Cannibal Country (Book 2): Flesh of the Sons

by Urban, Tony

  Some of the protectors declared they’d rape the cannibal women while the males watched. Others wanted to sever limbs while they were still alive, saving the head for last. Clark’s grand plan involved something he called The Wasting and, so far as Wyatt could gather, it involved shoving knives into the cannibals’ spinal cords to paralyze them, then letting them starve to death.

  Their bloodlust didn’t surprise Wyatt. He knew certain people reacted this way to being attacked. He understood that violence begat violence. But the ferocious glee on their faces as they discussed how they would dole out pain and death made him realize he’d never be a part of their cadre, nor did he want to be.

  “Penny for your thoughts?”

  Wyatt was so lost in his thoughts that he hadn’t realized Alexander was beside him. Until now, Alexander had kept his distance, possibly sensing that Wyatt wanted - needed - to be left alone.

  Even now Wyatt was unsure whether he wanted to reconnect with the man he’d thought of as a friend. Because, while Alexander hadn’t conjured up any gruesome revenge ideas of his own, he was still the leader of this group and he did nothing to quell the talk. Permission by silence.

  Wyatt hesitated, choosing his words deliberately. “This makes me uncomfortable.”

  Alexander raised a dusty eyebrow. “The mission?”

  “Yes.” Wyatt slowed his pace to slip back from the rest of the group and fall out of earshot. “You saved us and brought us into the community. And I appreciate that, Alexander. I do. The thought of a new home, a new start, after all those terrible months on the road, it was more than I ever dreamed possible. And then you made it even better and promised us safety.”

  “You’re saying I oversold it?”

  “No. Not exactly. But I’m tired of the violence. Of the death.”

  Alexander nodded. “That’s why we’re going to finish it. So, we can live in peace once and for all.”

  “Do you really believe that? You don’t think some other group’s going to wander in and try to take what’s ours and start this fighting all over again? Because I think you’re smarter than that.” Wyatt worried that might have been too far but getting the thoughts out of his head and into the open was freeing.

  Alexander waited a good half minute before responding. “I’m starting to worry about you, Wyatt.” Alexander said finally. “I know you’ll have our backs when the time comes, but this talk is concerning. You can’t have any doubts.”

  Wyatt looked ahead at the others. Raucous laughter emanated from the group, a joke neither of them had heard. One the men turned, as if wanting Alexander to join in the revelry, but when he saw that Alexander was in a private conversation with Wyatt, he turned back around. As much as Wyatt would have wanted to go back to the casino and be with his family, to go to his hotel room and hold Allie in bed with Supper at their feet, Alexander was right.

  He was part of this now whether he wanted to be or not. The time to turn back had expired a long time ago. He needed to stay focused on the task at hand.

  “You don’t have to worry, I’m alright. I just miss Supper.”

  To Wyatt’s relief, Alexander laughed at the double meaning in his joke.

  Clark dropped back to meet them on the path. He made a chopping gesture with his hand. “I think we’re getting close, boys. I can smell their stink every time the wind blows.”

  Wyatt thought he was crazy but sniffed the air anyway. His nose provided no vital information and he assumed, as usual, Clark was full of shit.

  The group ahead had stopped in the shade of a low mesa and went to work on their supplies and rations. Alexander grabbed a pair of binoculars from his pack and raised them to his face, scanning the vast nothingness ahead.

  Wyatt tried to follow his gaze, looking far ahead and sending his up-close vision out of focus. That was why he couldn’t make sense of the white thing that flew past his face. Until he heard the whooshing sound.

  The noise transported Wyatt back to the first battle. And he knew.

  He turned to Alexander, ready to tell him to duck, that they were under attack. He saw Alexander’s eyes wide with shock and he realized the binoculars were gone. Wyatt glanced down and saw them on the ground. Alexander’s hands still held them.

  Still Wyatt struggled to connect the dots until he returned his attention to Alexander and saw his forearms had been transformed into two blunted, bleeding stumps.

