GunBarrel Gauntlet: The Last Bronze II

28. Bitch Boudisha.

That same night, Weary and Tiny staggered through tunnels of pipeline and concrete to reach a waiting chamber after hours of forced march toward the fuming chimney stacks of Gaswells. Imbedded in the landscape at the end of a road carved into the earth by the traffic of generations, the ancient refinery was a knotted mass of industrial pipes, venting a thick odour that permeated the air as it sat behind the high earthen walls.

These walls had been dug out from the depth of the dry moat they had crossed to enter the stronghold, collared and locked together on a long chain that was dragged by the impatient pull of a war chariot at the end of the raider's convoy that had returned from the slaughter.

Four others had been captured, the only ones left alive from the community that day, and like Weary and Tiny they had no energy to speak as they had jogged the merciless miles to finally be given rest here in the noise of the maintenance tunnels.

Panting as they lent against the walls of the passage, the echo of approaching men stirred them to lift their chins and behold a figure with a box-like cage over his head, secured to the shoulder brace he wore beneath it. A pair of attendants with electric cattle prods guarded this cage headed man, whom only wielded a pen and ledger book.

"All rise for the People Critic!" One of the bodyguards whipped an electric prod against the slumped captives, encouraging them to stand against the wall for inspection.

"All of 'em yours, Mister Critic, except these two here" The guard of the prison chain introduced the miserable beings, next pointing out Tiny and Weary from among them. "Take these two to Mercy the Castrator and tell 'im Herc wants to know all their secrets, inside and out."

"Wait!" A new voice echoed from the tunnels, footsteps pattering in a rush to find the chained captives. "Boudisha wants to speak with one of the outlanders, the smaller man."

Shrugging in apathy at the loss of a prisoner from the chain, the People Critic rolled his lips to frown.

"Release the dogmeat, and bind him wrist-to-collar before Bitch Boudisha speaks to him." People Critic drew a line through the number in his ledger, standing aside to allow room for Weary to be taken away.

* * *

Weary was led through the refinery complex to the tower he had seen rising above the rest of the structure, a bowl of flame venting over its roof in crimson-blue from the affect of the gas fuel it fed on. One of the other captives had become forlorn from the sight of it, whispering the name 'Olympus' when they had passed under its regal position near the heart of the stronghold.

The door was parted at the request of a deep feminine voice, opening onto a bizarre scene that was an equal mix of post-civilized decadence and tribe brutality. Museum pieces of what the past had been were stacked in piles against the walls, volumes of books, paintings, tall cabinet clocks and mechanical wonders surrounding the magnetic personality of an Amazonian queen whose outfit was as outrageous as she was wild and untameable:

The cups of her leather bodice were the faces of two skinned men, teased black clouds of hair framing a sharp face of flint blue eyes staring out from the abstract patterns of scarification on her cheeks. Just as surreal was the lion pacing the limits of the room, disturbed by some unknown pain as it turned back and forth in listless direction.

"Bring him close, to me." The wild woman lifted her chin slightly as she fixed her blue eyes on his features, becoming familiar with any hint of physical threats he could possibly deliver if left unguarded.

Displaying its teeth in a warning snarl, the lion continued to prowl as he was escorted to the wild woman at the centre of the room, Bitch Boudisha the Fleasheater.