The Flesh Eaters

by L. A. Morse

  “Smell it!” Sawney Beane hisses. “You can smell their fear.”

  Tom makes a sudden effort and breaks through the human circle about him, but is caught instantly and held.

  Now the children jump up on the wagon and throw the woman to the ground. They swarm over her, stabbing and slashing furiously.

  Paralyzed, unable to struggle, Tom watches the slaughter of his wife. So do his captors, but they are enjoying the spectacle, pleased with the youngsters’ expertise.

  When the woman no longer moves, the children, tear at her with their teeth in a frenzy of hunger, grunting and growling. The terrible sight is more than Tom can endure. Screaming, he breaks away from the men who hold him, running with no thought but to flee from the horror.

  Sawney Beane and the older hunters have no difficulty keeping up with Tom. With easy strides, they lope beside him, laughing. First Hunter leans close and whispers the chant in his ear. Two of the older boys run backwards ahead of him, motioning contemptuously for him to come on. Tom hardly notices; the horror of his wife’s bleeding body fills his mind.

  At last, exhausted, he runs off the road and leans breathlessly against a large rock. He has already given himself up for dead; he is no longer afraid. Though he has never done anything more violent with his knife than peel an apple, now he draws the knife from his belt, determined to make these monsters pay for his death.

  The family stands just beyond his reach, amused by his pathetic efforts to defend himself. Then, with flicking jabs, they begin to poke and stab at him with their knives, darting in, jumping back before he can slash them. With each new cut he receives, Tom grows weaker. Soon his arm goes limp, and his knife dangles at his side.

  The family moves in for the kill, their knives raised. Just as they are about to strike, they hear shouts and the sound of running feet. They turn to look back along the road.

  Led by Aird, the men race down the road, whooping in an attempt to scare off whatever might wait before them.

  Each man has a different fear of what he will find. The reality is nothing like their wildest fears, but not one will ever forget the sight that greets him at the bend in the road. The men stumble to a halt, staring in disbelief.

  They see the bloody body of a woman. On her, all around her, are young children, some not more than infants. Their eyes are dark and wide, their hair is wild, their clothes are ragged and filthy. Blood drips from their hands and mouths; pieces of flesh hang from their teeth. The woman’s dress has been ripped away, and some of the children are feeding on her breasts and thighs.

  All stand frozen now, the men and the terrifying children.

  Beyond the children, the rescuers see a man surrounded by larger youths with bloody knives raised overhead. They, too, stand motionless, staring.

  Fear shows on all faces. The rescuers are numbed by horror; what they see violates everything they have ever understood about the world of men. For the family, a fundamental principle—a law of survival—has been violated; they feel the fear of trapped animals.

  Suddenly Sawney Beane cries out for the family to run. The discipline of a lifetime is not completely forgotten, and the family heeds his command. But they lack their usual order; panic sends them scrambling into the bushes.

  The sight of the creatures fleeing in terror encourages Aird and the other men to give chase, but the family’s intimate knowledge of the terrain permits most of them to get away.

  Aird and two other men manage to surround one of the older girls. They move cautiously, watching her as she glares at them, looking for an opportunity to escape.

  “Easy now... easy,” croons one of the men. “We’ll not hurt you, girl. Just come quietly and everything will be all right. We don’t wish to hurt you. That’s good. Easy. Easy.”

  The girl appears to relax, and the men move forward. Suddenly, she gives the man in the lead a tremendous kick in the groin. He cries out and doubles over, clutching himself in agony. The other men try to hold her but, thrusting with her knife, she breaks free and disappears into the woods. The two men start to go after her, then reconsider and turn to help their injured companion.

  In the woods, Douglas is chasing one of the younger girls. He has been careful to go after only one of the little ones—there is no reason to place himself in needless jeopardy.

  He is almost upon the girl when she drops down and wiggles under a thick hedge. She is just about to disappear when Douglas manages to catch her foot. Though he is four times her weight, it takes all his strength to pull her out from under the hedge. He sees now that the struggling girl is about the same age as his own daughter.

