Selected Short Stories Featuring Cry Wolf

by Nicolas Wilson

sex worker. You’re pretty, and there’d be customers around the block for you, with me at the head of that line. But I’ve seen what that work can do to some people, the ones who aren’t right for it, and I know in my heart that you’re not, and it would break my heart to see you fail at it, to see it hurt you. So get out. Have a happy life.”

  I don’t think I have to tell you, but it’s Tuesday. She must not have called off, because they’re short, not that you can tell, because the owners like to overbook, because it’s not like it costs them anything to have too many girls dancing; in fact, since they charge most of them a stage fee, on a slow day it’ll actually earn them a few extra bucks.

  But even now, I don’t know how to feel about it. I think it’s the closest I’ve ever gotten to love, and I don’t think I’ll ever see her again because of it. Maybe that’s what love is, doing for someone when it costs you, really costs you, and I don’t mean the money.

  But I’m sure you came here for the girls, not to stare at my craggy face or listen to my pathetic stories. I've got your drinks, least I could do, for renting your ear. I think I should head out, but you enjoy the rest of your night, and don’t forget to tip the girls: sure it’s a bad economy, but it’s harder on some than others.

  Table of Contents

  Cry Wolf

  I remember the day after the crash. Several of the passengers were sitting around our fire, laughing. It was just like Lost- only this wasn’t some mystical unfindable island and rescue was sure to be swift.

  After the first week we stopped being so sure. We ran out of water, but managed to set up a boiler to clean salt out of the ocean water to drink. But we couldn’t find food. There were a dozen species of local plants, but after Martin died eating roots and mushrooms nobody dared follow suit.

  It was the night after Martin died that I met Claude. He was going to the World Vegetarian Congress, like the rest of us, with his fiancé, Sandy. We hadn’t found her. She couldn’t swim. He tried to teach her, once, and she almost got dragged out to sea. I fell asleep holding him by the fire; it felt good not to be alone.

  There wasn’t a doctor on the plane, but an elderly elementary school teacher named Mary became our de facto leader. She cautioned everyone against wandering or trying the local foods, because people can go three weeks without food and be fine. “Hunger will hurt,” she said, “but it won’t kill you.” But she failed to explain the weakness the hunger would bring. By the end of our second week we had to develop a buddy system, because otherwise people would pass out on the beach for hours, only to wake up dehydrated and very badly sunburned.

  Then Mary collapsed. I thought it was just heat stroke; we’d all collapsed from the heat at least once. But water didn’t help. She was hallucinating, unable to remember any of our names.

  Claude stood up. It was the first time he’d really spoken to the group, but he kicked up from where he was sitting and said, “I’m not going to let her die for principle.” We’d been keeping Martin’s corpse just over a ridge of sand, far enough away that the smell didn’t hit our camp, but near enough we could bring him with us if we were rescued, so he could have a proper burial.

  On his way, Claude grabbed the knife from the plane’s kitchen we’d been sharing. We knew what he was about to do. Even I had thought about it, but… I kept holding out hope that help would come. But it hadn’t, and even the most optimistic of us was beginning to suspect it wouldn’t.

  Claude was gone a while, but eventually carried Martin back to the fire. He had “cleaned” the corpse, cut away the genitals and cored out his organs; the body was halfway to being a Martin-skin rug. For some reason I’d hoped he would only bring back meat, so at least I wouldn’t have to think of where it had come from, picture which slab of muscle had been his legs, his arms.

  The rest of us huddled around Mary, past the edge of the fire’s light, pretending we couldn’t see or hear the abattoir our campsite was becoming. After about an hour he called Tony over to find him sticks that he could use for a spit. Even though it was getting dark, Tony was glad to have an excuse to go farther into the trees, and away from the sounds of the knife on flesh. Soon after, he returned, and the camp was filled with the sounds of sizzling fat.

  I hadn’t had a burger, my favorite carnal vice, since middle school- but it smelled so good. Claude brought over a slab of meat on one of the plane’s small white dinner plates. He tore off a piece in his fingers, and put it in Mary’s mouth. She tried to push it away with her tongue, and when that didn’t work, she bit Claude’s fingers. He leaned in close to her and said, “Don’t start with me, Mary. You need to eat- and we’re out of options.”

