Speaking of bodily functions, you’re a man. I’m sure you can imagine how horrific it is here in the masculine respect. If you think masturbation is pathetic in the real world, wait until you’re forced to do it while being held prisoner in the belly of whale. Dignity? If I ever had a single drop of it, I sure don’t now.
I’m telling you all the gory details, brother, because I want you to know how important it is for you to stay on the straight and narrow path. Don’t ever get mixed up in anything that can get you sent to a place like this. When we were kids mom always said, “If you keep misbehaving, you’ll end up in the belly of a whale.” I just laughed. We all did, didn’t we? It seemed pretty farfetched. Now, here I am.
Please consider me living proof that straying from the path comes with a serious set of consequences. When you love fishing as much as I do, it’s real tempting to wet a line out of season. I see other people doing it all the time, and they almost never get caught. All I can say is, it isn’t worth the risk.
Believe me, until you’ve found yourself living in the belly of a whale, you don’t know what a hard life is. You don’t know what “lack of dignity” means. You can’t yet grasp accurate concepts of boredom and despair. But you know me, I keep truckin. What else can I do?
You asked in your letter how long they intend to hold me. Boy oh boy. You know how slow the government is with paperwork. I am yet to be notified as to exactly how long I’ll be here. At least I’ve developed a method for documenting the number of days I have been here so far. Did you know that squid have no skeletons? They have only one bone in their entire body: their beak. I have a ritual of collecting one of these hard little triangles every day. I keep them in my pockets. I’ve got almost a hundred so far.
Thank you for writing to me, brother. You have no idea how incredibly boring it is in the belly of a whale. Once you get past the overwhelming horror and disgust, you spend a surprising amount of energy and time just trying to stand up and keep your balance. I mean this is a regular whale. He’s swimming around, hunting squid, surfacing to breathe; this guy doesn’t just sit around. And there’s the darkness. That’s part of the reason it has taken me so long to respond to your letter. Did you know that a sperm whale can hold his breath for an hour and a half, and he averages dives of 35 minutes? With the infrequent bursts of light from the spout, it took me three beaks to read your one page letter. It has taken me more than forty beaks to write you back.
Speaking of letters, the whale is responsible (according the International Sea Mammal Cavity Incarceration Division’s official pamphlet, which I found stuffed in the stomach of a decomposing squid thirty-three beaks ago) to provide me with paper and envelopes. There are no writing implements allowed. I use squid ink, scratching it onto the paper with the tip of my fishing knife. For some unknown and bureaucratically backward reason, the whale is NOT responsible for postage. So if you want to hear from me again, please enclose a stamp or two with your next letter.
I should probably close this letter now. From the way unit 5612 is thrusting around, I’m guessing another giant squid is about to shoot through his esophagus. I’ve got to be ready to cut off a slab for dinner, clean it up, collect today’s beak, and make sure the damn squid doesn’t strangle me.
Love, your brother,
Tom
About Calvin Mills
Calvin Mills is a writer of short stories, essays, and plays. His work has appeared in Short Story, Weird Tales, The Caribbean Writer, Tales from the South, and many other publications. He has received the Charlotte and Isidor Paiewonsky Prize, the Cooper Honors Award for Fiction, the Advisor’s Prize for Fiction from Toyon, a Meritorious Achievement Award in Playwriting from the Kennedy Center ACTF for Freak Like Me: The Musical, and a nomination for a Pushcart Prize. He teaches at Peninsula College in Port Angeles, Washington, where he is the faculty advisor for Tidepools Magazine and a member of the Foothills Writers Series committee. Mills grew up behind the Redwood Curtain in Eureka, California, and lived for a decade in Little Rock, Arkansas.
The Rawheads And The Little Girl
by Danielle Forrest
The sun had set, which meant no lights. No lamps, no fires. Couldn't have the Rawheads thinking anyone lived here. Good way to get dead. Grandma was grumbling in the corner while Mom washed dishes in the sink with rain water. Dad was making sure everything was secure for the night. Deadbolts on each door, nails through the frame of each window, guns at each entry.
