The knife spun from the thin man's hand, landing point down in the earthen floor. He collapsed under his own weight, continuing to scream and thrash in agony.
Phyllis turned to find the big man starting toward the dog, the bat cocked over his shoulder. He was about to swing for Compadre's head, when she leveled the gun and fired. The bullet hit the man in his right side. It shattered a lower rib, tunneled through his guts, and exited on the other side in a ragged, bloody hole. He dropped to his knee, then, with a grunt, regained his feet and started for the dog again.
"Get away from him, you bastard!" Phyllis aimed again, this time at his hands. The slug struck the center knuckles of his right hand, shearing off his index and middle fingers at their base. The bat dropped from his maimed hand and rolled along the dirt floor.
Then both men left, staggering and pulling themselves into the deep brush. Phyllis walked to the door and watched as the dead vegetation to the south parted in their wake. She had a feeling neither one would have the desire to return anytime soon.
Phyllis looked down to see that Compadre had laid a prize at her feet. Trembling, she knelt and picked up the bleeding calf muscle. She studied the ugly thing in her hands, staring past the coarse hair and sore-speckled flesh, seeing the potential underneath.
Compadre whimpered. She glanced down to see the dog looking up at her, licking his blood-stained lips.
Phyllis looked down at the bleeding hunk of man-flesh. "No," she muttered. "No… I won't go there." She stepped to the door and, with all the force she muster, flung the calf far into the thicket.
The malamute cocked his head and looked at her, as if thinking, "Why the heck did you do that?"
"I can't," she said. Phyllis dropped to her knees and embraced her only friend. "I haven't reached that point yet."
But, secretly, she knew that she could. And it wouldn't take much to send her there.
Three days had passed since the incident at the shack. Phyllis hadn't eaten a bite during that time and her health was sinking fast. The sores on her body ran constantly and she felt dizzy and disoriented. The small slice of utopia she had experienced during those first days at the shack was gone. She began to think about Maine and her family, and the possibility of hitting the road again. But that would be impossible if she couldn't build her strength and resistance again.
And that would mean food.
That night, she lay in bed with Compadre beside her. She stroked the dog tenderly, feeling the looseness of his skin and the serrated pattern of his ribcage. It hurt her to see him in such a state. He had once been so strong and healthy. Before long his muscle would shrink and grow useless.
Something she had considered for a long time returned to mind. Something she had never had the heart to act on… until now.
"Compadre, my friend," she whispered tearfully. "One way or another, we will always be together. We'll forever be a part of one another. I truly believe that."
Her black roll was unfurled on the table – the knives laid out meticulously, the spices lined up and ready, the eating utensils placed beside the hubcap plate.
Before falling asleep, Phyllis took the gun from her pocket and laid it on the mattress beside her.
She would make an effort to wake up before Compadre did in the morning. It would be easier on both of them that way.
Tess Flanders got an early start that morning.
The twenty-year-old walked along the winding stream, but at a slower pace than she had several days before. Part of it was due the terrain and the heaviness of the pack on her back. Most of it, however, was due to the fact that she hadn't eaten anything in the past two days.
Tess had been a faithful vegan since her mid-teens, shunning all meat and by-products in favor of a strict diet of fruit and vegetables. At first, following the Burn, she had been able to follow her regiment to the letter. But as the days passed and the vegetation around her began to wither and die, she found herself sorely lacking the sustenance her body required. The last bite of food she had eaten had been several blackberries she had found in a clump of bramble. The berries had left her mouth numb and burned in her stomach for hours, followed by a draining bout of diarrhea. Something bad was happening to the world around her, that was for sure.
The young woman continued her hike, stopping several times to rest. She drank water from the stream, but only because she had to. The water had begun to taste strange lately; it had a burnt, slightly chemical tang to it.
As Tess cleared a stand of dying cedars, she came across a small, one-roomed shack. At first glance, it seemed deserted. But as she neared the structure, she heard noises coming from within.
"Hello!" she called out. "Is anyone there?"
Inside the shed, echoed the sounds of someone eating. Hungrily, almost ravenously.
