Brute Force, page 1
Brute Force
Scott Meyer
Rocket Hat Industries
Copyright © 2023 Scott Meyer
All rights reserved
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means [electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise] without express written permission of the publisher.
ISBN: 978-1-950056-08-8
Cover illustration by Len Peralta: LenPeralta.com
Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Content Warning
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
Acknowledgements
About The Author
ALSO BY SCOTT MEYER
Content Warning
If you don’t like snakes, you won’t enjoy chapter 1.
If you don’t like violence, you won’t enjoy chapters 2 through 42.
1
As Cross opened the door, the hissing grew louder, a sound that raised the hairs on the back of his neck and made the most primitive parts of his brain scream danger.
He smiled at his younger sister and said, “After you.”
The thin plywood wall shook as he closed the door behind them.
The filth-covered bulb dangling from the ceiling barely provided enough light, but Cross and Albie didn’t mind. They’d lived their whole lives in the cave and knew that seeing it clearly wouldn’t make it more pleasant. Cross picked up and examined a long-sleeved shirt made of woven steel strands. He saw no holes, as usual, but the fraying at the left cuff was still there. Broken wires sprouted from what should have been a smooth, sharp line of folded metal mesh.
“It can protect me from anything but tetanus,” Cross said. He pulled the shirt on, taking care not to scratch his left hand on the frayed cuff, and stepped into a matching pair of steel mesh pants.
Albie leaned against the cave wall, her arms folded. “You have the easiest job,” she said, speaking up to be heard over the hissing, “and you still need my help to do it.”
Cross followed. “Look, Albatross, I get this job because I’m the oldest.”
“You’re the oldest now, since Burden got careless.”
“Yeah, and he got careless while doing this job. Now I do it so you and the other kids won’t have to, okay? Frankly, I’m getting sick of having to tell you this.”
“I’m eighteen. I’m no more a kid than you are,” Albie said.
“The fact that you’re eighteen means you’re four years more of a kid than I am. That’s how age works,” Cross said.
Albie opened a wooden chest to reveal a flesh-colored rubber bodysuit lying in a big flaccid lump. She grunted with exertion as she lifted it up as if she were dancing with it. She reached around with both hands and pulled the suit’s zipper open wide for Cross. It looked like she was simultaneously hugging a large naked man and tearing a hole in his back, which reminded Cross of some of his less pleasant dreams.
He took an extra breath to chase away any hint of claustrophobia that might have been hiding in the back of his brain, then slipped his arms and legs into the fleshy rubber blob. Albie took a step backward and held on to the suit’s foreskin-like turtleneck, lifting it up so Cross could duck his head under and through it.
The suit’s back hole stuck behind Cross’s bent knees and on his upper arms, forcing him to remain hunched over squatting, working his arms in circles to make the suit move inch by inch over his shoulders and up the backs of his thighs. Albie could have used her free hand to pull the suit up onto his shoulders, but instead she helped by offering encouragement.
“Squat and flap. That’s the way. Squat lower. Flap harder. Imagine you’re a chicken. I’ll get you in the mood. Bawk bawk bagawk.”
Cross grudgingly laughed as the rubber suit slipped over his shoulders, allowing him to stand up. “That doesn’t help, you know.”
Albie zipped up the back. “Eh, it didn’t hurt. Even if it did, that was the hardest part of your job. Now you get to take it easy the rest of the day.”
She helped him put on a full-face motorcycle helmet smeared with beige paint, two metal-lined oven mitts, then helped support his weight as he stepped into two large rubber boots, each covered with flat metal plates that had been pockmarked with thousands of tiny dents.
Albie graced Cross with a fake smile. “All comfy?”
Cross said, “No, but I’m willing to suffer for fashion.”
Albie snorted and headed for the cage door.
Together, they walked to the wall of fine-gauge chicken wire that sealed off the rest of the chamber. The hissing grew louder with each step, as the chicken wire held back a writhing sea of live cobras. Seeing the two humans approach the gate, hundreds of the snakes reared up, bared their fangs, and spread their hoods.
Albie swung the heavy wood bar on the gate, unlatching it but holding it closed, then looked back at Cross. Instead of asking if he was ready, she shook her head. “Lucky.”
Cross held up an antique push broom and nodded to his sister. She pulled the gate open and Cross stepped into the cobra cage, sweeping the snakes away from the door as he went. He’d barely cleared the cage door before Albie slammed it shut behind him. All of the cobras turned like radar dishes to face him. For a moment, everything was still, then the serpents started springing forward, wave after wave of them, from all directions, flying through the air and sinking their fangs into the outer skin of the loose rubber suit, their venom squirting against the suit’s inner skin and collecting in pouches around Cross’s ankles.
The cobras hung from the rubber suit like a hundred wriggling tentacles, pumping out all their venom before letting go and falling around Cross’s feet, clearing space for more cobras to leap forward and latch on.
“See?” Albie said. “How hard is this? The snakes are doing all the work. You just stand there.”
