Fresh Flesh

by Todd Russell

  "How come you know so much about fish and insects?" She wanted to add: and about gross, repulsive living things?

  "You think I didn't go to school? That I've been stranded here all my life? I'll have you know I was a good student. I. . ." he stopped and sadness overtook him again."I should have graduated with honors."

  "Should have? You didn't graduate?"

  "No, I dropped out. Long story."

  She could tell Dick didn't want to talk about why he dropped out of school. She made a mental note to revisit this topic again someday.

  She thought about touching his shoulder, but declined. She didn't want him to think of her as any more than a fellow stranded person on the island. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to imply you were dumb."

  He perked up. "Hell, that's the past. Forget about it. Doesn't matter here. The only thing that matters here is survival."

  As they finished eating she asked him to explain what survival entailed.

  "I'm gonna teach you everything I can. How to catch red and black grouper. Berries that will keep you alive, berries that will kill you. Climbing trees for coconuts. How to get to the ocean and back to my home here: my cave. Excuse me, our cave."

  Oh no, she thought, he's starting to use 'our'. Bad omen.

  He nodded, held up his pocket knife and sharpened tree branch.

  "What are those for?" she asked.

  "Tonight I'll teach you how to make a spear. Just in case."

  "In case what?"

  "I don't want to alarm you but we do have some wild animals on the island. Mostly night creatures. They probably wouldn't bother you but I'll feel better knowing you can protect yourself."

  "With a tree branch?"

  "Don't knock it. A finely-honed tree branch can go through you like butter."

  He held up one of his whittled spears as an eerie example.

  * * *

  Sometime later she lay down to sleep. He sat on the rock and started whittling again.

  "Don't you ever sleep, Dick?"

  He was staring at her again. Staring with weary eyes. "Everyone sleeps."

  "Can I ask you a personal question?"

  "Sure."

  "How old are you?"

  He leaned forward curiously. "How old do you think?"

  She thought for a moment how strange it was that Dick and she both played mind games; they shot question after question at each other, giving few direct answers. They would have made, when time mattered, lousy game show contestants.

  "I don't know. Fifty?"

  He dropped his whittling project, aghast, "Fifty?"

  "I'm sorry, you're older?"

  He glared at her, disturbed. "Come on now, you really think I look fifty?"

  "I don't mean to hurt your feelings. People don't like to talk about age. I don't. I'm thirty-nine and regretting every day. Can't see the forties. How was it? I mean, how did it feel hitting forty?"

  He shook his head. "I wouldn't know, Jessica. I'm only twenty-nine."

  * * *

  After Jessica had fallen asleep—another mistake telling her his age—he got up and walked outside. He'd spent too much time explaining that his physical appearance was accelerated by living on the island in the elements and she didn't take it well. She liked being beautiful and this island had already begun to age her mentally. She saw the haunting physical effects of spending too much time here.

  He stood by the cave entrance, hands in blue jeans long since rags, watching the sky as he had Jessica. There were very few night skies he enjoyed anymore. Loneliness tended to do that to you; ripped you apart like an old couch, found your insides and stomped them flat.

  The sky seemed awkward tonight. More stars? Darker? He couldn't tell. He felt an emotion that hadn't been in his heart for a long time, he was happy. Something he was never supposed to be here. Perhaps he saw fate in the sky. An hour glass refilled with sand.

  You can't break me, he raised a fist to the night sky, you'll never break me.

  He left the jungle eyes and went back inside. He would never tire of watching her and fantasized about the day she would touch him like a lover. The day she would decide to make love with him on the sandy southwest beach. He would not rush anything, they had time. She had to get over her husband.

  Maybe tomorrow he would tell her that while she slept he searched all over the island and couldn't find any sign of other survivors, including Edward.

  Had she accepted Edward's death yet? She would in time. Our time won't run out. He fell asleep with a big smile on his face.

  He had no idea how wrong he was.

  CHAPTER 5

  Spring 1984.

