The Warlords Physician Ch 05

"Another new slave," Warcry remarked with disinterest, hobbling toward his bed with the help of his rusty metal crutch. A towel rested between it and his armpit, to soften its constant blow. "Tutor or gunmaster?"

"What?" Needle asked. He was caught off guard by the question, and by the way he was staring at his new owner. Butterflies stirred in his stomach, unless they were actually hunger pangs. It was a new, unfamiliar sensation, and he was not sure if he liked it.

"Are you a tutor or a gunmaster?" the young man, almost a boy, asked impatiently.

"I'm your new physician, sir," said Needle, stammering over his words. He suddenly realized the reality of his situation. He had been purchased. It was what the Canyon Crazies told him would happen in the years they spent honing his medical skills, but it didn't feel quite real until he stood inside that clean, undecorated chamber. Everything until then was just a hazy dream. And while many slaves would go from owner to owner, bought and used up and sold again, he had never gone through this experience. He was lucky, in only that way.

"Ah a physician," Warcry noted, taking a stumbling walk around the chained wastrel. He examined his new purchase the same way his father had. Prodding, poking fingers brushed against the thin man's rags. There was something electric in that touch, and while it only lasted for a second, they both felt it. A mysterious surge of energy, fired from reaches unknown, stirring the butterflies they both felt. But Warcry ignored them, so accustomed to the comforts of owning a slave. "I don't know why my father thinks you'll be able to change anything. It's an injury." He gestured to his leg. Hidden beneath loose and faded jeans, it was still noticeably still. "Doesn't move. Nerves are severed. You can't fix that."

Needle racked his mind, searching the encyclopedias of medical knowledge he wished he'd memorized better. There were days when he wouldn't even be allowed to eat unless he could name all the bones in the hand. Phalanges. Ulna. Radius. But he couldn't think of any reasonable treatment for a nerve injury. He didn't know how to operate the sort of surgery that could solve that problem, and it was likely too many years too late.

"I'm sorry, sir," was all he could offer.

Warcry slumped over to the dresser beside his bed and rummaged through it for a bottle of whiskey, half empty. He didn't even pour a glass. "Tired of hearing that. You wouldn't believe how many wannabe highwaymen apologize to me about something they didn't even cause. It's pathetic.

"Sir, I'm not sorry about your leg." Careful now, Needle. One wrong word and he could lose his life. "I'm sorry that I cannot help you."

Warcry raised an eyebrow, for once unsure of what to say. Slaves were weird, he decided as he took a swig of the dark liquor. It burned his throat, but the sweet aftertaste was worth the pain. "Try some," he ordered, holding out the bottle in front of the slave.

Needle looked at the bottle, then at Warcry. With only a moment's hesitation, he took the bottle. He'd never gotten to drink alcohol before, and that thought never even occurred to him. He'd seen people drink though, so he knew not to chug it like water. He tilted the bottle back, just for a moment, and his tongue felt like it was bathed in acid. But he kept it down.

Warcry took back the bottle as Needle wiped the stray drink off his chin. His chains rattled as he moved. "That's a good boy," he said, returning the cork to the bottle. There were many more bottles of whiskey, saved and stored from before the war, or offered as tribute by survivors in Overdog territory, all throughout the palace. Highwaymen had no shortage of booze. "This is the part where you tell me about your qualifications. Previous work experience. Training. Not like I can fire you or anything, but I'd like to know what I'm dealing with."

It was an odd request, but he complied. "Yes, sir. My dad ran a clinic in our hometown, a little bitty farming village. Some highwaymen showed up demanding food. Took slaves instead. He died, but they figured I'd learned enough from him that I'd be worth something. Canyon Crazies drilled me with medical info. Textbooks and that sort of stuff. I spent years there."

Warcry shrugged. "Good enough for me. Most new slaves flounder when things get person." He chuckled to himself, recalling all those funny stories. "Never gets old."

"What would you like me to do for you sir?" Needle asked, not knowing what else to say but feeling he should say something.

The new owner seemed to ponder this for a moment, then glanced at his tables and the computers on them. "Organize my tech. Size order."

"Yes, sir."

It was tedious work, running his hands over those cracked screens and trying to sort them meaningfully. It was a bit annoying when a screen was taller than what might have been a CPU, but the CPU was wider. But he couldn't ask for help. This was obviously a test of some kind, and he resolved not to fail. So, he did his best, recalling fond memories of the games he used to play on such electronics. Phone calls too. He missed those.

While Needle got to work sorting out six tables of electronics, Warcry looked over his bookshelf. Some of the books were common classics, like the Time Machine and Crime and Punishment, and they were really only read at the behest of his tutors. Snake insisted that his son not be "an utter dumbass like the rest of this company", so he spent a lot of time with tutors. And as much as they disliked it, he spent his time with what they deemed "pop drivel." The Hunger Games. Harry Potter. Legend. Some were surprisingly relevant despite being written before the war.