“And you think it’s easy to just stand here?!” The snakes swung outward like tassels as Cross spun around to face his sister. “It’s all I can do to not jump around and beg you to let me out. I don’t want to do this. It’s a nightmare, but this is the job I have. Someone has to milk the cobras. And that’s another thing. Everybody knows I milk the cobras. Do you have any idea the jokes and insults I have to put up with?”
“Yes I do, Cross, because everyone knows I bone the cobras. I get the same amount of crap, but I have to do real work. Do you know how many ribs these stupid things have?”
“Yes, I know they have a ton of ribs, because I used to bone them myself.”
“Yeah, I bet you did.”
“Very nice, Albatross.”
“No, tell me all about how you boned the cobras.”
“Oh, shut up. Doing this ain’t easy. It doesn’t take a lot of skill, but trust me, there are different kinds of difficult. Someday you’ll find that out. And this isn’t the only thing I do! It’s just the worst thing I do, so it gets all of the attention. I do lots of things.”
Cross and Albie both turned at the sound of the door squeaking open.
Their father, Rashid Agarwal, stood in the doorway, his lack of height and surplus of girth accentuated by his snakeskin bib overalls. He said, “Oh, for shit’s sake”—his customary greeting. “Cross, you do one thing, and I can’t trust you to do it right!”
Albie immediately looked away from their father and pursed her lips, trying to keep from laughing, or at least keep him from seeing her laugh.
Cross held his arms out to the side, displaying many hanging snakes. “I’m getting bit by cobras. How can I do that wrong? Should I try to be chewier?”
Albie turned away from Cross as well, pressing her lips harder into a full pucker and closing her eyes.
Rashid smiled for half a second. “It’s not how you’re doing it. It’s when you’re doing it, smart-ass. You and Miss Giggles there are supposed to milk first thing in the morning!”
Albie began to shake.
“But, but,” Cross sputtered, “it’s the morning, Dad! This is the first thing we’re doing!”
Rashid dramatically jabbed a finger in the air. “Technicalities! You should be done by now.”
Albie composed herself enough to blurt out, “It’s not my fault Cross woke me up late.”
“I shouldn’t have to wake her up,” Cross said. “She can hear the alarm clock. She knows what it means. She’s an adult. Hell, I’m an adult! I should have my own room.”
Rashid said, “You should have your own house, with your own wife inside it to provide me with the grandchildren I so richly deserve.”
“Why can’t I use your office?”
<
Albie let out a loud snort.
“No! As my bedroom!”
Albie snorted again. “Yeah. We all know the grandchildren thing ain’t happening any time soon.”
Rashid shook his head. “For shame. You’d selfishly deprive your beloved father of his office just so you have a private bedroom, when I’m already berating you for sleeping too much as it is? I don’t see why you’re complaining about sharing a room anyway. You kids have the biggest bedroom in the habitable zone.”
“That’s the problem. It’s too big. It’s creepy big.”
“Oh, what a burden you kids bear, saddled with a father who’s too generous. And don’t think I didn’t notice that you changed the subject. Why were you late?”
“I didn’t want to get out of bed, because I knew when I did, I’d have to do this!” Cross spun around, displaying the writhing cobras hanging from his body. Several more sprung at him in the process.
“That’s . . .” Rashid paused, then laughed. “A good point, actually.”
They all shared a laugh for a moment, until Rashid snapped back into his stern face. “But it changes nothing. You think I don’t know what it’s like to milk the cobras? I used to milk the cobras! I put on that awful rubber suit every morning, crack of dawn, sweating bullets from sheer terror the whole time!”
“I hope you cleaned it.”
“Have you ever seen me clean it? Don’t be stupid, boy. Stop cringing! Some of the venom might slosh out!”
“The suit’s never been cleaned?”
“Oh, what are you afraid of? That our venom’s gonna get contaminated? Maybe make someone sick? Now stop dawdling. Kid-Stretcher Kyle’s sending out a battle convoy on short notice, so you’re on arrow-dipping duty.”
“Why?”
“Because I told you to, and you respect and adore me.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
Albie said, “Or how either of us feels.”
Cross said, “Agreed. I meant: Why is he sending out the convoy on short notice?”
“Cross, Albatross, what am I?”
Cross and Albie both groaned.
“What am I?” Rashid persisted.
Albie said, “A cantankerous old fart.”
Cross said, “A depressing reminder that my good looks will fade someday?”
Albie said, “Angry at everybody and everything.”
“Fatherhood will do that to you. Aside from all that, what am I?”
Albie rolled her eyes as she and Cross both said, “An old cobra rancher.”
“That’s right. I am an old cobra rancher. That means I’m smart. Why?”
Albie said, “Because dumb cobra ranchers don’t live long.”
“Bingo. It seems to me that asking a warlord named Kid-Stretcher Kyle ‘why’ is an excellent way to die young. He didn’t give himself that nickname, you know. Other people did, people who had kids. So you’re going to take a jug of venom over to his HQ with a quickness and then dip every arrow he tells you to. Understand?”
