Through The Valley

by Yates, B. D.

  "So listen," he finally stammered, "I just wanted to come and apologize to you. We haven't spoken much since that night. I just wanted to tell you that I only helped hold you down because I knew that if I didn't, Roy would—"

  Emmit reached out with both blackened hands and gently grasped the Reverend by his shoulders. The Rev was startled, almost defensive, as if Emmit might be about to strangle him. When he saw the somber expression on Emmit's face, his tensed muscles relaxed— but only a little. Emmit could read the dread creasing his tired face.

  "It wasn't anyone's fault but Poke's. My story is the true one. You believe me, right?"

  The Rev nodded enthusiastically, and Emmit appreciated the lack of hesitation.

  "I do believe you. We don't know each other very well, but I think I know you well enough," he said, with a sick-looking smile. "I know those two, too."

  "What you said about us, being the only living things here. That's something else I noticed," Emmit said gravely. "There's nothing alive here but us. I feel like you're the only person here that I can trust, Rev, and I need you to be open and honest with me. Something... something's bothering me."

  He released the Reverend's shoulders, and the Rev immediately began clasping his hands together, wringing them nervously as if he couldn't find the perfect hand position to pray with. His soft, sad eyes flicked from Emmit's to the ground, back and forth, back and forth. Emmit could hear him nervously tapping his teeth together behind his lips.

  "Papa, I'm—"

  "Don't call me that," Emmit interrupted, shaking his head in frustration. "I have a name, you have a name, we all have names. That kid over there, his name isn't Pup. That's someone's son. My name is Emmit. Emmit Mills, and I have a son named Deacon. I call him Deek. And somewhere, he's wondering why his daddy hasn’t been to see him."

  After a long and questioning stare from the Rev, one that was long enough to make Emmit think he was going to shut the conversation down, he extended his calloused hand. Emmit took it and shook it smartly.

  "Tim," he said, apprehensively. "Tim Barnette."

  "Very pleased to meet you," Emmit said. "Please, Tim. Tell me what's really happening here."

  "Emmit, if I tell you anything Roy doesn't want you to know yet, he will kill me. He's very particular. He has a routine that he doesn't like to break. In fact, if he knew we were even mentioning his name right now he'd probably kill both of us, and then he'd have two Providers. My lord, he's already watching us like a hawk."

  "There. The Provider. What the hell does that even mean? Why hasn't Roy let me in on that little secret? Is it because someone has to die to be the Provider?"

  Emmit's rapid fire questions were stabbing into the Rev like volleys of arrows. The next question was more like a harpoon than an arrow and had to be pulled from Emmit's mouth like a stubborn wisdom tooth.

  He'll kill us, and that will give him two Providers?

  "Tim, what are we eating?"

  Tim Barnette's entire body sagged as if he had just finished running the longest marathon of his life. The expression on his face seemed to spread over his entire body, and it was unmistakable. It was shame, generously peppered with guilt. Looking Emmit in the eyes seemed to cause him a great deal of pain.

  "Emmit, we've been eating… the last Provider," he said, his head hanging so low that Emmit could see the top of his curly scalp. His dark hair was streaked with ribbons of silver and gray.

  Emmit had expected this answer, but it still struck him like a falling brick. He pictured himself sitting by the fire with his little wooden bowl, picking up hunks of charred meat with his fingers and eating them, savoring the juices that squeezed out between his gnashing teeth. Longing for some salt and pepper so that he might make it taste even better. Gnawing on strings of chewy fat that popped and sprang his jaws apart like little wads of rubber. Drinking the leftover mixture from his bowl.

  His stomach lurched and heaved, and his throat clicked like he had just swallowed a pocket watch. That had been someone's thigh. Their bicep. Their calf. Roy had been cleaving human meat from a dead body he kept in his secret shed, hacking flesh from a person he had met and spoken to and lived with, survived with. Then he had cooked and fed that person to the rest of them. He gagged, his eyes streaming tears as he fought to keep what precious little meat he had eaten in his stomach.

  "I know, I know how it sounds, but if we don’t, we'll starve to death, Emmit. There are no animals here to hunt. There's nothing here but us and them," Tim pleaded, trying to justify the act of cannibalism to himself as well as Emmit.