  Chapter 33

  “Fucking shit!” Clark screamed as he dove face first into the dirt.

  The others panicked. Some sought cover behind assorted rocks or bushes while others followed Clark’s lead and flattened themselves on the ground to lessen their target.

  Wyatt saw an axe laying in the dirt past them and realized it was the object that had robbed Alexander of his hands. Then he heard another woosh. This time he was smart enough to drop.

  The incoming spear caught Alexander in his shoulder, spinning him around just in time for--

  Another spear to catch him in the chest. They stuck out at opposing angles and, when Alexander fell, the weapons held him partially upright. Blood drained from his mouth as did the life from his eyes.

  Bullets whizzed past Wyatt’s head. For a moment he didn’t know where they came from until his head cleared and he heard the signature reports of the AKs. The protectors fired in every direction. Left, right. Front, back. Wyatt thought they were going to cut each other to pieces before the cannibals could even finish them off if they weren’t careful.

  But caution was gone. This was pure, wild panic and nothing more.

  More spears soared toward them. A man named Javier who Wyatt only remembered because of the way the man had sucked on his teeth as he discussed how he was going to rape the cannibal’s women - or as he called them, squaws - was impaled through the face. His head looked like a tomato on a shish kebab as he spun, hands gripping the weapon and trying to pull it free.

  Wyatt made the mistake of thinking it couldn’t get worse. Because then it got much worse.

  Spears and axes and hatchets and arrows rained down, a hurricane of incoming hell. He saw arms cut off, torsos explode, arrows take out eyes. One of the female protectors caught an axe with her midsection and the force sliced her nearly in half.

  The gunfire slowed from a steady chorus to the occasional report. Wyatt tried to see who was still alive and shooting but the second he raised his head an arrow zipped by, missing him by a few inches.

  Through the screams and moans he heard a lone voice. Clark’s. “Go! Behind that rock formation!” Clark pointed at a four feet high, amber-colored boulder that sat a few yards away.

  Wyatt thought the distance too far, a suicide run, but Clark held up his rifle and Wyatt knew what he meant. I’ll cover you.

  Clark’s rifle erupted.

  Wyatt jumped to his feet and loped forward in a bent over gallop. He saw cannibals rushing toward them, not a few. Dozens. The whooped and yelped in triumphant glee.

  How were we so stupid, Wyatt thought? We never had a chance.

  One cannibal pulled out a knife and ripped it across Alexander’s throat. He gave a second hack and then Wyatt watched his friend’s head tumble to the ground with a thud. The cannibal kicked it like a midfielder passing to the striker and the receiving savage booted it forward.

  This was what had become of the man who’d saved Wyatt and his family. The man he longed to impress. Who he thought of as something akin to big brother.

  But now wasn’t the time to mourn. It was the time to run.

  Chapter 34

  The bullets stopped and Wyatt risked a glance back at Clark who was shoving another magazine into his rife. A female cannibal who was naked from the waist up sprinted at him, a knife in her hand.

  Wyatt opened his mouth to scream, to warn him, but no words came out. He tried again. Nothing. It was like God had hit the mute button on his voice and he couldn’t switch it back on.

  Then he felt the pain in his belly. He looked down and saw a spear, no bigge
r around than a garden hose, protruding from his waist. He grabbed onto it ready to pull it free then felt the fire in his back.

  A glance over his shoulder proved what he’d been reluctant to accept. He’s been impaled.

  Then hands were on him. He thought they belonged to a cannibal and raised his fist, not that he had the strength to fight back, but it was Clark.

  Clark grabbed hold of the spear and in one swift motion jerked it free. Wyatt felt like his head was going to float off his body, like his bones had been replaced with jelly.

  “Run you dumb motherfucker!”

  Wyatt turned around now, holding a hand over his stomach, blood seeping through his fingers. He tried to run but felt like he had fifty-pound weights around his ankles. Every step was like running a mile.

