Bait

Originally published by Dark Fire Fiction in 2020. 

Anton chose a knife without knowing the strange meats it had once cut.

"Good choice!" Mr. Sokolov smacked him on the back. "That's my old blade! Turn around. Hold it up."

The long knife swung like a metronome.

"Not like that." Mr. Sokolov's hairy paws swallowed Anton's small hand and he leaned close. Gusts of tobacco-scented breath buffeted Anton's face. "You must be steady. This work is precise. Do you understand?"

Yes, Anton understood all too well.

"I'm sure your father has told you." Mr. Sokolov motioned for Anton to follow him deeper into the butcher shop. "It's a shame what happened. Such a terrible accident. He was really something before that."

Anton tried to imagine Father with a left arm. And even though he spoke often about butchery, Anton couldn't picture him in a place like this, with its clean surfaces and bright lights. In filth and darkness, that's where Father lived.

"And here you are to pick up the trade, help your family, eh?" Mr. Sokolov shook his head. "Well, we do what we must." He took hold of a slab of marbled pink flesh and unsheathed his blade. "Let the knife do the work. Pull it through. See? You try."

"Is this bacon?"

"Something like that." Mr. Sokolov grinned for the first time.

Anton tried to keep his hand still as he cut through the meat, but the resulting slice was too thick in the middle.

"Way too slow. Watch me again."

As Mr. Sokolov demonstrated his skill, Anton noticed snakes of scar tissue running along his forearms. Had he cut himself working?

"Go fast, okay?"

Maybe Anton could pretend the knife was a paint brush. No, that was no use. His hand didn't shake when he painted, sure, but he worked slowly, deliberately.

Anton lifted his blade.

"Fast!" Mr. Sokolov shouted.

Anton spasmed and his hand jerked. The knife slid through flesh, but it was his own. Blood gushed onto the meat and soaked in like a marinade.

"Chyort!" Mr. Sokolov swore. "Hold it against your apron while I get something."

As his wrist throbbed against his sternum, Anton bit down on his tongue. He wouldn't cry. He couldn't recall feeling pain like this, but he wouldn't cry.

Mr. Sokolov returned with gauze. "You are like your mother, pokoysya s mirom. Shaking like a leaf. Built like her, too. Skin and bones."

Pokoysya s mirom. Rest in peace. Anton knew little Russian, but his relatives – the ones who came over – had repeated this phrase at the funeral.

"You knew my mother?"

"Did I know your mother?" Mr. Sokolov grunted. "Of course you wouldn't know. Why would she ever talk about Gleb Sokolov?"

Anton waited for Mr. Sokolov to elaborate.

"Who could do such a terrible thing to a woman?" Mr. Sokolov shook his head. "I hope they catch him soon." He pointed at Anton's wrist. "That'll help for now, but you need stitches. I'll call Dr. Pankrat and tell him to meet you at home."

"He can't come here?"

Mr. Sokolov leaned back against the steel table that held the blood-soaked meat. "Anton, this work – I don't think it's for you. Perhaps something else would be better."

Something else? Only Mr. Sokolov's shop remained open. There was nothing else.

"Can I try once more? You can dock my pay for the meat I ruined."

Mr. Sokolov shook his head and held out his hand for Anton's soiled apron.

#

Anton sat with his back against his bedroom door since it had no lock. If Father woke and crawled off the couch, Anton's body would give him a moment to hide what he held.

The thick book open in his lap stunk. Anton had pulled it out of the garbage and many of its pages bore the stain of leftover solyanka. He'd scraped off what he could, but there was no saving some of the symbols within. Still, many remained. Maybe one would help him make some money.

Anton knew there was nothing lucrative in the first handful of pages. Home remedies, small blessings. He'd practiced them with cheap paints on scrap paper, even copied the notes beneath on their uses while Mother watched.

No, he needed to turn to the ones she hadn't shown him. Except once.

#

"Anton."

Anton opened his eyes. Mother's smile shone in the candlelight, her curls cast shadows on her cheeks.

"I have the book." She lifted it from her thighs. "Want to see?"

Anton nodded and moved closer.

"Doesn't this one look like Mrs. Orlov?" Mother laughed. Her breath smelt of wine.

Maybe the top part looked like the hats Mrs. Orlov wore? Anton didn't really see the resemblance, but he laughed anyway.

"Put this one on someone and – presto! – they can't move." Mother's hand shot to her mouth. "Oops. Blabbermouth."

Mother laid her forearm on the page, lined up a large blemish with the page's middle mark. "That one is my bruise."

Maybe it did look the same – like several thick fingers – but Anton couldn't look away from the real thing. She'd never shown him her injuries, though he'd glimpsed others at the edges of her clothing.

"Snake with a lion's head," Anton said.

"What?"

Anton pointed at the last symbol on the page. It had no use listed. "That one. See the tail? And the hair?"