  "Uhh, guys?" Came Pup's youthful voice, rising and cracking slightly on the word "guys".

  Emmit and Tim turned to where he knelt in the snow, both hands full of dripping brown wads of old clothes. He tilted his head towards the woods behind him.

  They turned, and the veiled shapes of Roy and Poke were beginning to materialize through the gently swaying branches.

  "Better wrap it up," Pup said, then slapped his palm against the cabin with a saturated plop.

  He was right. If Roy saw them talking again, who knew what he might think. Who knew what he might do?

  "Quick," Emmit whispered, keeping his eyes on the two approaching men as he picked up his axe again. "Tell me everything you can as fast as you can."

  Tim was already stooping to pick up the hefty bucket again. He would want to be in motion, carrying it somewhere when they arrived. When he spoke, his hushed words came out like bullets from a silenced machine gun.

  "He doesn't tell new people because it makes them run away. We use nicknames because he doesn't want us to get to know each other. He doesn't want factions. He doesn't want you to feel any guilt if someone has to be killed for food. When it's time to pick the next Provider..."

  He cut off abruptly, then hefted the bucket and began to carry it towards the cabin. He didn't turn around, ignoring Emmit's harsh rasps for him to return.

  "Fuck", Emmit snarled, slamming the axe down so hard that both wrists cracked, and his right hand went numb. He shook it in the air, allowing himself small glances over his shoulder to monitor Roy and Poke's progress. He could hear their footfalls now, heavy boots crushing through the snow and whipping through patches of tall, dead grass. He could also hear the low murmur of their voices.

  How?! he thought, the voice inside his head roaring like a caged lion. How does he choose?!

  He set up another log, balancing it on one lopsided end, and sent the axe careening down into it. His aim was off. The shabby blade barely nicked the crumbling bark on the outside, throwing a shower of black dust and flakes down into the dirty snow around him.

  A familiar, wholly unpleasant voice from behind him:

  "Too bad it's not a club, I know you're good with one of those," said Poke.

  Emmit was very aware of the axe he still held; he could feel the heavy head trembling in his grip.

  "Poke. Enough," Roy sighed, sounding annoyed as he slapped one frying-pan hand into the middle of Poke's back and shoved him to one side. Poke made a startled choking sound and stumbled away, cursing under his breath. It was always startling to see Roy's brute strength in action. The man really could have been a professional wrestler, if he hadn't already found work as a professional killer.

  "Head inside," he said quietly, looking tiredly down into Emmit's sweaty, upturned face. "Important announcement."

  Emmit flattened his mouth and nodded, scratching at his beard nervously as he let the axe thud to the ground. A sick sensation in his gut was telling him that he already knew what that announcement would be.

  The horizon line was deepening to golden purple by the time Roy had brought them all inside, given them a chance to clean themselves up with cold water from the bucket, and let them rest by a fresh fire for a while. Nobody seemed to have anything to say. The cabin felt like a funeral parlor, the smoky air thick with tension and unease. Emmit supposed they had all been through this before, the selection of the next Provider, and it was weighing on
them. He fed off their anxiety, and his own began to gnaw at him like a tiny, hungry rat in his midsection.

  He kept shooting glances over to the Rev, where he sat on a pile of clothes intently studying his hands. He would flip them palms down, study the knuckles and fingernails, then flip them back over and study his tough palms. Emmit knew that tactic well; trying to stay quiet, occupied, out of the way. If you did that, maybe no one would notice you. Maybe they would just leave you alone.

  There was a light tap on his shoulder. Roy was standing above him, holding what looked like a bindle that had been stitched together from an old pair of blue jeans. He reached inside the pack and removed a hunk of brownish red meat. It looked like a giant raisin, dried and gristly. Emmit swallowed hard.

  "It's jerky," Roy said easily. He was chewing as he spoke, and Emmit was acutely aware of the wet squishing sound Roy's teeth made as they ripped someone's corpse apart. He took the "jerky" and held it in his hand, smiling awkwardly.

  "Thanks."