The books and scrap electronics came from the same place as the old booze: tribute. Travelers seeking safe passage through Overdog lands, or protection from other gangs, would offer what they could to the warlord. Books and electronics were a good start, but weaponry and gasoline and medicine were often offered as well. Those travelers generally lived by the radioactive ruins of old cities and scavenged what they could from the rubble. It was a sad, sorry existence they led, but it was an existence nonetheless.

Warcry couldn't help but respect the scavengers who rove the wasteland, nothing but the sack over their shoulder and gun on their hip. They were loners, solos, with nothing to tie them down. Nothing like a despot father or a metal crutch.

He lied down with a copy of some classic novel about a guy living by a pond. One of his tutors left it for him before his execution. Who would have thought that tutors could seduce slave women? Who would have thought that it could incite an execution?

Needle didn't say a word when he finally finished sorting the scrap. The sun had set beyond the window and the only sources of light buzzed electric above. He waited patiently while Warcry read his book, page after page, into the evening.

"I'm expected at the banquet tonight," Warcry said, tossing the thin book onto the blue bedsheets. "You're going to make me presentable."

The mention of a banquet made Needle's mouth water, though he couldn't quite imagine anything besides the gruel he'd been fed the last few years. But he didn't complain as his stomach growled in pain, right beside that oddly nervous gut feeling that Warcry gave him. He just followed the limping warlord into the bathroom adjacent to the chamber.

Living in a cage made the idea of a bathroom seem extravagant and luxurious. But even by pre-war standards, this one would have been over the top. While it was clearly designed, originally, for a large group of people divided into stalls, it had been modified to include only a single toilet and a massive tub.

Warm lights shone above onto the harsh white tile. Some of the tile was torn up and covered in mildew. Needle was certain that he or another slave would be responsible for cleaning that later on.

Needle did not have to be prompted to turn on the water. He felt a twinge of jealousy as the warm water ran out the spout. So many years and not a warm bath in any of them. He'd gotten washed a few times, but always with cold water and a hose, and never with soap. The last time that happened was so long ago, and he was suddenly aware of how rank he must have smelled and how thick the layer of dirt on his skin was.

Water filled the tub and Warcry slipped out of his jeans. Needle had only seen Snake briefly during the battle earlier that day, but what he'd caught of the nude warrior was impressive. His son was less magnificent, but that didn't stop him from catching his breath.

There was nothing unique about Warcry's body. He was not as muscular as his father, but was cut the way someone might get if they didn't eat enough and ran a few miles a day. Some male pleasure slaves had the same build, Needle had noticed in the past.

There was something smooth about his chest, with only a few hairs sticking out. He pulled his hair out of the ponytail and hung his head back, water submerging him up to his shoulders. Steam slipped off the surface and all the tension in his face seemed to melt away as he closed his eyes. His one good foot rested atop the far edge of the tub, and the other sank to the bottom, unbridled.

Needle rejected the unconscious urge to look down, but he had to wonder how well-endowed his new master was. If he was anything like Snake, it would be impressive. But the water turned murky with suds, and he missed his chance to look.

The bathroom had a pail with sponges and bars of soap inside, likely left by the last slave charged with this duty. Needle's chains clanged as he rubbed the soap up and down Warcry's body, bits of bubbles dripping down passed his nipple. His skin was so soft, not coarse and rough like the rags Needle wore.

The physician, relegated to the role of bath-boy, scrubbed downward and downward, until he ventured between the man's legs. A few wandering fingers elicited a chuckle from Warcry as they started to stroke something they weren't supposed to. "Don't even think about it." He was arrogant for a cripple, but not by a huge stretch, by highwayman standards.

"Sorry, sir," Needle said, startled. He splashed water all onto the tiles as he pulled his hand out. A few droplets landed on Warcry's face, but he didn't so much as open his eyes.

"We Overdogs tend to frown upon that sort of behavior," he said, slowly submerging himself further in the cooling water, until his neck was entirely soaked. "A guy got put down last week over it, and he was a close friend of my dad's. Imagine what they'll do if they find out some slave was trying to fondle their prince."

A cool shiver ran down Needle's spine, and he bowed his head in fear. "I'm sorry, sir."

A wet, dripping hand reached out to brush his cheek, but he didn't flinch. "Next time, be a little more discreet." A warm smile spread across his face and white teeth, a rarity in the wasteland, shone. "Understand, boy?"

Needle didn't know what to say, so he just said, "Yes, sir."

"Now keep scrubbing," Warcry commanded.