  “Keep going!” Clark yelled at his back, pushing him. He tried to pick up speed, this time making a left at the rock formation and drifting off the path. Somewhere ahead of him he heard water flowing, fast. A warm trickle of blood started running down his leg. He looked down and saw it soaked through his jeans. Too much blood. Soon he wouldn’t be able to run anymore.

  When they reached the creek, Wyatt looked past Clark and toward the mob of rushing cannibals. They looked like a stampede of stick figures; their tanned skin stretched taut over their bones. And then, all at once, they stopped running.

  Clark pushed Wyatt into the water. He lost his balance on slick rocks and fell hard, cracking his head and the world blinked black.

  When his sight back he saw the cannibals had pulled out bows and arrows. All drawn and ready to fire. He wanted to tell Clark to duck.

  But it was too late.

  Clark was hit in the neck and tumbled sideways, face first into the muddy water. Blood mingled with the silt, turning the area around them deep crimson.

  Wyatt felt an arrow hit him in the upper arm, but it was a superficial wound and went straight through. Another soared just by his face and splashed into the creek.

  The next arrow hit Wyatt in the chest. He looked down at it, puzzled by this new addition to his torso. Blood spurted from the wound. He grabbed it, but between his diminished strength and the slick blood he couldn’t get a grip.

  Then an arrow caught him in the side. And another landed in his chest, just inches away from the first.

  Everything seemed to slow down. His body felt cold, not from the creek, but from the inside out. He thought he should be in pain, but he was numb. And for some reason, that was okay.

  Wyatt slumped back in the water, felt it wash over him. He let his head dip into the stream. His ears filled, sounding like the ocean in conch shells. It trickled across his face. Into his mouth. It tasted sweet and he swallowed it down.

  His eyes fluttered, closed.

  And he felt a euphoric peace fill him up from the tip of his toes to the top of his head.

  Somewhere inside he realized this was wrong. He needed to get up, but all he could do was let the water cradle and carry him away. He needed to get back to his family and tell them what was in his heart. He had the words now. He needed his mother and Allie to know everything was going to be alright. He had to tell Seth to take care of Supper.

  But the comforting creek was too seductive to leave.

  He couldn’t hear the screams or the yells. He felt no pain. He wasn’t scared anymore.

  And everything faded away.

  Chapter 35

  For the last week and half the community existed in something akin to a fog. People wandered about, going about their chores and pretending that life was going on. But Barbara had no interest in washing dishes or sweeping floors, so she stayed outside. She preferred it out there, away from the others and their awkward attempts at solace.

  I know how you feel.

  He’s in a better place now.

  Everything happens for a reason.

  Fuck them and their hackneyed comfort.

  She’s rather be alone than subject herself to that nonsense. At least outside she could cry when she wanted. Yell when she wanted. Drink when she wanted.

  It seemed Myrtle, with her bottomless supply of booze, was the only person who knew how to numb the pain.

  That was something to be grateful for at least.

  She strolled toward the graves, toward Richard’s plot. It had been a little more than a week and the ground had settled, leaving a slight hollow in front of the wooden cross that marked his final resting place. She told herself she ought to get the wheelbarrow and a few shovelfuls of dirt so she could level it out, but she didn’t have the gumption.

  Instead she flopped onto the earth beside him and pulled the silver flask from her pocket. It was almost empty. Just a few swallows left. Soon she’d have to go inside and raid Myrtle’s stash, but for now she would nurse it.

  After years of mourning her husband she’d allowed herself to picture a new future. A life where she was more than a nagging mother. A world where someone who didn’t share her blood could love her. What a joke that had been.

  Nothing was going to bring him back but being outside she could at least hold on to a part of him, of something, that reminded her that she was still a person.

  The sound of hurried footsteps on the pavement woke her from her melancholy daydream. A group of men, the new guards, ran toward the gate.

  “Open it up!” One of the men screamed. And just like that, the others were pulling the doors open to the wall.

