the used market, were the next thing you heard. Having been born there, Jock hustled through the bustle and made his way to The Underground, which was three tunnels dedicated to partying and this week playing Reggae Dub, the deep bass vibrating the walls.

On the decks was Skunk, a forty-three-year-old man with long gray-black hair and a bald pate with gray-black bushy eyebrows and an overgrown beard to match. He was dressed in his customary garish tie-dyed jeans and t-shirt with round-rimmed blue sunglasses while smoking a large joint and messing with the music-making software on his computer. Skunk had seen Jock coming, but he pretended he hadn't. He didn't like Jock - nobody did. Jock was a bastard. A bastard who robbed people and a bastard who gave the residents of Under Town a bad name.

Jock knew that he wasn't liked and that people talked about him behind his back. That was why he hung out on the outside, mainly in the park with his two friends, who were both now dead, torn apart by some drug-crazed rich guy.

Skunk had eventually agreed to talk to Jock in private, which was a tunnel Skunk had all to himself and known as the throne room. There was a camp bed with a dirty duvet atop, a wardrobe, flat-screen television on the wall, an easy chair, and three full bookcases. Skunk had listened to Jock's story with great interest, and he at first didn't piece it together. After all, there was no new drug that he had heard about, and if there was a new drug, then he was sure he would have.

It was a well-known conspiracy among the residents of Under Town that Mayor Vesuvius had been hunting them down and slaughtering them, but it was kept quiet. Most who believed it was considered mad. Even Skunk had never considered it true and, like Jock, felt the homeless were being shipped somewhere not very pleasant. But after listening to Jock's story, the conspiracy occurred to him again.

"Thanks for bringing this to me, Jock." Skunk said, his mind still mulling it over. "There's a place for you here, you know that." Jock nodded, grateful for it. Jock might have been many things, but he wasn't stupid. He needed friends. "Good, good," Skunk soothed, "Because I got a feeling a war is coming, and it's gonna get bloody."