He Runs (Part One)

by Owen Seth

  'Go to the bar!' barks Mick in pompous tone. 'Get a drink!'

  Man feels the heat rise in his guts, the rage that he saves for those who deserve it. He quells it with a few deep breaths.

  'Rose! Rose! Where the hell are ya, girl?'

  Quickly a woman emerges from the other side of the bar, her actions hurried but confident. Man looks at her and she looks at him. Humans. Broken, but held together by something he cannot identify.

  She smiles and opens her mouth, a beautiful smile even with her teeth yellowing.

  'This the lad everyone's been chewing on about?' she asks.

  'Word spreads fast!' says Mick. 'And yes, it is. He...'

  'Took out four of your guards,' Rose interjects.

  'Two,' offers Man. 'Only two.'

  She looks him up and down, the smile fading slightly when she sees the symbol on his chest.

  Man, for the first time since he saw Celeste, is captivated. Rose's hair hangs wildly in red ringlets, her eyes the colour of kale; dark, with a hint of life left in them. Her lips pucker together nicely under a button nose. Man looks her up and down, sees she is wearing a long, flowing dress, black and thin like a night gown. Her breasts are pushed up, more than likely for the punters; Man can tell there's a good body underneath all of it.

  'What'll it be then, stranger?' she asks, throwing Mick an incredulous glance.

  'What do you have?' asks Man.

  'Plum wine. Cider, weak and strong. Barley wine. Carrot and pine beer.'

  'Lots of choice. How do I pay?'

  Rose and Mick laugh heartily.

  'No one pays here, son,' says Mick. 'Think of us like, communists. We all pitch in.'

  'Oh,' says Man. 'Barley wine, please.'

  'Coming up, chuck!' says Rose.

  'And the cider for me, love,' adds Mick. Rose nods her head as she works away, pouring the booze into dirty pint glasses. She hands them over and smiles politely at Man.

  It takes effort but Man turns from her, faces Mick who motions for him to sit down.

  They find a table near the dirty windows. Next to it stands a redundant fruit machine, the lights and wheels long dead. Man wonders how much money is left inside it. Not that it matters these days. People don't use it. Haven't for years. As soon as the lights went out and the lightning died people had no use for currency. It became clear then that money was only ever a device to control the masses, make them believe that their worth began with a series of numbers and decimal points displayed on a computer screen. A more potent drug than nicotine and heroine combined. Once the lights went out the people who survived discovered their own worth. And like the accumulation of currency it required blood to be spilled.

  Man positions himself so he can face the bar, so he can watch Rose go about her business, an act not unnoticed by Mick.

  The mayor settles his bulky frame onto a strained chair, twiddles with his moustache for a moment and then sets those dark olive eyes on Man.

  'So, what questions do you have?' asks Mick, as though he's wrapping up a job interview.

  Man sips the barley wine, tastes a pungent surge of strong alcohol as it swills around his mouth. He swallows and knows that he can't drink too much of it. Can't leave himself any more vulnerable than he already is.

  'Firstly,' says Man, 'is there any tobacco?'

  Mick laughs loudly, slaps the table and almost knocks over their drinks.

  'Of all the bloody questions! Of course we do, son. Here.' Mick reaches into his pocket, pulls out a tobacco tin and opens it. Inside sits a score of thin, immaculately rolled cigarettes, complete with filters. Man reaches over and takes one, puts it in between his lips. A fat thumb rolls against a flint wheel and sparks give way to fire.

  Man sits back, sucks hard on the fag and fills his lungs with fire. Immediately he can feel his head lighten and his bowels loosen.

  'How long's it been, son?'

  'How long's what been? Since I last smoked?'

  'That. But also how long have you been wandering? Did you come from a place nearby? I don't think you did because my lads would've told me about someone like you.' Mick lights his own cigarette and Man observes how puny the thing looks in between his chubby fingers.

  'Well I last smoked a long time ago. And no, I'm not from nearby. I thought I was asking the questions.'

  'Ask away, boy, ask away.'