  “You shit eater!” she screams, slashing at him with her knife. “You thing! You son of a bitch! You sheep fucker!”

  Douglas is so surprised by this language that he almost lets go of her. He manages to disarm her, but then the girl sinks her teeth into the base of his thumb. Douglas screams in pain; her sharp little teeth have pierced through to the bone. He strikes hard on her head and shoulders, but she hangs on.

  “Let go!” He screams as he feels the bone crack. “Let go, you little bastard! I’ll kill you! Let go! Let go!”

  At last she gives up her hold. They glare at each other, several feet apart. Douglas sees that his thumb is almost bitten off; it hangs limply from his hand, blood pouring from the wound. The girl’s mouth, too, is red, dripping. She licks the blood from her lips, smiles, then ducks down and disappears into the bushes. Douglas stares after her in stunned disbelief.

  The men straggle back to the road, many of them scratched, bruised, and bleeding. All wear expressions of shocked incredulity. For a moment, as each tries to regain his sense of reality, no one speaks. Then the words flow.

  “Did my senses deceive me? Or did you all see.... that... that..

  “I saw it. To my sorrow I saw it, and I fear I will never be able to stop seeing it. Those children...”

  “Feeding on this woman... like a pack of wild dogs or wolves.”

  “Look what one of them did! Nearly bit my thumb off—and enjoyed doing it.”

  “One took on three of us! Almost took my eyes out, and just about unmanned Willy here.”

  “Did you see the expression on the faces of those children when we came up?”

  “They cannot be children. They must be something else. I don’t know what...”

  “My friends, for all our jesting, we have discovered the monster of the Coast Road. Do any of you doubt it?”

  “Nay, but what do we do now?”

  “To begin with, we cover that poor woman.”

  A blanket is laid over the body, and Tom moans as his wife is covered. The men realize that in the excitement they have forgotten about him. Some of them begin to make comforting or encouraging noises, but Tom seems barely aware of their presence until one young man says, “You certainly are fortunate!”

  “Fortunate?” Tom’s eyes go wide.

  “Aye,” the young fool continues. “If we had not arrived you would have been killed.”

  “Then I would have been fortunate!” Tom bursts into a wail of despair.

  The fool is pushed away and told to go look after the horses.

  The men question Tom gently about what has happened. With many lamentations, blaming himself for taking this road, he tries to tell his story. When he gets to the point where the children fell on his wife and began to devour her, he cannot cope with the horror; he screams uncontrollably. The men try to hold him, but he struggles free, runs down the road in a frenzy, trips, and lies sprawling. The men help him back to the seat of his wagon, where he sits mumbling about staring eyes, bloody lips, sharp teeth.

  Most of the men are for leaving immediately. “Aye,” Douglas says. “They may be back at any time, and we are no match for them.” He holds up his mangled hand, now roughly bandaged. “I have nearly lost my thumb, and that is enough.”

  Other men, Whyte among them, think that they should try to locate the monsters’ lair.

  “You can, go w
ith my blessing,” Douglas says. “I will tell your families of your fate.”

  “But we must do something,” Whyte protests.

  “Why? We have already saved one man”—Douglas looks at the gibbering figure of Tom, and sighs—”though that may not be a blessing. We have discovered the monsters. I think that’s enough.”

  “But we all saw what they did! They must be caught!”

  Aird nods. “I agree. But we can’t do it. We are few, we’ve no weapons to speak of, and half of us are already injured. We don’t know how many of them mere are. We should return to town and tell the authorities. They are the ones to deal with this.”

  Whyte is persuaded. “You’re right. That’s best.” He shakes his head. “I’m no braver than anyone else, and I don’t wish to meet those... things... again. Let’s get out of here.”

  III

  The party has reached the town. As the men proceed down High Street, people call out greetings, not noticing their injuries or their uneasiness. At the inn, Aird, Whyte and a few of their friends take the wagon with its dazed passenger into the yard.