As I sat on the couch, which had been repaired more times than I could count, I ran my fingers over coarse stitching from a tear. I was keeping my eye out for a salvage in the old abandoned buildings. That was what I contributed to the family — I scoured the Lost Places, looking for things we could use. It was a dangerous job, but safer on a child. Easier to hide, easier to slip through small cracks. Easier to avoid the Magpies and Rawheads.
Magpies liked their shiny things and, when I saw them, I never thought too hard about whatever meat they happened to be gnawing on. Could be rabbit. Could be little girl. Magpies weren't too picky. The Rawheads, on the other hand, preferred Breeders. I was thankfully too young.
"Grandma? Tell me about the End Times?" I asked hesitantly. Grandma was the only one old enough to really remember. My parents had been kids. They didn't remember when things worked, when you could go outside without a weapon.
"Hmph," she waved my question off. "You don't need to be hearing that garbage. Just reminiscing of a world long gone. Don't do ya' no good, dreaming of the past."
Grandma continued to grumble, complaining about people as she always did. Grandma was an equalist — she hated everyone equally. A lot of the old timers were like that. So many groups were responsible for what happened, and everyone placed the blame somewhere else. The Democrats blamed the Republicans. The Republicans blamed the Democrats. The NRA blamed both. It just went on and on. If there was a group, they blamed the end of the world on another, back in the day. So, most people that remembered blamed everybody equally. After all, what was the point in placing blame? Wouldn't bring the world back.
Now? People just blamed everything on the Rawheads and Magpies. They were the modern boogeymen. Nobody knew what the Rawheads really were. They had gone by many names. Its members were called monsters, cannibals, murderers, thieves. Nobody knew the truth. It didn't keep people from making theories, though. And I suspected a lot got blamed on the Rawheads that was just individuals looking out for number one. A lot of people pass through. Not a lot of people these days have any respect for property… or life.
Magpies were a different story, though. They were most certainly real. I'd seen them. They were why no house had anything shiny on it. Magpies liked shiny things. They scavenged the Lost Places like I did. They were crazy, attacking anything that moved. Nobody knew what drove those women to madness. If they were women at all. I had no interest in finding out. All I cared about was avoiding them.
"You want a story? I'll give you a story. One'll do you some good too." Grandma started waving her finger in my direction again. The digit was so knobby, crooked, and skinny, I thought it looked skeletal. I thought it might fall off. An image popped in my head of her flinging that finger at me, the distal parts flying at my face and smacking me in the forehead before falling to my lap.
Finally, she sighed and leaned back in her chair. She looked a lot older than her years. "This is a true story. Happened a long, long time ago in a small town just starting to make headway. They were in the south, I believe." She shook her head. "Nasty business, that."
The South. The South was no-man's-land, a Forbidden Place. It happened before I was born. People didn't speak of the South. Smiles fell when it was mentioned. It was a good way to get smacked, mentioning the South. I never asked. I didn't want to know. Anything that could make the hardened hearts of modern Jersey-folk falter wasn't any topic I wanted to know about.
"Some say the Rawheads are men gone mad. Others say they're experiments gone wrong. Still others, they say the
y're the monsters of ancient folklore. Grimm's tales and the like."
Grimm's. Grandma gave me an old, battered copy of Grimm's fairytales as soon as I could read. I remember having nightmares when she'd read some of the stories at bedtime. It wasn't any sort of story a toddler should hear, let alone an infant.
Still, Grandma always said, "They'll do ya' good. Prepare you for the real world. They're monsters out there. Don't know that they got fangs, but they're vicious enough."
I knew every story almost by heart.
Like one Grandma was always lilting. Not a Grimm's, but she would always say it was good learning — because it was about the Rawheads. I think it was some real old poem, long before the End Times.
Rawhead and Bloody Bones
Steals naughty girls from their homes,
Takes them to his dirty den,
And they are never seen again.