  Reluctantly she put her lips around the morsel of flesh, rolled it around, and began to chew. Claude looked up at the rest of us, packed in tight, and suddenly none of us could hold his gaze; he realized we didn’t have the stomach to feed her meat, so he kept at it, pinching off tiny bites and pushing them to her lips. When he was done he went back to the fire and continued cooking. He was up all night; I dreamed of my sister’s softball game, and my dad bringing us hot dogs. He’d forgotten the condiments, and you could taste every pig intestine and chicken anus, but somehow it was the best meal I’d ever eaten. Claude was just finishing up when I woke up; the sun was already rising above the horizon.

  “Why’d you cook the rest of it?” I asked.

  “The meat was starting to go bad. I wanted to make it as clean as I could- in case anyone else needs to eat.” After that, Claude went to bed, and stayed out most of the day. Tony and I carried what was left of Martin, bones, tendons and fat, back to where his body had been, and buried them with the decomposing mush of his organs.

  That night Mary had regained enough of her strength that she stood up. I’d suspected she was playing opossum, but she must have been feeling much better because she was almost light on her feet. She marched to where Claude was, tending the fire. She was angry. She wanted to slug him, and there was a tense silence through the camp as everyone watched, expecting an explosion as the two heads of our group collided. She seized him in her big arms and pulled him to her chest. “Thank you,” she whispered, and I saw the campfire’s light reflect off her tears.

  She was happy to be alive, happy to be strong; but she felt responsible for Martin, responsible that she hadn’t been able to keep him from eating what killed him. She moped for a few days; I think that’s what finally killed her. I remember falling asleep to the sounds of her snoring, and when I woke up it was quiet for the first time since we’d crashed there.

  Eugene was pissed off; Mary had reminded him of his favorite first grade teacher (it’s amazing how much you’ll find out about other people when there’s nothing to do but talk). He accused Claude, because obviously whatever killed Martin had gotten into his flesh and killed Mary, too.

  “That’s not possible,” said Claude. “Mary wasn’t the only one who’s eaten some of the meat. I’ve eaten some. Who else?” Guilty hands rose around the circle, including Tony’s. “Does anyone else feel bad- like sick?” The hands all went down. Claude sighed. “Mary was old. She convinced us we could hold out for three weeks without food. But we shouldn’t have let her try.” Eugene said something after that, but he didn’t have the courage to say it so it would carry over the wind.

  Claude walked away over the sand, and I followed. “He might be right,” he said to me as he dropped down against a lazily leaning palm tree. “We can’t know what killed Martin. It made sense to let Mary eat, because she was dying anyway, but everybody else- what if someone gets sick? I got so caught up in wanting to help people- what if I killed them?”

  I didn’t have an answer for him, so I curled up next to him. And I kissed him. I couldn’t believe I’d done it, but I had. I laid my head against his shoulder and we fell asleep.

  Nobody else got sick. In fact, those who’d eaten the meat (we learned pretty quickly it was less gruesome than calling it “Martin”) regained some of their strength, while the rest of
us looked like Holocaust survivors; we’d started rummaging through the suitcases of the dead, looking for smaller clothes that wouldn’t fall off us.

  Three days after Mary died, Claude brought some of the meat back to the palm tree where we’d started sleeping. It smelled just as good as the first night he cooked it, maybe even better. I couldn’t even look at it, because I knew if I did, if I saw as well as smelled it, I would have to eat it. I rationalized that I couldn’t- because it was Claude’s food, he’d brought it back for himself- and it was impolite for me to even think about having some.

  He held the meat out to me, wrapped in a tattered t-shirt. I had to look at it, but forced myself to keep away, until my stomach gurgled. He smiled, and said, “I care about you. I like you. And I don’t want to watch you waste away.”

  “But the diet’s been good for me; I can almost fit into that suit I brought.” I said; it bothered me how weak the words came, and that laughing actually hurt.

  “Stop it. Don’t be brave.” He fixed me with his eyes, put his hand on my cheek and kissed me. “Eat. Please. For me.” I couldn’t refuse him.

  I ate quickly. It had looked like so much food, but it was gone after only a few bites- and still I felt like I would