  The inn’s boy, sleepy and bored, welcomes them to the Crown and Castle. Then he notices the men’s blood-stained clothing and their peculiar expressions.

  “What happened? Are you hurt? Did you run into bandits?” There is no real concern in his voice, only the hope of hearing a good story.

  Aird does not oblige him. “Bring us something to drink, and fetch the Sheriff.”

  “I’ll go.” The boy is disappointed. “But I don’t think the Sheriff will come here. He doesn’t like to be disturbed.”

  “Tell him he had better come if he values his position. Now go!”

  When the boy returns, the men are drinking beer, but the dazed look is still on their faces. The boy climbs up onto the roof of a shed in the inn yard, a good position from which to observe the proceedings.

  Eventually the Sheriff arrives. “All right, I’m here. What is so important that I was called away from my dinner? And who is the one who gives me ultimatums, as if I was some sort of lackey? Well? Speak up! What’s this all about?”

  Aird speaks quietly. “We have seen your monsters.”

  “You have seen the monsters, have you? Congratulations. I’m going back to finish my dinner.” The Sheriff turns away.

  Aird speaks forcefully now. “I think you had better hear our story.”

  “Well, my stomach thinks otherwise. Good evening.”

  “Sheriff!” Whyte steps forward. “We have seen the monsters. Or something as close to monsters as I ever hope to come. Take a good look at us.”

  For the first time, the Sheriff notices their wounds and torn clothing. “Well, what happened? Make it quick, and it had better be good. What are these famous monsters of yours?”

  Unsettled, Aird does not know how to explain. “They are not really monsters. They are men... they have the form of men... but they seem to be more like animals.” He tails off, realizing this sounds ridiculous.

  The Sheriff rolls his eyes.

  “Let me tell the story from the beginning,” Aird says. “We were returning from the fair near Eastbury, along the Coast Road. When we reached the deserted stretch near the cliffs, we heard a scream and ran to see what was happening. We came around a bend in the road—and then saw it. My God! I will never forget that sight”

  “What sight? What did you see?” Despite himself, the Sheriff is affected by Aird’s intensity.

  “We saw a lot of people... horrible looking, wild people. Long, long hair, very dirty. And their eyes... those terrible eyes! They were many—about twenty, I guess—all ages. Men and women. Boys and girls. Young children. Oh my God!”

  “Come on, man! Get on with it. What were they doing?”

  “The older ones had surrounded that man there.” Aird points to Tom who sits unblinking, unmoving. “They had their knives raised and were about to kill him. On the ground directly before us was the body of a woman—this man’s wife. She was dead, covered in blood. The children—the young children, some very small—were crowded around her. They... were eating her flesh.”

  The Sheriff recoils. “They were what?”

  “They were eating her. Feeding off her like a pack of wild dogs. Their hands and their mouths were all red. Blood dripped from their chins as they gnawed at her. My God, my God!”

  The Sheriff gets hold of himself. “Do you expect me to believe this?”

  “Look!”

  Aird tugs away the blanket that covers the body of the woman in the back of the wagon. The Sheriff stares at the mangled corpse. The color drains from his face; he is unable to move or speak.

  The inn boy leans forward on the shed roof in an effort to miss none of Aird’s fascinating tale. To see the body, he stretches out even farther and falls from his perch, just missing the Sheriff, who leaps up in fright, smashes his knee against the side of the wagon and then, cursing as he hops about on one leg, puts his foot in a bucket or slops that has been left in the middle of the yard.

  The Sheriff at last extracts himself from the bucket. Mustering his dignity, he limps over to the cart. The sight of the mutilated corpse causes his stomach to turn over.

  “Cover that up,” he says in a strangled voice.

  Aird obliges. Without sarcasm, he asks quietly, “Do you still wish to return to your dinner?”

  The Sheriff gags. “I may never eat again, damn you.” He gestures toward the covered body. “Children did that?”