  Kyle Roberts didn't like anybody he couldn't understand. English was the only language he wanted spoken by others and the only language he knew. The group's dominant language would be among the first of many battles. Several in the group wanted the language to be Spanish while the majority favored English. One couldn't speak any other language than Japanese.

  His name was Saruwatari Naoki, age 54. They knew he was 54 because several times he had drawn the number in the dirt and pointed to his chest. It was one of the few things he could write in English. He was the oldest in the group.

  He was about to do something unusual that would make him a folk hero in the group.

  Saruwatari first discovered the clearing on the west side of the island.

  They called him Sar for short. He had grown up on the volcanic Izu islands in Japan. The group leader, Kyle Roberts, had learned this from Seth Everson, a newbie who rambled about his eyes having special powers. Seth was the only one who knew enough Japanese to interpret.

  "A clearing?" Kyle said. "So what, there are several clearings."

  Seth said something in Japanese and Sar grabbed a stick and started drawing symbols in the dirt.

  "Well?" Kyle's impatience grew. He'd considered gutting the Japanese farmer on several occasions. Sar had been saved by Seth's half-assed translating.

  Sar's anxious eyes bothered Kyle.

  "Something about the ground and farming. I don't quite understand, sorry." Seth shrugged.

  "Show me this place," Kyle said.

  Sar led Kyle and Seth across the island. They talked back and forth in Japanese, further annoying Kyle.

  "What are you talking about?"

  "He's talking about the dirt on the Izu Islands. He loves talking about dirt."

  Kyle grunted. "Big surprise. A dirt-loving farmer."

  The sun bore down on the trio as they made it to a 75'x75' clearing. Sar bent down and ran his fingers through the dirt. He looked up and rattled off more Japanese.

  "Sar says vegetables will grow here."

  "Without any seeds? Yeah, right."

  Kyle munched on the berries. Gigantic-sized, tasty berries.

  Several butterflies fluttered across the clearing. Kyle stopped and admired them.

  "I think he's saying something about the seeds already being here," Seth said. "He says this summer we'll have vegetables to eat."

  "These are the best berries anywhere on the island," Kyle replied. "Tell him I said: 'nice find, Sar.'" Kyle was disappointed that he hadn't found this place first. Having not been here a full year there were bound to be some useful spots he hadn't found first. And the butterflies seemed to like this place too.

  Sar bowed at Kyle, smiling.

  * * *

  Summer 1984.

  Kyle was sitting on the beach when Sar and Seth approached him. They showed him long, bright orange carrots. The carrots had grown in the clearing on the west side of the island that Sar had discovered.

  "Sar was right," Seth said, offering Kyle a carrot. Kyle chomped on it and, like the berries that grew around the clearing, the carrot was very tasty. Best carrot he'd had in years. The only carrot he'd had in years.

  Kyle was impressed and a bit surprised by Sar's discovery. Sar was proving to be more useful. And Everson, ranting about his eyes aside, wasn't half-bad either. Before summer was out, Sar also shared pota
toes and tomatoes grown in the clearing with the group.

  The happiness of having something to eat besides berries, coconuts and fish would soon end. They were not allowed to be happy here for long.

  CHAPTER 6

  1992.

  After twenty-six years in San Quentin for the brutal murder of his mother and wife, and eighteen months before Jessica Stanton washed ashore the island, the state of California decided to let Torque walk. And it was no longer than five minutes after he passed the gate, smiling, waving goodbye to the guards, that he smelled the coppery scent of blood.

  They let me out, he thought, whistling the Marine song, and on such a glorious day.

  A sunny, hot Valentine's Day. He could already see the pitiful young lovers, gathering like moss under the shade of towering oaks, playing pussy-pussy, kissy-kissy games. Husbands forced into buying chocolate sweets and long stem roses (which died after two weeks anyway, so what was the fucking purpose?). Wives acting phony when their surprise came or cuntish when it didn't. Little boys and girls barely acquainted with the birds and bees, passing out nonsensical Will You Be Mine cards. Torque just couldn't understand the fascination. He knew the only good thing about Valentine's Day was the color: red.

  The same color as blood.