The noise made Tess's stomach growl. She was so very hungry. May they might have a bite or two to share.
She approached the open doorway and knocked on the doorframe. "Hello?" she said. "I hope I'm not intruding, but –"
Tess stepped inside and, as her eyes grew accustomed to the gloom, all she could do was stand there and take in the grisly scene before her.
A silver-haired woman lay sprawled across a twin bed, her arms and legs dangling limply over the edges. A large white dog was crouched over her, his paws planted firmly on her chest. The Malamute had ripped out the woman's throat. A huge, ugly crater was all that was left in the flesh directly below her chin. Blood dripped from the wound and pooled on the dirt floor beneath the metal bed frame.
Tess studied the woman's face and recognized it immediately. She had seen it constantly on magazine racks and bookshelves for the past few years. It had also graced the wall of her dorm room… pinned to a dartboard that she used quite frequently. She wanted to feel some sense of joy at her nemesis's passing, but she didn't. Oddly enough, she felt absolutely nothing at all.
Sensing her presence, the white dog turned and growled at her with bloody fangs.
"No, boy," she said soothingly. "She's all yours."
The Malamute jerked something loose that resembled a fragment of windpipe and wolfed it down. Then he dipped his head and continued to rip and tear.
Tess looked around, searching for something useful to take. She wanted the gun that lay beside the woman's body, but knew that the dog would attack her if she drew too near. She walked to the table and found the assemblage of culinary articles that had been laid out there. Who knows? she thought to herself. This could come in handy. She returned the items to their proper places, folded the length of black canvas, and stuck it in her backpack.
Tess returned to the door. She regarded the hungry dog and his silver-haired smorgasbord for a moment. "Enjoy," she said. "And, remember, meat is life."
Suddenly, a laugh escaped her lips – a high-pitched, crazy sort of laugh that scared her. Tess silenced herself in mid-giggle and quickly left that place. She continued along the creek bed, at a much faster pace than before.
Behind her, Compadre continued feeding. Bit by bit, he took her into his body, digesting her substance, absorbing her very essence. Like Phyllis had promised him the night before, they would become a lasting part of one another.
He licked her face affectionately, almost lovingly. Then he leisurely resumed his breakfast.
THE HAPPIEST PLACE IN HELL
They were burning the Mouse in effigy… again.
Waco and T.P. sat on an upper balcony of the Fortress, enjoying the Florida sunshine and surveying the madness below. Waco peered through the lens of a Bushnell scope, which was attached to a .30-06 Weatherby Mark V. The Texan's grip tightened on the stock as he shifted the crosshairs from the burning mouse to the band of cavorting characters that encircled the fire. The one in charge seemed to be a cocky little duck with obscene tattoos etched into its white feathers in dried blood.
"Who's the unfortunate victim this time?" asked T.P. The nerdy fellow with the taped eyeglasses and a t-shirt that read EINESTEIN: GENUIS OR ALIEN?
sat in a folding chair, munching on a bag of stale Doritos he had found somewhere on the grounds. Waco had nicknamed him T.P. – short for Trivial Pursuit – because of the wealth of useless knowledge he spouted at any given point in time.
"I think it's ol' Annie Wilkes," Waco told him. He adjusted the scope a hair, settling on the Mouse's thrashing form. Even from the other end of Main Street, they could hear that harsh, cigarette-hoarse voice shrieking for mercy.
"Their leader?"
"Yep," Waco told him. The lanky Texan with the sun-weathered complexion and a Semper Fi tattoo on his upper right bicep stretched until his neck cracked, then returned his eye to the scope. "I knew she was losing her hold on them. Too much bitching and ordering around. Even Nutjobs get sick of that after awhile. And the Duck has been wanting her spot for a while. Besides, he's always in charge of the burnings. The little bastard's got a helluva hard-on for roasted rodent."
"You know," said T.P. "Traditionally, a woman always played the Mouse, due to their slight stature and natural ability for expression."
Waco grunted. "Been waiting my whole damn life to know that tidbit of information, T.P." Annie's screams grew louder and more frantic. "Shit… I can't stand this any longer." He shouldered the Mark V and sighted down on the flaming figure dangling from the flagpole five hundred yards away.