"Anyway, one day a man came to the small town. He seemed clean enough, wholesome folk. He came, traded for what he needed, and went his way. Nobody thought any more of it.
"But then a girl went missing. Few years older than you. Sweet girl. Everbody loved her." Grandma shrugged. "Everbody ignored it, said she ran off with the man who went through town. Her parents were distraught.
"But another girl went missing, and then everyone paid attention. One girl was an anomaly, two a pattern. Girls kept on disappearing, but only girls in their teens or older. No children.
"There was one girl, a brave girl. She was in her late teens, probably. All around her, the adults were in a panic, searching and finding none of her friends. She took matters into her own hands. She loaded up her bike with weapons and supplies, and went out searching. Nobody knew the area like she did. She was a scavenger, like you. She knew every Lost Place, be it building, cave, or clearing. She knew every place a person could be hid..."
oo00oo
There was a dark forest outside town. She knew it held a few caves and many clearings and meadows — a perfect place to hide. She rode out to the dark forest, and dismounted her bike. Her supplies went on her back, gun in hand. She entered the dark forest.
The ground was blackened from the End Times. The trees were black and heavy with scorch marks. Nothing had grown there in some time, yet no sun leaked through. The canopy was far overhead, not a single branch within reach. But the girl wasn't afraid. The dark forest, though scary to most, was a second home to her.
She advanced.
She made her way quickly and surely through the forest, her feet light and silent. Ten minutes turned into a half hour. A half hour turned into an hour. Still she found no signs, no tracks.
Though light was scarce in the dark forest, she could still track the progress of day. She would have to turn back soon. No point chasing ghosts at night. It was dark in daylight. It was pitch black at night. She'd just as likely get lost as find the lost.
She was just about to turn back when she saw light in the distance. A fire, from the quality and color. She inched closer, being more and more careful as she advanced on the camp. She smiled. This far out, it had to be someone up to no good.
A few more minutes, and she was on the edge of the camp. The camp consisted of several tents circled around a bonfire. Raucous male laughter sent a chill down her spine. The laughter, sharp and braying, muffled the sounds of whimpering and crying. She heard a female voice begging, probably from one of the tents. Then a scream.
"Oh, God," she said, covering her mouth with both hands as she turned and crouched against a tree.
"Hello, gorgeous," a rough male voice said before grabbing her by her hair.
Her head screamed in fierce pain as he dragged her across the clearing to one of the tents. She didn't remember him taking her weapons, but she no longer had them. Not that she could think to use them. All she could do was grab at the hand that held her, trying to pry his grip free, trying to lessen the pain that made it feel like her scalp was being torn off.
Echoes of male laughter trickled past the pain, registering vaguely. Everything registered as if through a fog. He let go and she fell on her face, her arms useless above her head. She groaned as her scalp continued to throb from the abuse. After a few moments of blessed silence, she got her arms under her and pushed her way to sitting. She looked up into the eyes of a man with a sinister grin on his face.
"Rawheads," she whispered under her breath, taking in the visage before her. He seemed wild, his eyes speaking of an evil that lurked in every human heart, but was rarely released. Madness lived behind those eyes. If that visage had ever been truly human, it wasn't now.
The grin only got worse as he spoke, "She'll be perfect." A gravelly voice that sent chills down her spine escaped him. But it wasn't the way his voice sounded like he'd recently tried to chug gasoline that gave her chills. It was a tone in his voice that told her the things he was capable of. It told her she didn't even want to imagine what he could, and would, do to her.
oo00oo
Hours later, the camp had quieted. She lay there in the tent, afraid to move, afraid she'd wake her abuser beside her. The abrasive laughter of his comrades had dimmed hours before, with only the pitiful sounds of the tormented women breaking the silence. Beyond the pain, she only had one thing on her mind. Escape.