  Hovering around the bar is Rose, throwing random glances at Man as he sits, smoking and drinking, tightening his guts so as not to shit himself.

  'Why people? Why eat them? There are plenty of animals around. I stumbled across a farm a few weeks back and they had cows and chickens. Why not do that?'

  Mick sips his beer and stubs out his half smoked fag. Crosses his hands over his belly and leans back.

  'Do you want the honest answer?'

  'That's the only one I want.'

  'Ease, son. It's easy.'

  'So you're telling me that it's easier to hunt humans than it is hunt or farm animals. That’s a lie. It’s not honest at all.'

  'I am telling you that. Especially these days, since most of them are so weak.'

  'I don't believe you,' says Man bluntly.

  'Don't believe me. But it's in your best interest to. Especially if you want to live here.'

  'Who said anything about living here?'

  'I did. Maybe not to you, but I said it. Your skill set, we need it. You'll make a valuable hunter.'

  'Of rabbits, maybe. But not fucking humans.'

  Mick drinks more beer, lays his glass on the table, leaving his moustache soaking wet.

  'You are reluctant, son. I understand. We were as well. Very reluctant. But when food supplies run out and your home is under siege from those who wish to take everything from you, unforeseen eventualities occur. I never wanted to eat anybody. But we had to.'

  'And after this siege you kept on doing it? Why not stop? Why not accept it as a one-time thing?'

  'Unless you've tasted the flesh of a fellow human then you have no idea. It, shall we say, it empowers you. It's as if you're taking part of their soul and adding it to your own. After we ate the weak, the dying, we were able to beat back those who had sieged us. And since then, no one has tried.'

  Man sits back, sips his barley wine and looks around the pub, his eyes not wanting to fix on the maniac in front of him. Instead he sees a small army of soulless eyes fixed on him, weighing him up and wondering which cut will be the juiciest. He turns back to Mick.

  'Why the swastika?' asks Man.

  'That's an easy one, son. Fear! The Nazi's took that symbol, manipulated it for their purposes and it changed. It became a symbol attached to evil.'

  'So you're a Nazi then?'

  'No! God, no!'

  'And before the lights went out?'

  ‘What do you mean? Before the war?’

  ‘If that’s what you call it,’ says Man. ‘I’d call it the end of days.’

  'Well, I was never a Nazi. My political interests might have been, shall we say, quite far to the right, but I was never a Nazi.'

  'BNP? EDL? You were one of them?'

  Mick smiles, his moustache arcing upwards so that the bristles jut out haphazardly.

  'An MP.'

  'In my eyes,' says Man, trying to his pick his words carefully, 'you are a Nazi. You represented a faction of fucking morons who thought that some people had more right to life than others. And now you use that to justify your cannibalism. It’s a crock of shit.’

  'Listen, son, I'm only going to say this once and be warned that you're treading on very fucking thin ice with me at the moment. I've let you in to my village, offered you a beer, some food if you're willing and a place to stay. Don't be rude again or these lads who are sat around will cut you to ribbons and I'll be eating your flesh tonight. Understand?'

  Man nods, doing his best to feign an impression of fear.

  'Some men and women are better than others, son. It's natural selection. Even back in the old days, when society got on so b
loody well. Think about it. CEOs, bankers, solicitors. Were they not superior to the underlings? Were politicians not superior to the masses? The power evolved from physical violence to political and financial manipulation. Those born with the brains rose to the top of the pile. Exactly the same as it's always been, except with a lot less murder. And yes I've always thought I was better than most. Call me a narcissist if you want. Take the Paki’s for instance. It's because of them that the world is how it is. Them and their fucking EMP strategy.'

  Man stares hard at Mick, contemplates slicing the bigot's throat in two. A glimpse of red distracts him for a second, the flowing locks of the barmaid, Rose. He knows that if any murder was to happen then she could be caught in the melee. And that won't do. There have been too many women die under his watch.

  'But why are we talking about dead politics?' says Mick, breaking the mood. 'There's no place for politics in a world like this. You should know that more than any of us.'

  ‘I do,’ replies Man, solemnly. ‘More than you.’

