[Ash Park 01.0] Famished

by Meghan O'Flynn

  Footsteps pounded toward me, reigniting the furious beating of my heart, and then he was there, his breath hot with rage and reeking of tobacco. His fist slammed into my temple with a dull, wet thud. Stars exploded behind my left eye and I was falling, plunging over the edge of the table, crashing against the linoleum. Pain roared up my side.

  He panted above me, breathing fast, much too fast. I curled into a fetal position and squeezed my eyes shut. I waited. No more blows landed.

  “I’m done. I’m fucking done,” he said. I heard footsteps stomping away from me, and then the door slammed.

  As my tears puddled around my throbbing head, I wondered if I would survive without him.

  It was dark, as it had been in his younger years, though he no longer waited in patient silence for the feathery kiss of tiny legs to climb over his dirty bare feet. Nor did he listen for the disembodied groans coming to him through the closet door, or the wet thwack thwack thwack of skin-on-skin, those strange songs that had once held a faint promise that maybe he would eat tonight.

  He stretched his eyes wide, adjusting to the gloom. As a child, he had once wondered if he could develop superhuman sight if he strained hard enough against the dark; comic book super heroes certainly had no less outlandish ways of acquiring power. But he had dismissed the idea just as quickly, even then. Most children will believe anything. He’d believed nothing.

  Moans filtered through the memories and snapped him back to the present. The drugs must be wearing off. The man on the table groaned again, louder this time. He could get as loud as he wanted; no one would find them here.

  The cement building had long been abandoned, each stinking puddle of rat urine a tribute to all the wretched lives that had once spent time in these rooms. Crumbled walls, crumbed dreams. From the windows on the upper levels, a power plant lit by feeble floodlights was visible in the distance, belching eerie clouds of grayish smoke into the obsidian sky.

  Cities like Ash Park were punctuated by isolated pods of despair where the silence was so complete that even vagrants seemed to avoid them. Here, a child could go undiscovered for weeks on end before anyone in the apartment building noticed the smell of their mother’s rotting corpse. These streets felt like home and beckoned that quiet child back into focus.

  But he was not a child anymore.

  Around him, the basement room had retained its shape, unlike the rubble-strewn rooms on the above floors. A lantern in the corner cast the floor and ceiling in amber. His captive was on his back, supine and naked, stretched across a four-by-four-by-six concrete table constructed from cinderblocks and covered with a clear plastic tarp specifically for this occasion. The filthy gray cement made Jake’s pale skin stand out in striking contrast, though he was still jaundiced by the yellow glow of the lantern. Above Jake’s head dangled a single, unlit fluorescent light bulb in a battery-powered goose-necked lamp. A flick of the switch turned it on.

  Jake opened his eyes in the sudden blinding light and worked his mouth behind the duct tape, squinting like a woman readying herself for a beating. As his mother had. As perhaps Hannah had. But there would be nothing so trite as punching happening here tonight.

  With latex-covered fingers, he reached for the small instruments he’d lined up on the floor. Scissors, chest clamps, nails, scalpel. Scalpel. No, stopwatch. How could he forget? He reached for it and pushed start, betting on fourteen minutes and twenty-two seconds with a forty-five second margin of error before Jake stopped screaming. Only once had he miscalculated, but that had been enough.

  He grabbed the scalpel and held it up. Jake’s eyes bulged. Behind the tape, his captive leaked a whining screech, the squall of a bird seized by feline jaws.

  He moved the scalpel to Jake’s clavicle and slowly, slowly, sliced rib cage to sternum. A bright red line appeared and swelled to a garish stream that gushed down Jake’s sides and formed slick puddles on the plastic tarp. Grunting and huffing, now fully alert to the precariousness of his situation, Jake strained against the cuffs—arms, then legs, then both in a helpless dance.

