James Axler - Polestar Omega

“What happens next in a civilized society?” Ryan asked through gritted teeth.

“We sit back and watch while the drugs do their work.” Lima nodded to the black suits, who shoved him over to the side of the bed. “They’re going to reposition the cuffs. It’s for your comfort and safety, so please do not resist.”

Ryan let them drag him onto the bed, the head of which was tilted up. They then unfastened and relocked one of the cuffs around the steel bed frame. From shoulder to fingertips, his arms felt as though they’d been hit with pickaxes. Even though he had one hand free, there wasn’t much he could do with it except make a weak fist. As they hauled him onto the clean but holey sheet, he saw the full-length, rubber barrier beneath it.

“Do you expect me to piss myself?” Ryan asked.

“Stranger things have happened. Now we’re going to retire to the observation room and leave you to enjoy your experience.”

As the door closed, Ryan tested the strength of the rail by jerking on the cuff and was instantly sorry. Contracting the muscle sent a spearpoint twisting deep in his right shoulder. And the rail didn’t flex.

On the far side of the glass, Lima and the two women took their posts, clipboards balanced on their knees.

It felt as if the pink gunk was expanding, ballooning under his skin and his muscles began to throb with every heartbeat. Every time his shoulders tensed involuntarily, an ache traveled down the nerves of his arms, to his wrists and fingertips. And along with the ache was an intense burning sensation.

Maybe he had made a mistake in not giving the order to fight balls-out from the start? Maybe he was too nukin’ cagey for his own good?

He shut off that line of thought. There was no point in second-guessing himself. The logic that led to his decision still stood. Trapped on a remote freezing waste, apparently outnumbered, chained and disarmed, they had to find a way back to the mat-trans. It was their best, and perhaps their only chance to escape.

The air in the room seemed suddenly a lot warmer. Beads of sweat started dripping down his face and from under his arms. Every time he breathed in, it felt as if flames were licking down his throat and inside his nose, scorching his lungs. His joints ached, and his leg muscles started to cramp. Groaning, he pulled his knees to his chest and curled on his side.

Would Lima go to this much trouble just to get a victim to torture like J.B. had said? No, he decided, the torture and humiliation was a bonus, a welcome entertainment. Whitecoats as a breed lusted after facts, not victims. The costs and the consequences to individuals meant nothing to them.

Beneath the yellow coveralls, a coating of perspiration lubricated Ryan’s entire body—even between his toes. It was getting harder and harder for him to hold a train of thought for more than a second or two. The window and the door opposite the bed began to swim before his eye, as if he were looking through heat waves rising from sunbaked tarmac.

Poison, Ryan thought. These bastards are testing poison on me.

Then a rushing sound came from the ceiling grate directly above him. The suction from a tremendous updraft plucked at his hair and scalp. He was struck by a series of wrenching, head-to-foot chills. Perhaps from the current of air sweeping over his body? Perhaps from what had been put into his body? The shakes became so violent they made the bed frame rattle. His teeth chattered uncontrollably. Or maybe it was all inside his head? The sound, the sensation, nothing but fevered hallucinations?

He couldn’t hold that thought, either.

The world around him blurred, and when it refocused he was staring into a pair of gleaming, violet eyes. Long blond hair framed a face he knew all too well. Sharona Carson, wife of Baron Alias Carson, stood over him naked, her body oiled, reflecting the dancing firelight from the great stone hearth beside them. He was naked, too, on his back on a bearskin rug. Golden goblets of red wine and a crystal decanter were set out on the flagstone floor. In the withering heat of blazing logs, Sharona parted her knees and opened her thighs to him.

“I am a treasure,” she said, her eyes narrowing as she stroked herself. “Plunder me, you one-eyed bastard.”

“I don’t want this,” Ryan heard himself say. Low-pitched and gravelly, it didn’t sound like his voice.

“Oh, yes you do.” She pointed a finger at his loins and laughed. “Very definitely you do.”

Ryan tried to move and couldn’t raise the back of his head from the rug. It was so hot it felt like the side of his body facing the fire was about to burst into flames.

Sharona knelt, straddling his hips, and leaned forward, the tips of her long hair grazed his face and chest, crawling slowly across his skin. Then she straightened, reaching behind her back—and down.

He gasped as her fingers closed on him, and as if of its own accord, his right hand shot up to seize her by the throat.

With a rocking jolt, scene and setting changed. No longer on his back, no longer naked, he ran full tilt down a narrow, low-ceilinged hallway. His companions raced ahead of him carrying torches. Their speed and arm motion made the flames flicker wildly, producing a strobe light effect. It was difficult to tell where the floor ended and the walls began. They were trying to put distance between them and the muties in pursuit. They didn’t know how many of them there were; Ryan couldn’t count the number they had already chilled. The handle of the panga felt slippery and wet in his fingers, and the smell of spilled blood was thick in his nose. He gulped for air through his mouth, but try as he might he couldn’t quite catch his breath, like he had been running uphill for miles.

Part of him recognized the situation—he had been here before. It was like the redoubt in New Mex they had just left, only it was hot. Why was it so nukin’ hot?

As they all rounded a corner, J.B., Jak, Krysty, Mildred, Doc and Ricky skidded to a sudden halt, forcing him to stop, as well. Torchlight revealed a concrete stairwell and steps leading upward, right to left. The wall between the floor and the first landing above was carpeted in pale skin and writhing, spindly forms. The stickies were in a mating pyramid, sucker hands fixed to the wall and to one another. The crackle and hiss of the torches mingled with the moans and squeaks, and a chorus of wet, rhythmic sucking sounds. There were easily fifty of them in sight, thrusting and squirming in ecstasy. The copious juices this frenzy produced flowed over their naked bodies from top to bottom like a milky waterfall, and pooled on the floor at the foot of the wall. In the narrow space, the acrid stench was gut-wrenching.

Before the companions could retreat, the hairless heads of those at the bottom of the pyramid turned toward the blaze of the torches, which reflected in unblinking eyes as black as night, soulless shark eyes. Maws drooling with pleasure suddenly bared rows of savage needle teeth.

Stickies loved chilling even more than mating; the prospect of it sent them into an even higher gear of frenzy.

Mass coitus interruptus ensued. The muties closest to them peeled away from their coupling. They were spindly bastards but strong. Their sucker hands could pull the flesh from bone, or fasten hard with the natural adhesive they produced and then rip at will with their jaws.

Bare feet and puddles of love juice on polished concrete made for poor traction. The onrushing stickies slipped and slid, some fell, some dropped to all fours, scrambling to try to gain purchase, which gave the companions a momentary advantage. Ryan lunged forward, bringing his panga down in a tight, full-power arc. The heavy blade split the crown of a kneeling stickie’s skull, cleaving it apart like a ball of soft, moist cheese all the way to the chin. When he ripped the panga free, dark blood geysered from the crevice and sprayed across the tops of his boots.