  ‘Careful, son. That ice I was talking about is cracking and any more insults could cause it to break. Now, I’m going to ask you plain and simple: are you going to stay with us?’

  Man shifts in his seat, looks over at the bar and catches Rose’s eye, notices her face light up in the dimness.

  ‘Another drink, some food and some tobacco, then yes, I’ll stay. At least for a while.’

  ‘Good lad! You get your strength up.’

  ‘But I’m not eating human flesh. I can hunt, that’s what I’m good at.’

  ‘You’re not hunting. But we do grow vegetables. You can eat them.’

  Man smiles, his lips barely visibly underneath the beard. He’s gotten his way. For now.

  ‘One more thing,’ adds Mick. ‘You can’t be walking around with your fucking mane like that. I’ll get someone to shave it for you. Rose can do it. She cuts my hair.’

  ‘I rather like my hair like this.’

  ‘You look like a fucking pansy! Keep the beard, lose the hair.’

  Mick turns to Rose, summons her with a wave and orders two more drinks. They arrive quickly and as she walks away Man watches her hips move side to side, the elegant sensuality of a woman who wants someone.

  ‘You can stay here,’ says Mick as the drinks arrive. ‘That’s okay, isn’t it darlin’?’ Rose nods and Mick smacks her arse as she walks away. ‘Drink up, Man. Go see Rose, she’ll show to your room. She’ll bring up some food. Cheese and vegetables and bread. We’ll talk later.’

  Mick stands up, drinks his pint quickly and liquid spills down his barrel chest. He wipes at it with a chubby hand and moves to Man. Man’s hand instinctively flinches for the karambit but he doesn’t take it. He knows that at any moment Mick could have him killed. And if he’d wanted it done it would’ve happened at the bridge. A fat hand pats Man on the shoulder.

  ‘Eat something,’ says Mick in a malevolent tone. He turns and walks away, a small number of brutes in the pub following closely behind him.

  *******************

  He sits in a ceramic, stand-alone bath tub, the lukewarm water refracting the sunny rays that illuminate and magnify the brown streaks of rust that adorn the walls. It’s the second lot of water he’s sat in; the first turned a murky brown as soon as the dirt loosened with wetness. The bathroom is small and cramped, the flowered wallpaper torn in various places and furnished with the cheaply made furniture that people used to buy in discount shops.

  He runs a hand over his head, feels the bristly layer of skin where his mane used to be. Rose did a good job of shaving his head. She found lice and he felt embarrassed. Then she left and he fell into the bath, the water scolding and soothing at the same time.

  Man lifts his arm up, inspects the cut he opened. The water rinsed it, removed the dirt and lessened the chance of infection. He looks at the collection of white and pink scars and sees some more appear out of the depths of his mind. His mind does this sometimes, mini-hallucinations of events to come. Happens when he doesn’t take his medication; even though there’s no medication left to take. Before he leaves the village he now has to call home he knows there will be more cuts to add. More lives he must take. It’s a waiting game. Nothing more. Nothing less.

  Man stands and steps out of the bath, catching a quick glimpse of his clean body in a cracked mirror that hangs loosely on a nearby wall. His skin is tanned and tight, clinging to the sinewy strands of muscle he has left. A poor supply of food has diminished his mass and while he settles he has the chance the build his body again. A strict regimen of body weight exercises and protein will regain his strength.

  He moves closer to the mirror, looking at his alabaster-white scalp, covered in red bumps. He sees his face for the first time in weeks, scans over the scar tissue and blocked pores and down to his beard. He squeezes his skin in intervals, watches as black and yellow worms squeeze out of skin burrows widened with steam. He sees that his moustache has grown long and covers his lips so that when he speaks his mouth is hardly seen to be moving. He likes it this way.

  A booming rap on the door shocks him and as he turns it opens. Rose stands there, her jaw hung loose, a tray of food in her hands. Man covers himself with his hands and they both stand, silent and motionless, a tangible awkwardness sucking in the atmosphere.