  He peered into Jake’s eyes. The expression was familiar, and he stopped mid-cut, the scalpel buried in hair below Jake’s belly button. They all made that same face at the end. Fear? Anger? Maybe the look of recognition when someone realizes they are about to die. Desperation, perhaps.

  Desperation would not save him, though. Nothing would.

  He returned to his task, cutting the thin skin of the abdomen and cleaving slowly through flesh and fat and down to the muscle. The struggling man shivered as the muscles split under the blade. He set the scalpel aside. Jake’s muffled howling disintegrated into thin yelps and squeals.

  It won’t be long now.

  He peeled the layers of skin back and secured them in place with hardware nails, then pressed his fingers into the cave of Jake’s belly, prying the ruptured muscle back to expose the cache of organs beneath. He wrapped his fingers in a coil of intestine and pulled.

  Jake panted through his nostrils. His eyes rolled back in his head, his breath erratic and fast.

  No more screaming. Satisfied, he dropped the spiral of intestine and pushed the stop button on the watch, leaving a bloody fingerprint on its face. Thirteen minutes, fifty-eight seconds. Still within the margin. He smiled and picked up the scalpel.

  Drawing his attention back to the tangle of organs that had once been a man, he picked up a length of intestine and sliced it open, watching the yellowed, pus-like contents drip into the open abdominal cavity. The scalpel slid smooth as silk—not the slightest hesitation in the tissue, as if it wanted nothing more than to give up its treasures.

  But no insect.

  This time he had waited several hours after forcing the roach down his victim’s gullet, so perhaps it had already made it through the small intestine. He should at least be able to spot the legs and shell; roach exoskeletons were admirable in their ability to remain at least partially intact through the duration of the digestive process. He remembered that well enough from his childhood, along with the way they smelled: that oily, musky odor that set his mouth watering even now.

  It was an amazing thing, how a human being could survive and function on so little nourishment. How a handful of cockroaches every day and the occasional loaf of bread could sustain a child for years at a time.

  Simply incredible.

  He ran a finger over the soft, slippery tube of intestine as if it were Hannah’s cheek, envisioning her face when she heard the news: her eyes getting hazy, then overflowing, her arms reaching for him.

  She might cry out of genuine sadness.

  He dismissed that possibility, giving it twelve-to-one odds in favor of tears of relief—if she cried at all.

  Jake was a waste of a human. It made no logical sense for anyone to miss him.

  Tuesday, November 3rd

  Dawn’s light shone sickly and dim against the windowpane. I dressed and applied makeup over the deep purple bruise that stained my temple. Then I went through the house and filled a box with Jake’s things—so he would have no reason to go through the rest of the place—and left the box in front of the door where he’d trip right over it. If he came back at all.

  I can’t turn into one of those women.

  News flash: you already have.

  Decisive actions, but everything was foggy, confusing. I blinked back tears all the way to work. At the office, my fingers sat leaden on the keyboard until I forced movement, and even then it was slow. Each file I entered brought me another minute closer to the end of the day and an empty apartment.

  “Hey, girl!” Noelle was smiling when she poked her head into my cubicle, but her eyes widened when she saw me. “What the hell happened to you?”

  I looked away, the explanation catching in my throat, blocked by shame. A tear escaped from under one lid. I swiped at it with my sleeve.

  Then Noelle was there beside me, her hand on my shoulder.

  “It’s almost lunch time,” she said. “Come with me.”
>
  I stood unsteadily and followed her from the room.

  We sat at the picnic table near the lake. The sun had been swallowed by deep clouds. Frosty air blew off the ice that was creeping along the edges of the water. I shivered. “He’s … cheating on me. I found a note.”

  “That’s why he hit you?”

  “Yes.”

  “But this wasn’t the first time.”

  “No,” I whispered.

  “When did it start?”

  “He never did it until after I moved in with him.” He used to be so supportive, so kind. What had happened to that guy?

  “Why didn’t you just leave the first time it happened?”

  “I don’t know. I should have. I know I should have.”