  Roy stared down expectantly, his eyebrows raising and lenghtening the fingers of the black handprint on his face.

  "Not even gonna try it, Papa? It's a new recipe. Never made it before."

  Emmit's stomach was growling, purring up at him as if a cat had appeared to eat the gnawing anxiety rat that lived in there. He was very disturbed by the conflict he felt. He didn't want to eat this person; he didn't even want to hold the flesh now that he knew what it was. And yet he was salivating, and it smelled like good old fashioned beef jerky. Part of him did want to eat it.

  Then there was the fact that if he didn't eat it, Roy might get suspicious. Roy might wonder why a starving man would refuse to eat the food he's been given. Roy would lash out at Tim, because he knew the two men were growing closer than he usually allowed, and then come after him.

  Closing his eyes, he shoved it between his lips.

  He thought he might gag, or god forbid puke, all over his bedding. He began to chew the tough piece of meat, hearing his jawbone pop each time he brought his teeth together. It tasted like a porkchop that had been left on the stovetop overnight, cold and greasy with the slightest hint of salt and smoky char. He tried to swallow the mush he had been gnawing and only managed to get down half. It was connected to the rest of the meat he was still pulverizing by a tiny tendon, and when Emmit flicked it with the tip of his tongue to try to snap it, he only plucked it like a guitar string. Then, it seemed to strike home again exactly what was in his mouth. He began to feel the need to cough and gag, to spit the meat out onto the floor. His eyes were watering again, making Roy appear blurry as he stood there with his bag of people meat, watching Emmit devour one of his victims. Finally, after what felt like an eternity of swallowing and chewing, grinding his teeth and sucking small pieces from between them, the mass of chewed cadaver slid into his stomach. He could almost hear the hollow sound it made as it landed, like a pebble thrown down into an empty well.

  Roy was smiling as he popped another nugget of dried meat into his own mouth.

  "Pretty good right? Sometimes you have to get creative with the scraps, so nothing gets wasted."

  Emmit's stomach heaved and rolled again, turning his guts into a stormy seascape. He burped up the flavor of pork and stomach acid.

  Around him, the quiet room was filled with the crunching and tearing of animals eating, tearing their food apart with their teeth and glancing nervously at each other, like they didn't trust the man next to them not to pounce and steal their share. The Reverend, a pleasant African American man of God named Tim, didn't seem to be put off by what he was eating at all. His eyes were closed as he savored the food, his scarred cheek bulging and flexing. Pup was sucking his fingers, and Emmit decided then that he had watched enough—he focused on the fireplace where the flames were eating as well, reducing the wood he had chopped to silvery ash and soot.

  Roy stood at the fireplace and knocked against the wooden shelf three times, making the little wooden bowl of toothpicks jump. All the men snapped to attention like the perfectly trained soldiers they were.

  "Men, I know you've all probably been wondering what Poke and I have been doing while you're all here busting ass," he said, pulling his long hair back out of his face and wrapping it around his fist, tying it into a loose knot behind his head. It made him look like a grizzled Viking. Emmit caught himself agreeing, nodding nonchalantly, then promptly made himself stop before Roy noticed.

  "We've been huntin’," Poke chimed in, smacking his lips as he chewed.

  "We have been hunting," Roy continued. "I have good news, bad news, and really bad news. Which one do you want first?"

  Pup surprised them all by speaking up, raising his hand like a kid in a classroom, eager to answer the teacher's question.

  It probably wasn't so long ago that he was that very thing, Emmit thought, frowning at how depressing it really was. It's easy to forget how young he is.

  "Good news, please," he said meekly.

  Roy and Poke's eyes both shifted to lock onto Emmit, like two anti-aircraft guns dialing in on an enemy fighter. He curled his fingers around the spear head, which he had shifted into his sleeve, and rubbed the smooth stone surface reflexively. It was quickly becoming his talisman.

  "The good news is, we found Muddy," Roy said, speaking to everyone but more so to Emmit. Emmit swallowed hard and refused to lose the staring contest. God damn it, he was innocent. He would not be gaslighted into feeling like he was a murderer when the real murderer was standing beside Roy, smacking his lips as he ate human flesh like an idiot dog with flopping jowls.