"You're a compassionate man, Waco," said the nerd. "I knew you'd do the right thing."
Waco grinned. "You think so?" He inhaled until the rifle grew rock-steady, then squeezed the trigger. The nylon rope parted over the Mouse's head. The blazing effigy dropped to the cobblestones, thrashing and screaming, spinning on its side like Curly from the Three Stooges.
"You just gonna let her burn?"
The Texan shrugged. "Why the hell not? She never brought me little candy hearts and roses. Just a gigantic pain in the ass."
T.P. nodded and stuffed a fistful of chips into his mouth. "Right. Burn, baby, burn."
Enraged, the Duck turned and pumped his fist in the air.
Waco opened the bolt and shucked brass. He thumbed a fresh cartridge into the breach, then cued in the sights again, settling the crosshairs an inch above the bird's blood-smeared bill. "Suck this, Duck."
The Weatherby bucked and the fiberglass cartoon head disintegrated into jagged fragments, as well as the upper portion of the true head just underneath. Brains and skull filled the air in a vaporous cloud. The Duck dropped to his knees, having cussed his last Mouse… or anyone else for that matter.
The others – a motley crew of dogs, pigs, rabbits, monkeys, and bears – roared in protest and began to run down Main Street, brandishing butcher knives and baseball bats.
When they were halfway to the Fortress, Waco sighed and stood up. "Time for target practice, hoss."
T.P. set down his Doritos, took a sip from a Diet Mountain Dew, and stood up, unholstering a big-ass Smith & Wesson .44. "Okay… which ones do you want?"
"I'll take the dogs and bears. You bag the three pigs and that frigging white rabbit."
"Shit, I always get the piggies and bunnies."
"A man gets what suits him," said Waco. "Me, I'm a dog and bear kinda man."
When the Nutjobs reached the circular courtyard, Waco squeezed off his first shot. The jacketed bullet punched through the nose of a yellow dog. In the darkness within, the slug traveled onward, burrowing between two feverish eyes and lodging into the unstable brain just beyond. Without thought, Waco reloaded and turned the crosshairs on a wooly brown bear in a straw hat and blue vest.
The Smith & Wesson bucked in T.P.'s hand, sounding like a miniature cannon. The jacketed hollow point was intended for a heart shot, but found the ball socket of the white rabbit's right arm instead, mangling bone and cartilage into a bloody mess. "Damn gun!"
"It pulls to the right," Waco reminded him. He spat tobacco juice to the side and shifted his aim from the bear's oversized head to its massive belly. The shot tunneled through the Nutjob's guts, pulverizing his lower spinal column. "If my old man could split armadillos from the back porch with it, you sure as hell can peg a rabbit the size of a linebacker."
T.P. readjusted his aim and fired again. This time the magnum round hit the rabbit dead center. The bunny flew back a good ten feet with the impact and lay on his back, spouting blood like a fountain. "Bingo!"
After several had fallen, the others seemed to get the message. They turned and headed back down the street. They turned and entered the fire station, where secret passageways took them securely underground once again.
"Damn parasites!" grumbled Waco. He turned his eyes back on Annie, who was dead still now. The scent of cooking flesh filled the air.
T.P.'s stomach growled in response.
"Doritos ain't filling enough for you?" Waco asked him.
A sour look crossed the nerd's face. "Let's go in and see what Trixie's cooked up for supper."
As they stood and headed back inside, Waco thought of the bleached blonde hairdresser from Myrtle Beach, South Carolina. If you asked her "Who was buried in Grant's tomb?" she'd probably reel off the other 43 presidents before she even considered ol' Ulysses. Trixie was the poster child for the classic dumb blonde joke. Cutting hair and cooking was about the only thing useful about her, in Waco's opinion. That and spreading 'em whenever he had the urge. Oh, and she had big tits, too. Boobs the size of honeydews was always an admirable trait in a woman, as far as the Texan was concerned.