Cross said, “Yeah.”
“I hope you do. I really hope you do. Both of you. Because you’re my two oldest children. You need to set an example for Millie and Anchor. Eventually you two are going to have to keep all of this running without my help.”
Albie nodded. “When you’re gone.”
“Me? Gone? Never! I’ll outlive all of you little snots! But someday I’ll retire and stop doing anything. I’ll just shout at you to bring me food, which you will do out of respect and gratitude.”
All three of them laughed.
Rashid said, “You’re both lucky your grandmother isn’t here to see you treating your beloved father with such disrespect. She’d kick both your asses, and then she’d kick mine for having helped make you. God rest her belligerent soul. Now git! Kid-Stretcher Kyle is waiting. There’s a jug of yesterday’s venom waiting by the entrance. And you’d better take a baby cobra with you, just in case.”
Rashid held up an old decorative tin, a cylinder about five inches across and eight inches tall with holes punched in the bottom to let air in. Bright red letters on the side of the tin read Deluxe Peanut Brittle. Cross knew what each of those words meant individually, but he didn’t understand why the very best peanuts would shatter more easily. But the writing on the side of the can was unimportant. What mattered was the tiny snake writhing inside the can. Baby cobras made excellent self-defense snakes, as they weighed next to nothing, but their bites were highly concentrated with venom. Also, because they were young, Rashid considered them expendable, a point that resonated unpleasantly for Cross.
“And Cross, wear the jacket.”
“Aw, Dad, I hate the jacket. The flaps make it hard to move my arms.”
“Those flaps are what make it look like a cobra’s hood. That’s just good branding. And I didn’t ask if you liked it. I told you to wear it. Besides, that jacket is your birthright. Your grandmother made that jacket and wore it for years before she passed it on to me. Luckily, she was not a bosomy woman. And now you wear the jacket.”
“It’s stupid. And it smells like two generations’ worth of sweat and resentment.”
“The resentment is all you, Cross. The sweat smell’s a problem though. I give you that.”
Cross waved his arms and twisted his body, shaking loose the last few dangling cobras as he stepped toward the cage door. “I’ll run over as soon as I’m done emptying the venom pouches.”
Rashid smiled. “Eh, let Albie handle that.”
At the same moment, Cross said that was a great idea and Albie said it was a terrible idea.
Cross stepped out of the cage, removed his helmet, and whipped off his gloves, while Albie closed the gate and grudgingly opened the back of the suit. Cross slumped forward with his arms together, allowing the suit’s flaccid rubber mass to fall around his feet in a quivering heap. “There you go, Sis! All yours.”
The hissing and Albie’s complaints grew quieter as Cross closed the milking cavern door behind him and headed into the deepest part of the cave, to what they called the kids’ room.
Cross’s bed was one of four crowded together within the dim glow of a dust-covered LED bulb that stayed on at all times. Without it, the cavern became too dark even to sleep in comfortably. Children are sometimes afraid of the dark; it turns out people of all ages are afraid of—or at least unnerved by—total, profound darkness.
Beyond the beds was a black void, as the bulb’s light petered out before it could penetrate into the vast chamber. The only sound, aside from Cross’s youngest brother snoring, was the constant drip of water echoing in the distance. Some days it sounded more like a trickle, though others it grew to a small stream. Cross didn’t know how large the cavern was or what might be in it, only that some part of it out there was wet.
Cross grabbed the heirloom jacket draped over his headboard and put it on, admiring how well the cobra skin had held up, and hating the flaps running between the jacket’s sides, arms, and hood.
Cross looked to Anchor, the youngest of the family at fourteen, still sleeping in his bed. Cross reached out as much as the jacket would let him to gently shake Anchor’s shoulder.
Anchor stopped snoring and said, “Don’t touch me.”
“It’s time to get up, Anchor.”
“You’re up enough for both of us.”
“I gotta go. I can’t stay here nagging you.”
“Good.”
As Cross went back up the incline, past the milking cavern, into the main living quarters, he heard the usual low hum and rhythmic thumping. It didn’t surprise him to find his sister Millie trudging on the treadmill that powered the batteries feeding the cave lights, leaning far forward against the stationary handgrip while pushing the belt back with all her might. Her eyes brightened when she saw Cross. “Here to take over?”
“No. I have to go. Dipper duty for a battle convoy.”
“Lucky.”
“Millie, I’m going to be risking my life.”
“Yeah,” she grunted, straining against the treadmill. “But at least you’ll get to sit down while you do it.”
2
Cross sat in the camper, carefully dipping razor-sharp arrows into the plastic jug of cobra venom. His legs gripped the metal bar that supported the camper’s dining table in hopes of keeping himself in place and puncture-free. The truck crawled forward into the grit wind, its chassis wallowing on overloaded leaf springs, struggling to support the weight of the armor-plated camper in the bed.