  “Oh, no, it’s not your fault, Hannah.”

  But it was. “I just kept pushing and I knew better. I tried not to say anything about the note, but he knew something was wrong and I just—”

  “Jesus, Hannah, would you fucking listen to yourself?”

  What’s wrong with you, Hannah?

  You’re an idiot, Hannah.

  Angry bees swarmed my stomach and stung my heart. I hung my head.

  “Aw hell, Hannah, I’m not trying to get on you. You just shouldn’t blame yourself. You need to leave him.”

  “I think he’s gone for good. He said he’s done with … me.” My tears were hot in the icy breeze. He’d never said anything so terrible, even during our worst fights. But there hadn’t been another woman before either.

  That I know of.

  Oh god, that’s probably where he stayed last night.

  “I put his stuff by the door so he could grab it and take it over to her place,” I said. My rib cage felt constricted. I pulled frigid air through my nose. “I don’t want to be there when he comes back.”

  Noelle walked around the table and wrapped me in a bear hug. It felt good, safe, even though bears were more known for their mauling than their hugging.

  “Hannah, I am so sorry.” Noelle had tears in her eyes. “You don’t need that worthless asshole.”

  If he’s worthless, what does that make me if I can’t even hang on to him? Noelle’s sympathy made it clear that she was oblivious to this point, which only made me feel worse.

  She held my hand. “Come out with me tonight. I was going to meet Thomas and Jim downtown at The Mill at six. There’s an art show down the road. Jim was going to bring someone, but she cancelled.”

  My mouth dropped open and I tasted lake air on my dry tongue, metal and mud. “I … I can’t just go out—”

  “What are you going to do? Sit at home alone and wait for him to come back all pissed off? Be out of the house. You can even sleep at my place if you want. If he’s really leaving he should be back to get his things while you’re gone. And if not, the extra day will give him more time to cool off.”

  We’d broken up less than twelve hours ago and all I wanted was to curl up in my bed and cry. But as Noelle watched me, the throbbing of the bruise on my cheek was slowly awakening something else: rage. I could feel it bubbling under the fear and the loneliness. And I didn’t want to be alone in that apartment. I found myself nodding. What kind of a person does that? Maybe I was destined to be a tramp.

  Noelle beamed. “I’ll get you some makeup before we head out. We’ll need to do better with that eye.”

  “Or I can just go with the raccoon look. Quick, punch me in the other eye.” My voice cracked.

  Noelle gave me another one-armed hug.

  I visualized angry bears again, and somehow that comforted me.

  Noelle looked like she wanted to maul Jake.

  We met the guys at The Mill and ordered two pizzas topped with pepperoni, onions and extra cheese. I hadn’t eaten all day, but I was still surprised when my stomach grumbled.

  Jim raised his eyebrows at me. “So, are you totally single now?”

  Noelle stiffened beside me.

  I froze, a pizza crust halfway to my lips.

  “It’s just that I thought I remembered Noelle telling us you were involved with someone. It’s none of my business, really—”

  “We … broke up.” The words felt foreign on my tongue and I realized I had never had to utter them before. I took a deep breath. The pizza in my stomach lurched around like it was alive and angry at being trapped.

  “Sorry to hear that,” Jim said, but the twinkle in his eyes said he was anything but.

  Placid. Think about the lake. Or Botox. Maybe I should get that. I’d look chill all the time. “These things happen,” I said over the thumping of my heart. I grabbed my root beer, glanced at my yellow blouse and wondered if this restaurant had better hand dryers than the club we’d gone to. I set my glass down again.

  “If you ever need someone to help take your mind off it, I would be happy to oblige,” Jim said.

  I shot a panicked look at Noelle. She rolled her eyes.

  I turned back to Jim and cleared my throat. “I might need a little time, you know?”

  He inclined his head, but slowly. “Of course.”

  “So how many artists will be at the show tonight?” Noelle said.