In a world ravaged by radiation and illness and all sorts of injuries, children were a rare commodity. Snake had gone through dozens of women trying to have a few more kids. Some started to fear that the world may never recover its former population. That was why Overdog Enterprises established laws against same-sex unions. More men needed to sleep with more women, not with one another, and any attempt to detract from that was an attack on humanity itself. As such, men who slept together were routinely punished, often via execution.

The man who just faced death was named Bartholomew, and he was a close friend of Snake's. His unfortunate crime was the confession of a secret love. His beloved told the warlord and the warlord had a noose tied. Bartholomew tried to run, but was unsuccessful.

Rabid highwaymen hissed and booed as Bartholomew was paraded before the palace. They took turns to spit on him as he danced on air, held up by only a tight cord. His last words, before the chair was kicked out from under him, were "Snake smokes flaccid slave-cock." His armor was burned along with his body, and his belongings were sold, including his slaves.

Warcry had watched from his window, knowing full well that he could be the next one strung up like that, if he was not careful. That was only a few days ago. But now, in the bathtub, with a new slave brushing his body clean, he couldn't help but feel dirty. Something rose inside his chest that he tried so long to suppress, and he felt it when his cock grew stiff. It made his mouth go dry and his eyes dilate, but the slave didn't notice these symptoms in the patient.

Needle scrubbed away at Warcry until the water turned brown with dirt and dust. It was a bite of a challenge for the wasted slave to lift up the warlord's dead leg, and it was not as if he could get any sort of help, but he managed to get the job done with a grunt and without a complaint.

Warcry took an obscene pleasure in watching his slave labor away, as water and suds dripped down his rusty chains. He'd always known what it was like to have power over others, even before the war when his father was just a gang-banger. This was a far more intimate power, however, and he could see the faint air of reverence in the boy's eyes. They darted around suspiciously, even as his hands scrubbed between his toes, massaging them softly. There was something beyond the fear one might expect, and it was something that Warcry would come to crave.

"Slave. Hair." He didn't ask. He barked orders. That was what watching his father had taught him, and the result was immediate obedience. Whether it was a field slave or a factory worker or even one of the highwaymen who begged Snake for the honor of fighting for him, they obeyed the heir to the Overdogs.

Needle dribbled suds and water from the sponge onto Warcry's long locks of brown hair. The comb on the skin proved almost useless in trying to get the knots out. He hadn't taken very good care of his hair, and each stroke elicited an irate grunt from the man. But, it eventually came undone and flowed down his shoulders, as it was always meant to.

"Is this what you had in mind when you were purchased?" he asked.

"No, sir." The slave didn't meet his eyes, showing proper deference.

"What did you expect?"

"More blood."

"You don't sound disappointed," Warcry noticed. "Not a fan of blood and gore?"

"If I'm being honest, sir, your father seems like the kind of man who would kill me for failing to save someone. Highwaymen die a lot, that's just how it is, and not all of them can be saved. Even if I were the most skilled physician in the world."

Wacry smiled. "Exactly. I doubt my father would kill you, though. You belong to me now. He'd make me do it." He noticed Needle furrowing his brow, eyed widening. "Don't worry, I doubt you'll give me a reason to do something like that."

The tension in the air could be cut with a knife or by the stray bullet of an automatic rifle, and vague threats were not easing it in the slightest. It was like a humidity that washed over them both, in addition to the actual humidity brought on by the hot bath.

Warcry had a great deal of experience when it came to making slaves uncomfortable. It was a sadism inherited from his father. The difference was that Snake's form of sadism was ruled by spikes and bullets and death, whereas this was mild bullying. It was a bit of a power trip when mere words could inspire fear in others. It may have only been mild teasing, but lives hung in the balance in a very real way.

As a show of power, Warcry once commanded two slaves to fight one another for the honor of waiting on him. His tutor at the time, and that time was many years ago, had advised him to be more lenient so that the slaves would learn to love him. His response was to make the old man fight the victor. Surprisingly, he won, but there was no lesson to be had in there.

"Robe," Warcry said. He was tired of being scrubbed down and didn't see the point in keeping his father waiting downstairs.

Needle faithfully obeyed, bringing a thick bathrobe and a pile of dry towels to the side of the bath.

"You're dismissed. You'll find the kennel in the basement. I expect to see you here tomorrow at the crack of dawn."

"Good night, sir," was all Needle had to say, though he could not recall the last time someone extended that courtesy to him.

The kennel was much the same as the one he left, but his cell was bigger and shared with another slave. They did not exchange words, and the guard locked them in together, in silence and in the cold and in the dark.

It was easy for him to fall asleep, after ravenously eating what little bread he'd been given. The rocky wall he leaned on was far from comfortable, but he hadn't slept comfortably in years. Despite the jagged pain in his stomach, a smile creeped across his face, unseen in the dark. Even though things were bleak and grim, he couldn't help but feel that they were looking up.