Taken By The Tribe

Jason Storm

A metallic echo reverberated through the dark forest. The sounds of gasping and grunting intertwined. Skin was ripping, and flesh was torn, discarded onto the blood-soaked ground.

The man’s attack echoed in the near-silent night—knives twisted, fists thrown, bones breaking. The sight was nothing short of horrifying. The grass was drenched in a thick, crimson pool of blood. A blood-curdling scream pierced the air, only to be swallowed by a deafening silence.

The man enduring this brutality was beyond the point of screaming in pain or pleading for help. He understood his predicament as he felt his body being torn apart. He realized he was missing a hand, and half his body was no longer operable.

Despite the darkness of the night enveloping his tormentor, he knew who he was. He was the man so many had only spoken about in The Tribe, the secretive society in which he lived. Though the Tribe and its separate Families were protected by most of the rest of the world via physical seclusion, isolation, and billions of dollars—this night proved that none of them would be fully safe from their Prime Elder, their ultimate leader, when on a rampage. The man didn’t need to see his face to confirm his suspicions. The man torturing him was the Prime Elder, the brute in all of the stories that circulated in his Family. And he had no intention of letting him go.

Killing was a symptom of survival to this echelon of society, and a mere recreational sport to Jason Storm, the Prime Elder. He was truly a man who knew no consequence, who knew only power.

The man’s eyes bulged from their sockets, and blood seeped from every part of his body, draining the color from his face. He had no choice but to accept his fate. He was powerless and without the will to fight back.

The man that continued to tear him apart was unbeatable. He wore rings on every finger, each of which had a single blade. Each dripped with blood. He was the ruler who stood above all, ruling with an iron fist. The reason for their wealth, the reason for their undying loyalty. The reason for their very perseverance. As well as their demise, should he so choose.

The man whimpered in pain, his head bowed, hoping to die with some semblance of dignity.

The Prime Elder chuckled hoarsely, reveling in the fear radiating from the man. He relished the feeling of skin tearing under his ring-clad fingers and the warm blood pooling over his hands. The torture continued for hours. The man endured as long as he could without screaming. The forest was eerily silent, but the wind began to howl ominously.

As his body began to shut down, he could feel death approaching. The Prime Elder, not satisfied with the pain he had inflicted, tilted the man’s head and let out a humorless laugh into his barely-open eyes.

Pulling away, the Prime Elder smirked, almost every inch of his body stained with blood. He pushed the man’s twitching body onto the bloody grass and chuckled. With one last glance, the Prime Elder left, disappearing into the thick, dark forest. He left the man behind to suffer until his body gave out.

The man curled up, trembling. Tears streamed from his bloodshot eyes. He couldn’t hold it in any longer. The torture was unbearable.

So he let it out. He screamed until the trees shook and the birds took flight in fear. His body was giving out, his eyes bulging. Once he fell silent, his body had given out. His eyes were wide open, but he was no longer there.

He was dead.