Mother frowned. "Right. That one." She closed the book. Stood up. "I'm sorry I woke you." She patted his head. "Go back to sleep."

#

The door slammed into Anton's back.

"Why can't I open this door? Anton!"

Anton slid the book beneath a pile of dirty clothes then hopped out of the way.

Father wore only a t-shirt and briefs spotted with stains. Beside him stood old Dr. Pankrat clutching his black medical bag.

"Why is the doctor here? What did you do now?"

Anton held out his arm. "I—"

"You cut yourself?" Father threw his head back. "I knew you'd mess up."

"May I?" Dr. Pankrat asked.

Father waved him forward. "Well done, Anton. Instead of making money today, you cost me some."

Anton sat down on his bed and Dr. Pankrat pulled over the desk chair. As he unwound the gauze, he explained, "Actually, Mr. Sokolov paid."

Father snorted. "Gleb paid? Well, he can afford it."

Dr. Pankrat wiped the wound with an antiseptic and Anton winced.

"Go back," Father said. "When the doctor's done, you're going back."

"But Mr. Sokolov said to find something else."

"‘Something else!' Give me a break! There is nothing else and he knows it."

The doctor pulled a syringe out of his bag.

Anton flinched.

Father made a noise of disgust. "I lost my whole arm, boy. This is nothing."

The needle prick was the worst of it. Anton welcomed the relief of the anesthetic.

When Dr. Pankrat had left, Father said, "Back you go, then."

"I can't. I'll do something else."

"Where is it?"

Anton didn't understand what Father was looking for until it was kicked out of the pile of dirty clothes.

"Here it is!"

Anton gasped, prompting Father to chuckle.

"You thought you were sneaky, trash picker?" Father flipped the book open with his toes and then stamped a grimy sole down on a page of symbols. "I've been meaning to do this."

"Please, don't!"

Father reached down and tore the book in half. He tossed one part to Anton. It hit him in the chest and fell to the floor.

"You want the rest, you'll get your job back."

#

"Your arm looks better." Mr. Sokolov filled the doorway of his shop.

It didn't feel much better, but the pain had distracted Anton from worrying about what he'd do when Mr. Sokolov told him there were no second chances.

"As it turns out, I thought of a use for you." The big man stepped back from the shop's doorway, hand behind his back.

"Really? Great!" Anton stepped past Mr. Sokolov into the dimly lit shop. "Are you still open?"

"Closing early."

"Oh. So what will you have me – "

Something sharp pricked Anton in the back of the neck.

He raised a hand toward the pain and took a couple halting steps. "What..."

His vision narrowed to a sliver.

And then that sliver tilted.

#

Snake with a lion's head. Anton opened his eyes and saw the symbol painted in red on his right pectoral.

He tried to stand and found himself bound with thick, brown rope where he sat, wrists together behind him, ankles to the chair's legs. He pushed against the restraints to no avail.

"Your mother and me were close once," Mr. Sokolov said.

The butcher stood in the middle of a large dirt clearing between Anton and a wall of pine trees. The cleavers in his hands glimmered in the light from a nearby blaze.

"Used to work if we put that mark on a pig or a lamb, but I guess the beasts got bored of those."

An odd noise rolled out of the trees, like rocks being gargled. Branches snapped.

"Speak of the devil." Mr. Sokolov shouted at the forest and clanged his blades together. He was answered by a hiss loud enough to be heard over the fire's crackle.

What emerged from the trees made Anton's stomach turn. While it had a body akin to a wolf, the tail curved above its hindquarters was segmented like a scorpion's. Its green, glowing eyes found Anton and it rushed at him.

Mr. Sokolov stepped into its path, and when it made to go around him, he brought his cleavers down on its head.

Anton shut his eyes against the creature's death throes.

Mr. Sokolov laughed. "I wouldn't eat it either. But those that will, well, they pay well."

And so it went for a little while. A rustle in the woods. An unnatural beast – a bear cub with lobster claws; a hog with enormous sharp teeth; a dragonfly the size of a horse – fixed on Anton. And Mr. Sokolov's cleavers striking it down.

Until something went wrong.

It looked kind of like a blue alligator with a column of white feathers down its back. It had put up more of a fight, making Mr. Sokolov dodge its snapping jaws, and he stood breathing heavily next to its still body. Green blood oozed out of the gashes in its hide, staining some of its feathers.

"Haven't seen one of these before. That was – Mudak! It's still–"

Mr. Sokolov fell back from the beast's clamped jaws missing a foot. His stump sprayed red on the alligator's snout. He dropped his blades and then fell down between them. Gripped his calf. Screamed.

Anton swallowed the acid that rose up into his throat.

The blue alligator swung its head toward him, took a couple steps on stubby legs, and then fell still.

Beyond its corpse, Mr. Sokolov tore off his shirt and then grabbed a large stick nearby. His groans of pain as he tightened this makeshift tourniquet made Anton sob.