  ‘I, I’m sorry,’ she says, her cheeks a pale shade of red. ‘I thought you’d be finished, I thought…I’m so sorry.’

  Man reaches for the old, raggedy towel that hangs over the side of the bath, wraps it around his malnourished body. Rose comes fully into the room, rests the tray on a beaten-up cabinet.

  ‘Thank you,’ says Man, sheepishly. ‘I’m sorry you had to see that.’

  ‘When did it happen?’ she asks without looking him in the eye.

  ‘A long time ago,’ he replies, moving to the cabinet. ‘You can tell Mick if you’d like. He can be safe in the knowledge that I will not rape anyone.’

  ‘Who did it?’

  ‘This world we live in. The New World.’

  Rose turns to him, her green eyes meeting his, her cherry lips arching into a cheery smile. The redness has subsided in her cheeks.

  ‘This world has given me a lot of men that I never wanted to meet,’ she says. ‘Every day I meet men that no women should ever meet.’

  Man smiles knowingly. His mind spins into a mini-hurricane of pulsing synapses, throwing images into his eyes of Rose being raped, over and over, by a line of animalistic brutes. He shakes his head and it dissipates.

  ‘What have you brought me?’ he asks, changing the subject.

  ‘Some bread, it’s made from spelt. The baker is bloody good. Also, some cheese and homemade pickle. There’s some carrots and cold potatoes, too.’

  ‘No man meat?’

  ‘No, none.’

  ‘You don’t eat it?’

  ‘I have. Once or twice. But never again. Like I heard you say, we don’t need it.’

  ‘You heard what I was saying?’

  ‘Most of it,’ she says, the redness returning to her cheeks. ‘Wouldn’t be a good landlady if I didn’t know the gossip.’

  Man nods, a half-smile gracing his face, invisible to Rose.

  ‘Thank you,’ he says. ‘For the food.’

  ‘No problem. I’ll have another drink waiting for you in the bar, when you’re finished. And your room is across the hall, the one with the red door. I’ve put some clothes on the bed. They were my husbands. He was about your size.’

  ‘Thank you,’ repeats Man, as Rose turns and walks out of the room, her hips moving sensually with each step.

  *********************

  The aftertaste of food sits uneasily in Man’s mouth, his mind firing into overdrive with thoughts of man-meat contamination. He shudders as he sits on the bed, the realisation of his imminent induction into the world of cannibalism he always viewed from afar.

  A light tapping secures his attention, the sound of a tiny fist hitting the bedroom door. He stand
s up, reaches for the silvery crescent-moon blade and moves it through his fingers until it sits just right. It is still light outside and the threadbare curtains allow slivers of the world outside into the barren room. He looks around, sees the chest of drawers and the bedside table, the piss pot jutting out from under the bed. The walls are blood red, shiny with grease in the invading sunlight.

  ‘Who’s there?’ asks Man as he reaches the door.

  Nothing. Not a thing stirs on the other side of the wooden barrier.

  ‘Who the fuck’s there?’ he says, a dangerous tone in his voice.

  And then he hears a giggle, the machine gun laughter of a young girl.

  He opens the door slowly, the karambit ready to slice anything into strips of steak. A little girl comes into view, no more than four years old, her hair a mousey bush of curls. She wears a dirty pair of pink shorts and a flowery top, a little too big for her. She looks up at Man, at his fur-covered face and the smile that came from giggles disappears, her vivid eyes darkening with fear.

  ‘S-sorry!’ she mutters and runs down the corridor, looking back to make sure Man isn’t following her.

  ‘You always talk to little girls like that?’ asks a familiar voice.

  He looks to the left of him, sees Rose standing, her eyes puzzled at the sight before her. In her arms, she holds a baby.

  ‘I was on the road a long time,’ says Man. ‘I’m not used to visitors.’

  ‘Or children, it seems.’ Her pea-green eyes thrown him a challenging glance and all he can do is smile.

  ‘No. No children.’

  ‘Did you have children?’ she asks quickly, as though the question has been sitting impatiently on her lips.

  Man nods.

  ‘Boy or girl?’

  ‘A little girl.’