  Aird nods. “Do you believe us now?”

  The Sheriff does not answer, and Clarke steps forward. “When they saw us, they ran into the woods. We went after them, but they got away.”

  “We caught a couple of them,” Douglas says, “but they fought like wild animals and escaped. A little child—a girl—nearly bit off my thumb.” He waves his mangled hand in the Sheriff’s face. “The worst part was that she seemed to enjoy doing it.” He shakes his head, recalling the girl’s expression as she tasted his blood. “Just like an animal.”

  The Sheriff mumbles to himself. “Man-eaters. Cannibals. A cannibal family. Why me?” He raises his eyes heavenward. “What have I done to deserve this?”

  Aird speaks sharply. “What are you going to do?”

  “Me?” The Sheriff is surprised at the question. “Nothing. If you think I’m going to become some cannibal’s next meal, think again.”

  “But you can’t just do nothing,” Whyte says.

  “Why not?” the Sheriff says with all sincerity. The incredulous looks that greet this question make him reconsider. His eyes scrunch up, his brow furrows. Then, suddenly, he beams. “I know! We’ll tell the King. Of course! Let him worry about this.”

  The men nod their agreement, and relief washes over the Sheriff. The King cannot help but be impressed by the brave Sheriff who has solved the great mystery. Thoughts of bloodthirsty cannibals vanish, and the Sheriff pictures himself receiving a high royal appointment.

  In a damp, chilly, but elegantly decorated chamber of his castle, King James I of Scotland is holding forth on one of his favorite topics—himself. His attentive audience includes several of his chief counselors, the Bishop, a foreign emissary or two, and a small army of flatterers, fawners, and toadies.

  Though the King is a bit pompous, and a bit too fond of his own voice, he is not a fool. His long stay as a “guest” of the English has given him considerable experience with political intrigue and a valuable education in statecraft and human nature. He knows what he wants and how to get it, and he sincerely desires to improve the condition of his nation. The fact that he has already done much in this regard is his present topic.

  “...and before I returned to take my rightful place here, outlaws and bandits flourished. Law and order did not exist. Travelers on the road—even people in their homes—were not safe. And now? Now that I have the throne, peace and prosperity are again found in our beloved kingdom.”

  The King pauses to allow his listeners to offer praise. When they have d
one so, he continues. “Of course, there are still minor problems to be dealt with—such as the unsolved disappearances that plague this area.”

  “A small matter, my lord, and of no consequence,” the Bishop says in his oiliest and most ingratiating manner.

  “Of no consequence?” The King is glad of a chance to goad the Bishop, whom he regards as one of the minor problems with which he must deal. “Is it of no consequence that the countryside is depopulated, that travelers do not go on the roads, that trade suffers? Bishop, it is of great consequence!”

  “Aye, my lord.” The Bishop smiles weakly.

  “And did I not hear that you attempted to use the power of the Church to solve the mystery?”

  “Aye, my lord.” The smile is weaker still.

  “To no effect?”

  “Aye, my lord.” The smile is gone.

  An attendant enters, looking very uncomfortable. “The Sheriff and several townspeople are here, my lord. They wish to see you.”

  “Tell them to return later. I am engaged.”

  “I told them, but they say it is urgent, my lord. They seem very agitated.”

  “About what?”

  “I could not properly understand, my lord. They kept referring to ‘the monster’ of the Coast Road.”

  “The monster of the Coast Road, eh? This might be amusing. Show them in.”

  As the attendant backs out, the King laughs. “Monsters, indeed! What ignorant yokels these must be.”

  The Sheriff enters with Aird and Whyte, all of them quite flustered at being in the royal presence. They bow, and then the Sheriff moves forward, still limping slightly from his injured knee.

  “Your Majesty, I am your faithful servant, the Sheriff of—”

  “Sheriff, you are well known. Your reputation has preceded you.”

  “Your Majesty, you flatter me.”

  “Not at all,” the King says dryly. “Your exploits are frequently discussed.”