Anton wanted to close his eyes, shut it all out, but feared more monsters might appear.

There was movement in the trees.

"Pizdets!" Mr. Sokolov swore. "No! No more!"

Two insect-like creatures the size of sheep skittered out of the forest.

Mr. Sokolov picked up his cleavers and rose to his knees, groaning, skin glistening with sweat. As the beetles crawled past him, he brought both blades down on the one closest.

They slid off its rigid covering.

It kept on, unfazed, and Mr. Sokolov collapsed face down in the dirt.

The beasts had some ground to cover and were slow-moving; if Anton couldn't get free, that wouldn't matter. He grit his teeth, planted his feet and pushed against the ropes with all his strength. The fibers bit into his skin and his stitches throbbed. Anton gasped. Tried again, muscles bulging, knot on his head pulsing. He slumped, panting.

The creatures kept coming, sliding over Mr. Sokolov's kills. As one crested a corpse, the firelight illuminated the underside of its head. It had no real mouth, no jaws, just a needle-like protrusion.

Anton shook wildly and shouted. In his convulsions, he ended up teetering on the chair's back legs. He couldn't spin his arms or kick out his legs. Panic gripped him. He would fall, stuck staring at the sky until the insect's needles plunged into him.

But gravity spared him. He landed with a thud and the wooden chair creaked in protest, giving him an idea. If it failed, he'd end up worse off – stuck in the position he'd just avoided – but the monsters had made it into his half of the clearing and Mr. Sokolov lay still.

He wriggled his body around in the seat, listening. Back left: that was the weak spot. Anton threw his weight at it, but the chair held.

The insects would be on him in a few minutes. How long would he live after they punctured him? Would they leave his husk behind after they sucked him dry? And would some other strange beast come along to finish off what they'd left?

Anton drove his body with as much force as he could muster, bound as he was. This time it was enough. The leg snapped.

Anton grunted as he landed on his arms. The chair back dug into both his triceps and his spine and his vision swam. Too many injuries, too much pain in one day. He needed to move, break the weakened chair further, but his body remained still.

And a new agony arrived. His leg, elevated by the chair, exploded with torment. Anton lifted his head, screaming, to see one of the creature's needles stuck deep into his calf.

Anton bucked and the chair collapsed, back and legs snapping away from the seat. The needle tore out of his leg, sending a fresh wave of fire up his thigh.

The beast bowed its head to reinsert.

And its head fell onto his legs, spurting purple fluid.

Mr. Sokolov swayed on his knees, stradling the beast's body. He pointed his cleaver, arm shaking, at the other one. "C'mon, mudak, let's see what you got," he slurred.

It hesitated a moment, needle poised above Anton's stomach, and then turned and started back toward the forest.

Mr. Sokolov looked surprised and then fell forward, collapsing onto his last kill.

Anton gasped at the night sky.

"Look." Mr. Sokolov's head rested on the insect's hard back. He pointed at Anton's chest.

Part of the mark was gone, most of the lion's head. Sweat from the fire and Anton's exertions must have begun to dissolve the paint.

Mr. Sokolov rose up on his elbows. He still held the cleaver.

Anton flinched.

"Relax." Mr. Sokolov leaned forward, grunting, and cut the chair legs free from Anton. "Better wrap that wound. Roll over."

Anton bent his legs and tried to stand, but couldn't rise without the help of his arms.

"Roll over, Anton. I just saved your life."

Once the rope around his wrists was cut, Anton rose on his good leg.

"Your father never liked using the mark, but he did like the money." Mr. Sokolov let out a wet sounding laugh. "Until his arm was bitten off, anyway."

Anton held out a hand.

Mr. Sokolov swatted it away. "I'm a dead man. Just help me off of this nasty thing."

Once rolled off the insect corpse onto his back, Mr. Sokolov said, "I loved your mother. If your father hadn't come around – well, he did. But she only showed me the marks. And I never let on she was the ‘witch' that taught me. But I guess he must've found out…"

"He found out? Mr. Sokolov?" Anton shook Mr. Sokolov's shoulder. "Mr. Sokolov?"

#

"How did Mother die?" Anton stood above Father lying on the couch.

Father tried to rise. "Why can't I move? What did you do?" He took in Anton's sweaty flesh, the bloody cloth around his calf. "What the hell happened to you?"

Mother was right. Now that Anton saw it on flesh instead of paper, the mark really did look like Mrs. Orlov.

Father tried to rise again then gritted his teeth and grunted.

"You butchered her."

"She lied to me!" Father's eyes bulged, the tendons in his neck stood out. "She hid her devil's work! I burned the book after you left."

"Was it 'devil's work' when it made you money?"

Anton knelt and picked up his brush.

"What are you doing? Anton!"

Anton didn't need the book to paint the symbol. It was simple. Just a snake with a lion's head.