The two took a winding staircase down to the big banquet hall on one of the upper levels of the Fortress. The medieval-themed restaurant was empty, except for the other four members of their little group. Trixie was setting the table for the evening meal, while the Andersons sat there, waiting to be waited on, as usual. The family hailed from Boulder, Colorado. Roger Anderson – or Numb Nuts as Waco had nicknamed him – had been a used car salesman, which put him in the same league as an ambulance-chaser or septic tank cleaner in the Texan's opinion. Waco called his wife Lady Bird, since she held an uncanny resemblance to LBJ's first lady. The woman was quiet as a mouse and annoyingly agreeable; totally opposite of her husband's triple-dose of loud and obnoxious. They had one kid – a five-year-old boy Waco simply called Bratzilla.
"So what kinda gut-busting bomb you got fixed up for us tonight, Trix?" Waco asked. He took off his cowboy hat and hung it on the back of the King's chair at the head of the table.
Trixie set a big casserole dish on the table in front of them. "Well, things are getting sort of scarce in the pantry, so I had to make my specialty, Tuna Macaroni Surprise."
"What's the surprise?" asked T.P.
"There's no tuna in it," she said, giggling.
Waco and T.P. looked at one another.
Dumber than a bag of rocks dancing in a cement mixer.
But she had big tits.
"Ain't we got no meat tonight?" Waco asked her.
Trixie shrugged her narrow shoulders. "We ate the last of the…uh, beef… last night. All we have now is canned food and enough macaroni noodles to feed the National Guard."
When Trixie had sat down next to T.P., Waco bowed his head. "Let's all say the blessing for the food now."
Roger Anderson sniffed in displeasure. "I don't think it appropriate that your religious beliefs should be forced upon –"
Waco reached over and shucked the .44 Magnum from T.P.'s holster. "Let's just say the damn blessing… okay, Numb Nuts?" he insisted, pointing the muzzle at the tip of the man's nose.
Anderson swallowed dryly and said nothing more. Looking at Waco brought a lyric from a Lynyrd Skynyrd song to mind. The Texan was lean and mean, big and bad, pointing that gun at him…
The six joined hands and, clearing his throat, Waco gave grace. "We love you, God, how great thou art… please, don't let Trixie's cooking make us groan or fart. Amen!"
"Amen," the others echoed in union.
"Why, that was downright beautiful, Waco," said Trixie, looking a little choked up.
"I'm a man of faith, sugar," declared the
Texan. "Not a godless heathen… like some around this here table."
Numb Nuts shoveled a spoonful of Tuna Macaroni Surprise into his mouth, his face as red as a baboon's ass.
"So, what happened outside today?" asked Trixie. "Anything interesting?"
Waco shrugged. "Same old shit. The Nutjobs finally burnt Annie today. Lunatics aren't too particular about who they follow… just so they get to eat and screw."
"The Duck was ready to jump in the captain's seat, but Waco took him down," T.P. told them. "Just as well. He'd have been like a Hitler with webbed feet."
"He was a hot-headed little sumbitch," agreed Waco. "Don't know what he had against the Mouse."
"Historically, the Duck always resented the Mouse, even in the cartoons," T.P. explained. "The Mouse was the perfect picture of benevolence and good will, while the Duck was a prime example of society's rebellion against authority and order. His anger and impatience with the Mouse echoed the common man's latent distrust of the wealthy and powerful."
"Thanks for that unsolicited commentary of wisdom, T.P. Now eat your, grub. It's getting cold."
Bratzilla whined and tossed his fork onto his plate with a clatter. "I don't like macaroni and cheese. It don't taste good."
"Come on, dear, just one bite," his mother urged sweetly. "You never know until you try it."
"I've tasted it before," pouted the boy. "It tastes like doody."
"Sure, son," Waco told him. "It taste like dog shit on toast, but it'll make you a big, strong asshole… just like your daddy."
"See here, Waco!" said Numb Nuts, about to come up out of his chair.
Waco picked up the .44 and waved it in his face. "You're gonna leave this table with this here pistol as a part of your anatomy if you don't shut the hell up, hoss." He laid the gun down and downed a couple more bits of casserole. "Hey, Trixie, how's about you and me airing out the bed sheets tonight? This elaborate feast of yours has got me feeling sorta horny."
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