  Satan's color.

  Torque sighed wistfully, looking across the jammed parking lot for Baby Blue, his pick-up truck. It had to be there somewhere, he knew, because Uncle Sal told him it was in his last letter. Uncle Sal said he parked it and left sweet Sally under the seat. Uncle Sal was a swell guy, he kept Sally all these years, and took care of her like she was one of his own. Uncle Sal knew Sally would be put to good use again someday. If not by Torque, by him; Uncle Sal said his wife was getting too big for her britches. If that came down, Sally would be pleased. She loved blood.

  But not more than Torque.

  There she was: Baby Blue, sitting next to some red foreign piece of shit; what a disgrace. Uncle Sal must have missed it, Torque was disappointed, and decided that as a good, upstanding citizen of the United States he would slash the tires and steal the stereo. The least he could do.

  Torque's birth name was Wally Adamson, but those who knew that were either the law, dead, or as crazy as him (Uncle Sal, for example). He'd gotten the nickname by the way he torqued his mother and ex-wife's heads with his monstrous hands until they snapped. After he torqued their heads, he let Sally do the rest.

  It took him three minutes to reach Baby Blue. Four more to fix the foreign jobby. It would have taken less time, but he was a little rusty, and he would have felt wrong not slicing the leather upholstery to ribbons.

  He climbed into the pick-up and looked underneath the seat. The keys were waiting on Sally's sleek body. He took them, jammed them into the ignition and let her rip. She fired like she'd never gone cold. Now that's love.

  Looking back at San Quentin, his home since he was eighteen, he felt a little sad to be leaving. He took a moment and studied its beautiful figure. The cold, unforgiving concrete and you're-never-going-to-leave-here barbed wire fences. He couldn't have asked for a nicer prison home. He loved it and it loved him.

  Before tearing out of the parking lot, he opened the window and spit on the foreign jobby. It would never park next to Baby Blue again. The road opened up, and Satan led Torque's nose to the overwhelming scent.

  "Speak to me," he said crazily. "Tell me what I must do. Tell me how I can join you."

  The wind brought him an answer. Another smell. It was a weird, succinct odor that, at first, stupefied him. He hadn't come upon that odor for quite some time.

  And then he recognized it was fried chicken.

  Southern Fried Chicken.

  "Wonderful." He laughed happy as the day was bright, driving toward the smell of chicken.

  And blood.

  On the way a few cars passed him too close on the two-lane road. He could tell Sally was getting nervous and it started bothering him. Back off, he gave them all dirty, hateful stares. They obeyed and gave Baby Blue breathing room.

  The power of Satan. I have the power of Satan.

  It took about five minutes to trace the smell down. Torque was right, it was emitting from a Southern Fried Chicken fast food restaurant. He pulled into the barely-filled parking lot, passing the slowly revolving chicken logo. It was their knockoff of Kentucky Fried Chicken's spinning bucket of chicken. Everybody ripped off everybody else on the outside. The smell was unbearable.

  Too much chicken. Not enough blood.

  He turned off the engine and hugged Sally. In the glove box, Uncle Sal had packed plenty of ammo. He cradled Sally, the sawed-off double barrel pointing like eager fingers toward blood. Sally could smell it a thousand miles away, something Torque could never quite figure out. He wondered if a vampire could smell it that far away. No, he decided, vampires are pussies. They can only kill after daylight, at night. Sally never slept; she was ready for blood 24/7, 365.

  And boy was she ready now. She was trembling in his hands.

  He got out of Baby Blue and, in broad daylight, walked across the parking lot with Sally ready at his side.

  Valentine's Day. Cupid had his bow and arrow. Torque had Sally.

  A starry-eyed college kid waltzed out of the front door, a bucket of chicken in his hands, a small grin on his face.

  "First blood," Torque laughed, aiming.

  "Jesus Christ." The kid dropped the bucket, chicken spilling on the stone walkway.

  "Wrong guess." Torque pulled Sally's trigger. Only one barrel for the kid, his guess wasn't that far off.