Slow to move, afraid to even breathe, she shifted, inching onto her hands and knees. Their leader lay asleep, deceptively boyish, innocent, in his slumber. How cruel that God would lend such an innocent exterior to such a brutal interior, even if only in sleep. In slow increments, she came to her feet, still crouching, as she moved to the mouth of the tent, listening for sounds of others. But only whimpers, and the crashing of a log on the fire as it burned greeted her ears.
She reached for the tent entrance, her hands barely shifting the coarse material enough to get an eye on the campgrounds. The fire had burned down to red embers, barely lighting the few feet surrounding it. The other tents couldn't even be seen in the darkness. She looked up toward heaven. Please, let no one see me, God. Then, she slipped out of the tent, aware of every stone, every stick, every bruise, cut, and possibly even broken bone. Everything hurt, but she shoved it to the back of her mind, demanding that her body push forward, ignoring the pain.
As she crept farther and farther from the fire, her heart pounded harder and harder in her chest. Dizziness started in as she pushed herself, step after step, inch after inch, not letting herself breathe deeply like she would like. Afraid the sound of one good, deep breath would give her away. Afraid they would take her back to that monster to be used all over again. A full body shiver stopped her, vibrating through her from head to heels, reminding her of her aches as she moved parts she shouldn't.
She kept moving forward, blind in the darkness of the forest. Her hands shook as she reached out in front of her, testing for obstacles. Her legs quaked with each step as she tested the ground with her toes for branches, rocks, and leaves — anything that would make a sound. Her progress seemed slow. Her journey seemed endless. Her destination seemed impossible. They'll find me. She had a fleeting thought they'd kill her if they caught her, but realized she wasn't so lucky. Her whole body quaked again as she tried to banish images of what they'd already done. Just keep going. One foot in front of the other. It's not as far as you think.
After what felt like a half hour, an hour, two, her fingers brushed against the rough bark of a tree, and she let out a soundless sigh of relief, her body sagging. But her relief was only momentary. She wasn't out of the woods yet. Literally. She could still be heard. She still had to be silent, cautious. Fortunately, these trees were dead. Leaves were rare. As she felt her way along, her heart still pounding, her breaths still shallow, her mind pulled phantom enemies out of the dark. Every little sound was a man in pursuit, gaining on her, reaching out to grab her. Every branch brushing against her was someone about to drag her back.
The darkness receded by shades. She started to make out the outlines of trees before her, just a darker shade of dark against the b
ackground. Her hands dropped to her sides, and she started scanning her surroundings. Trees as far as she could see. No movement, no other shapes. It was lightest in front of her.
She continued on, less concerned about noise. She knew she was far from the camp now. She sped up, wincing as branches cut into her feet, but not caring. It was no worse than the other pains. Without even realizing, her heart was now pounding out of exertion instead of fear. She smiled, not caring as it hurt her face, hurt the bruises, hurt the cuts. She pushed herself harder.
She was flying now. Effortless. Everything hurt, but she didn't care. She was free. She'd escaped, even her mind flitting away from what had happened, unwilling to think on it. The forest continued to lighten, and now she could see an end — a meadow up ahead. Hopefully, the same place she'd left her bike.
She erupted into the meadow and laughed, collapsing on the grass and rolling in it. She let her heart calm, taking deep breaths, letting them calm as well. After a few moments, she could almost forget what she'd been through… except for the pain. She sat up and examined herself. A couple fingers wouldn't move — probably broken. Almost every exposed inch of skin had a freshly developing bruise on it. That's gonna be bad. The bad ones always show up that fast. A few cuts, but not too many. Most of the cuts were on the soles of her feet, from running. Her clothes were torn to shreds and bloodied. Her shoes were gone. Her mind continued to shy away from the other abuses.
The girl looked around, hoping to see her bike. Another painful, half-hysterical laugh escaped her as she saw the bike not fifty yards away. God always looks out for you at the strangest times, huh? She stood and started walking, immediately regretting the little romp in the grass. Now that adrenaline wasn't flooding her system, every hurt seemed amplified. She could barely walk for the pain in her feet, but she kept on.
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