  Curiosity got the best of her and Barbara stood, stepping away from the grave. She wondered if the protectors were back. It surprised her to realize she was excited at the thought of seeing Wyatt again. Not because she didn’t care, but because nothing these days could lift the cloud of despair that clung to her like heavy fabric.

  As Barbara neared the gate, she realized this was no celebratory event.

  A lone man staggered toward the community. He looked like walking death.

  “Shit, it’s Clark,” Barbara heard one of the guards say.

  “Jesus Christ get him some water!” another yelled.

  And then she recognized him. Clark was one of the soldiers. His camo fatigues were saturated with blood. His face was sunken. His lips blistered. A filthy sock was tied around his throat like a scarf.

  “What happened, man?” A guard asked, his voice panicked.

  “Ambush… Total clusterfuck.” The words sounded like meat pushed through crushed glass.

  “Get him too med bay, now!” One of the guards shouted.

  The men grabbed Clark under the arms and by the legs, carrying like a soldier being hurried off a battlefield and, Barb thought, that was about right.

  If he was in such awful shape, what did that mean for Wyatt. And the others. Why was this man, who looked moments away from death, alone?

  Barb felt her stomach tighten. She knew why. A woman who’d dealt with as much grief in her life as she had could see death coming like an air traffic controller bringing in a 737.

  But it couldn’t be true. Not Wyatt.

  The guard rushed Clark toward the casino and their path went straight past Barbara. As they moved by the man’s head lolled to the side and he saw her. His eyes widened. She thought he looked like he might cry if he had any moisture in his body, but he looked as dried out as a scarecrow that had spent decades in the field.

  “Sorry,” he said. “Tried to save him.” He coughed or choked; it was hard to tell the difference. “Your boy died a hero.”

  With that they were gone.

  Barbara felt her knees go weak and her head swim and she passed out.

  Chapter 36

  Seth wheeled himself down the halls as fast as he could push. He couldn’t believe what the men had said.

  Was his brother really dead? It had to be bad info. Some stupid fucker misheard and spread gossip that wasn’t true. Because Wyatt wasn’t supposed to die.

  If Papa was right about everything, God and all, then how could God let this happen?

  Then he remembered what Papa had said at the mas
s funeral.

  Nothing was guaranteed in this life.

  Was he right about that?

  He could hear commotion as he neared the medical bay. A flurry of raised voices frantic and panicked.

  When he got to the room, he saw Franklin and an older, balding man whose remaining hair was snow white. Seth remembered his name was Jose and that he’d been put in charge of medical after Ramona’s death in the attack.

  Franklin sorted through a cabinet, checking labels on bottles while Jose used scissors to cut the sock off Clark’s neck. The soldier was sprawled awkwardly on a cart, one of his legs hanging off the side. Seth thought he looked more dead than alive.

  “I don’t even know what I’m looking for,” Franklin said.

  “Anything ending in ‘cillin. This bastard’s burning up. Must be full of infection.”

  Franklin glanced back at them. “What about that fucking hole in his neck? Should we even waste the antibiotics?”

  They weren’t equipped for any of this, Seth thought.

  “We aren’t equipped for this,” Jose said, and despite the chaos Seth was pleased to be a step ahead, as usual. “I can try to stitch it up but I’m not promising anything. Shit, I can’t even sew on a button.”

  “Mom,” Seth muttered to himself. She’d be able to help with the stitching part if nothing else.

  He wheeled back down the hallway, arms burning, but he didn’t need to go far. Barbara was already there. Her clothes were covered in a thin layer of dust, but she looked calm. No, not calm, Seth realized. His mother looked blank. Empty. Like the lights were on but no one was home.

  “Mom, you have to take a look at Clark. He was shot in the neck or something and needs stitches,” Seth said. “We need to fix him up so he can tell us where to find Wyatt.”

  At the sound of Wyatt’s name, she looked down to Seth. “Wyatt?” She said. “He’s dead.”