  Torque was a perfect shot. The bullet attacked the kid's white shirt like a meat sauce covered fist, opening a fleshy hole one foot in diameter. The force sent the kid rocketing through the glass doors, and shards flew like shrapnel every which way.

  "Open says me!" Torque walked through the shattered glass opening. The glass sounded like teeth crushing beneath his footsteps.

  People screamed at the sprawled dead body of the college kid and at Sally. She loved to hear them shriek her name. In the heart of every scream Torque could hear Sally's name.

  "Who's next?" Torque played the gun from fool to fool. From the bald-headed black guy in the referee suit to the fat bitch with too many children (piglets, he deemed) to the gray-suited man with a barbecue chicken face to the stoned-looking kid in the corner (probably high on that crack shit) and his punk rock buddy with multi-colored spiked hair.

  The Southern Fried Chicken (SFC) employees, all spiffed up in their blue and white outfits, stood terrified behind the counter. They all looked the same to Torque (they either had small tits or no tits). The boss probably wanted it that way.

  Silence is perhaps the most deadly weapon of all, especially in the hands of a maniac, and Torque worked the silence (coupled with a few wicked stares that would have stoned Medusa herself) for several long frightening minutes. Once satisfied he switched targets, pointing Sally at a freckly teenage employee who quickly pissed himself.

  "Where's your manager, boy?"

  "In—in—-in—"

  He put Sally to the boy's throat. 'Do you want to die?"

  "N-n-no."

  "Where's the fucking chief?" Torque screamed. The boy squeezed his eyes, shuddering.

  "BANG." Torque laughed as the freckled employee fainted dead away.

  "I'm here." An old man with a boy's face came out from behind the chicken display. He was dressed in fine brown slacks and a pressed blue shirt with a clip-on tie displaying the SFC logo, another sight of ripping off a better known fast food restaurant.

  The manager trembled.

  Someone moved behind Torque. He turned, firing off a random shot. It was the punk rocker with the pink, black and green spiked hair trying to run for it.

  Only now he would never run again.

  Sally had leveled him, and his head was a caved-in pumpkin, oozing blood and brain out of a hole in the skull. A lucky shot.

  "NOBODY FUCKING MOVE!" Torque raged, spittle flying from
his mouth. The dining room was frozen with eyes watching Torque in exquisite fear.

  The weapon of silence was used for three more minutes. This time the silence seemed much more eternal, for now it was obvious that anyone who attempted escape would meet the same unfortunate outcome. Torque was not a maniac searching for attention; he was a puppet on Satan's strings, one of the ghastly evils that had escaped from Pandora's Box.

  Satan wanted Torque out and had told him everything he needed to say and do to massage the parole board.

  "What—what do you want?" the manager finally asked, still shaking.

  Torque swung around. "Dumb fucking question, Chief! What the fuck do you think I want?"

  "Money. You want the money?"

  Torque laughed so hard he almost fell. "The money. You think I want the fucking money?" He walked over to the drug addict kid with an Iron Maiden concert shirt, and gestured to the manager. "Do you think I want the fucking money?"

  The kid answered fast: "No."

  "So, what's your problem?"

  "I'm tripping on two hits, man, and you just killed my friend and I'm really, really freaking out."

  "Tell me, why do you think I'm here?" Torque asked the drug addict curiously. He reloaded Sally.

  Silence. The boy struggled to think with his poisoned head. After a moment he came up with: "Hell. Hell sent you."

  "BIN-GO." Torque rushed back to the manager and pointed Sally at him. "No, I didn't come here for your fucking money. This is a game, Chief. You, me, the squaws." He kissed the butt of the gun. "And Sally."

  The manager gulped. His employees backed against the back counter where they packed their chicken orders. One of them knocked over a cardboard sign which read: SERVICE WITH A SMILE.

  "Did you call the pigs yet?" Torque barked, spitting a gigantic loogie on the cash register.

  "N-no."

  "Bull-FUCKING-SHIT. You want to see some more blood, huh?"

  "NO! No. No, please. Yes. Yes, I called the police."