The Law of Averages

Book 2: Chapter 31: In This Cold Hell

The Fridge was a secret underground facility, housed beneath California's Death Valley. It was the home to America's most dangerous and valuable undesirables. The facility was rarely visited by humans, owing to its utterly inhospitable conditions within and without. Its prisoners were, with one exception, kept in cryo-sleep. There, in cold's numbing embrace, they awaited the day that they would be deemed useful to society.

Each cryo-pod had been designed and built by a single Genius. The poor bastard had been utterly focused on extending his own life, and had fixated on cryotechnology as his method of choice. He'd died before finishing his mission, but the pods remained his legacy. None had yet been able to reproduce them, and they were the only pieces of technology capable of surviving these extreme temperatures. The cold killed all else. All but one.

It was silent, here. The Fridge was always silent. No sounds of nature penetrated the thick steel and concrete cap that separated the underground from the above ground. Even then, there was little to hear. No life worth mentioning lived within dozens of miles of the Valley; only lifeless electronics, barbed wire, and explosives. There was nothing above and nothing below. Nothing but the silence, and the humming of cryo-pods.

To a human ear, the subtle vibrations caused by magnetic fields brushing against each other sounded droll and repetitive. It was a pitch without variance or interest. Annoying, even. Maddening, over the course of decades. But the only ears left to hear the sound were something more than human. To these ears, it was music, variable and beautiful. The only source of entertainment beyond the darkness of an inescapable cell. Nothing happened in the Fridge. Nothing ever changed.

Boredom was the enemy, but the prisoner was patient. He had spent the last... oh it must have been at least a few decades here. The years just sort of blurred together these days, merging at their seams. There was no day or night cycle to cling to, and the prisoner did not require sleep. His body did not have that weakness. He hadn't slept a wink since the day he'd been blessed with glorious power and purpose. But it was damn inconvenient to not be able to laze the days away, losing himself to unconsciousness. Instead, he waited. Fate had determined him to live, and so live he would, waiting for his moment to arrive. Waiting for destiny to once again call him out of this dank, dark, frozen Hell. He lived out every single moment of this excruciatingly dull existence, in a place where nothing ever changed.

Until it did.

First, there was the sharp buzz of electricity, a corona discharge at the sudden and violent presence of an electrical phenomena. Then came the pop of displaced air, a violent push of matter against matter as the atmosphere tried to resolve a sudden discrepancy. Finally, the cracking sound of ice springing into existence, as moisture was suddenly introduced to a section of the universe where it was very much not welcome.

The sound ended as soon as it began. What followed after was the sound of life. Of people. Of footsteps and voices. Of beating hearts and warm blood.

Cannibal opened his eyes.

He didn't shift positions; that was not an option available to him. He hadn't moved in thirty years and he wasn't about to start now. His restraints prevented that, solid as they were. They'd hoped he would rot away in this place, hung by the neck and wrapped in chains meant to tow cargo ships. But he was a patient man, and discomfort was a failing of the past. So he waited, still and silent, to see if his destiny had finally come looking for him.

There were voices now, hushed, tense. He heard them whisper between themselves, looking for direction. Two men clashed with each other while others waited for the outcome. Resolve, agreement. Footsteps coming closer. And light! Flashlights piercing the dark.

There was no door to Cannibal's cell. Why bother, when there was neither a jailer nor other conscious prisoners to contend with. At first, they had kept him enclosed, dipping him in concrete in the hopes that he would suffocate. That had failed to kill him, and someone, somewhere, thought that perhaps he could one day be of use. They put him in a room, if you could call it that, for accessibilities sake. More like a corner, really, or a dead end. He was at the terminus of a hallway, facing the wall. There were no bars blocking his escape. That was what the chains were for.

The footsteps ended behind him, and for the first time in thirty years, he felt something other than the biting cold and the touch of steel. It was... warmth. There must be a power at play here, keeping the cold at bay, and Cannibal could feel them. The heat of their bodies, the blood in their veins, brushed against his skin like a star. Their hearts pounded in his ears, that pleasant, nostalgic drumbeat. How he had missed its tune! And the smell, that delicious scent of meat. It filled his nostrils as he took a deep, rattling breath.

He was so very hungry.

"Cannibal."