  The men took turns answering her questions while I sagged against the plastic booth. I wanted to kiss her for changing the subject. Still, she had been right; this was preferable to sitting at home on my kitchen floor, trying to forget my own worthlessness while listening for the creak of the floorboards in the hallway.

  Robert liked the way her mouth moved as she spoke, the minute quiver of her lips that she probably hoped no one else noticed. The faraway look in her glorious green eyes. She was sad, perhaps conflicted, but not a single tear. That was admirable. He had underestimated her strength the first night they met.

  Her sadness would surely escalate in the days to come as she worked through her loss. And he would be there to pick up the pieces, to analyze her desires and become them, making her ache for him, driving her to the brink of insanity and back again before she collapsed desperately into his arms.

  But slowly, he cautioned himself. He couldn’t push her. She wasn’t like ordinary women, wonton and shameless. She was better. She was pure.

  He smiled.

  What could he do to repay her for the wonderful thing she was going to do for him? What gift was there for the salvation of his soul?

  He turned to Noelle. Her hair fanned as she tossed it over her shoulder, her sweater struggling to restrain her creamy breasts as she moved. He smiled more broadly.

  Noelle smiled back.

  What a whore.

  Wednesday, November 4th

  Petrosky threw the newspaper down hard enough to spill his coffee. This media bullshit wasn’t going to help him any.

  In the last week, he’d spun his wheels questioning everyone who knew either of the murdered women, but he’d gotten nothing more than a few vague details he could have figured out on his own. They had both suffered some pretty violent beatings at some point in the weeks before they had died, but that was commonplace with prostitution. There were no leads on common acquaintances, dealers, or johns.

  He dropped his eyes to the paper. Front page. Two days old already.

  In an update on a recent story, the killer responsible for two murders in the Ash Park area may have used even more horrific methods than first speculated. According to an anonymous source, the victims were surgically opened while still alive, enduring the dissection of intestinal walls, and possibly the stomach, before perishing. Police have no strong leads. If you have any information, please contact the Ash Park police department.

  Now they needed someone to cover the false confessions from the crazies. Fuck it, he’d have Morrison get one of his buddies do it. Or he’d just give the crazies the number to the goddamn newspaper office.

  Petrosky slammed his fist against his desk. “Hookers are killed every day, and they pick my case to publicize? Why do they care all of a sudden?”

  But he already knew. If it bleeds it leads.

&nbs
p; Morrison looked up from his desk across the aisle and shrugged as his phone rang.

  Petrosky righted his upended coffee cup. “I swear to God, if I find out who the hell—”

  “Petrosky!”

  He startled at the strain in Morrison’s voice.

  Morrison was already out of his chair and pulling on his coat. “We’ve got another body.”

  “This doesn’t fit, Boss.”

  The building was a skeleton of a factory. In some places, towering pillars of cement and steel reached toward the sky; in others there were only piles of rubble. Petrosky grimaced at the steel ribs as he passed underneath, wondering how much jostling it would take to make them fall.

  The basement seemed sturdy enough, at least for now, with steel support poles like the kind found in an underground garage. The concrete roof was cracked in places, but intact, blocking the elements and protecting anyone inside from the falling debris of the upper stories. Off the main area, smaller rooms with cement walls offered even more privacy—probably why their killer had chosen it, along with the building’s distance from the more populated areas of the city. It was dumb luck that some homeless man had snuck down here during last night’s snowstorm and found the body.

  Petrosky followed the murmur of voices to a back room. In the center, a man lay on a bloodied plastic tarp on top of more cinderblocks, his eyes closed, his mouth open in a silent scream. At each of the four corners of the makeshift table, bolted-in metal cuffs secured the man’s wrists and ankles. A straight cut ran down the center of the body. The man’s intestines were piled on his scrawny bird chest in filmy coils.

  Crime techs bustled around the concrete blocks, dusting the restraints with fingerprint powder.