The voice stirred something in his memory. It was familiar but distant. It was... what was the word, again? Neither foe nor food. There was a middle ground there, somewhere. If only he could remember it. Remember him. Remember himself. There was too much stimulus now, too much change from the decades of silence and starvation and isolation. All he knew was the desperate hunger of a starving wolf suddenly staring down its prey.

Steel struck flesh, somewhere behind him. A muffled grunt, a body staggering forward, slumping down. Liquid splashed against metal. The smell of copper tinted the air!

Blood! Meat! Food!

He thrashed in his bonds, mouth aching to bite down, to crush, to chew, to drink. He fought against the heavy plate restraining his jaws, covering his mouth and teeth! Preventing him from tasting that sweet nectar!

Something brushed against his back, something warm and soft and delicious.

"Don't eat me, yeah?" a voice spoke meaningless words.

The world twisted, cracked, lightning crawled along his restraints and suddenly Cannibal was free. He stood a mere four feet from where he'd been suspended for the last three decades. Chains crashed to the ground behind him. His restraints were gone. His mouth was free. He smelled ozone, and flesh. A piece of meat stood in front of him, touching his shoulder.

Cannibal lashed out! His arm leapt forward, grasping for the meat's wrist. He latched on, dragging his meal forward. The limb crunched beneath his grip, and his prey cried out. He opened his mouth for the first time in decades, teeth glittered and saliva dripped and he bit down at long last!

Ice sprang into existence, filling his throat, covering his body, pushing him back. He tensed his jaws, shattering it, swallowing it. He pulled harder, but his prey vanished in a flash of light and sound! He spun towards the smell of blood, effortlessly breaking through the ice that had surrounded him. His eyes found a target: a different man, slumped on the floor in a pool of blood. More prey stood nearby it, backing away, but Cannibal disregarded them. He sprang forward and seized his meal!

The first bite was heaven, a pleasure long denied. A second brought clarity, a remembrance of who, what, where and why. By the third it had all returned to him, his memories, his strength, restored at last. But he continued to eat. He continued to drink. It had been too long since he'd had his fill.

"Cannibal," the voice repeated. A familiar sound, though its pitch had deepened and aged like fine wine. But his scent was the same, that same chemical tone, like bleach, a slate wiped clean.

"Echo," he greeted the man. His voice was wet and raspy. Hoarse from disuse. Blood poured down his lips as he tore into a thigh. He chewed and swallowed, enjoying the sight of prey cringing away. The warm liquid soothed his throat like a cough drop. "Did I eat one of your men?"

"You tried," Echo said.

Cannibal hummed appreciatively, as he eyed the group before him. They were a motley crew of individuals, all bundled up in winter clothes. He could see the one he injured still clutching at his wrist, hiding in the back of the crowd. Only two stood out in his eyes.

The first was Echo, who wore a delightfully nostalgic outfit. All black suede and frills. It fit him poorly, like an adult trying to put on the tux he wore to prom. But the image was there, the playful splendor of Echo, the hero, the vigilante, the villain. His eyes glowed with a stolen power, that gaze set firmly on Cannibal's bloody face.

The other man was new. He wore classic spandex done in black with blue highlights. His eyes were light blue and glittering. Cannibal could feel the temperature shifting wherever the man's gaze fell. His stance spoke of confidence, but he smelled like a newborn. Tender and soft.

Cannibal licked his lips, and wiped his mouth. He stood, finally sated, and cracked his neck. He flexed, feeling his strength return to him. It would be some time before he'd regained it all. Even he was not completely immune to the ravages of time; not without gorging himself regularly. He stripped the bloody, tattered pants off the remnants of his meal, and snapped off a rib for the road.

"Well," he said, slipping on the trousers, "you obviously didn't come here to sight-see. What can I do for you, Echo?"

Echo stepped forward. Cannibal greeted the movement with a smile full of teeth. The minions flinched backwards, and he laughed in delight.

"I need your help," Echo stated plainly. "There's a war coming, and we share an enemy."

"Ahh," Cannibal breathed. "I see. I see. You've come here for an army, then?"

"Where else?" Echo asked.

Cannibal's smile only grew. He held a hand up to his ear. "Do you hear it, my old friend? That sound?"

The minions glanced around, but Echo kept his eyes forward. He knew not to look away from a predator.

"What sound is that?" he asked, carefully. Cautiously.

Cannibal spread his arms wide, feeling his old strength returning. "The sound of destiny calling our names."

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