  Bastards. Both of you.

  "He made it quite a ways, even with a busted leg," Poke sneered, and then actually mimed the way Muddy's murdered corpse had been walking when they found it. Mocking him. Poke put weight on the leg he knew he had stabbed Muddy in and feigned it giving out beneath him, rushing to catch himself on the other leg. He shuffled that way, slowly and meticulously, over to stand beside his commander. He even imitated the sleepy grin that all the dead things wore. Roy, to Emmit's relief, didn't seem to be enjoying the charade.

  "He did, but we were able to spot him from far out by his armor. We dispatched him with dignity, I want you all to know that. Not like we do the other ones. It was a clean decapitation before he even noticed us behind him, and he now has a decent grave under a tree about ten miles north of camp," Roy said, finally sparing Emmit his hateful stare. "We used a spear for his marker, and I built him a cairn."

  Emmit was speaking before he could stop himself, his glasses sliding in a fresh glaze of nervous sweat.

  "Was his leg broken?" He asked, and although he knew he wasn't yelling, it sure as hell felt like he was. His voice felt brassier than Roy's. It gave him the same sensation one might feel if he suddenly stood up in a crowded movie theater, cupped his hands around his mouth, and yelled "fire".

  "Excuse me?" Roy replied, narrowing his eyes. "By the way, go ahead and speak, Papa."

  "Shut the fuck up," Poke said under his breath, relying on vulgar commands in his usual unintelligent form. Emmit ignored him.

  "His leg. Was it broken, or had it been stabbed?"

  Roy knelt, resting his massive weight on one knee, and still he towered above Emmit. Emmit fought the urge to scoot back away from him. He was defending himself, fighting for validity— that meant not backing down.

  "You know, somewhere between chopping his head off, even as he smiled at me, and digging a grave for a man you killed, I didn't notice," he said, his bearded lips curling away from his teeth. They looked long and sharp in the dim firelight, the yellowed points interlocking like a sabretooth tiger's jaws. Roy's face resembled a swimming shark's pointed maw, emotionless and predatory at the same time. "Now. How about you stop talking out of turn and listen, before I move you to the vacant apartment beside his?"

  Emmit could feel the raw emotion seething out of him, and he couldn't keep the hatred from materializing on his face. It was like trying to clothe his naked body with
a single square of toilet paper. He could feel the muscles tightening and moving, sending bolts of pain radiating out from his mark. His eyes squinted and twitched behind his smeary frames. By some means, unbelievably, he was able to keep his mouth shut until Roy was satisfied that the point had been driven home.

  "The bad news," Roy suddenly bellowed, scaring the shit of all of them as he pretended he needed to speak up to be heard over all the interruption, "is that Muddy was tailing a massive horde of Links. I've been calling it a Megahorde. I know we all fought a couple of big groups that had broken off from the main swarm, but this big bastard... I'll be honest boys; it scared the Christ out of me. And I do not scare easily."

  He tapped his finger against the shelf to emphasize each word. I. Do. Not. Scare. Easily.

  "We have some options," he continued, gesturing with his hands. "I don't particularly like them but seeing a Megahorde like that has me convinced. I think we need to move. We could try to build fences around our perimeter, maybe engineer some traps, punji pits, something along those lines. But if a pack of Links that size hit this place all at once, it would be like a bulldozer. Just the weight of all those bodies alone would be enough to flatten this cabin. Now, I built this cabin from nothing, while I was here alone and starving. If we all work together, we can relocate somewhere farther away and start fresh. Maybe even build a bigger, better camp, with separate rooms and fences, pikes, guard towers..."

  Emmit tranced out as Roy was constructing imaginary buildings with his hands, only half listening to Roy's plans to organize expeditions and caravans, build collapsible tents for temporary shelter, create reinforced axes for felling trees. None of it mattered. Emmit didn't plan to stick around for any of these big ambitions. His life was elsewhere, his estranged wife and son were elsewhere. He wouldn't be committing to any long-term projects to civilize the frozen wasteland, especially projects that might take him farther away from where the Rev had allegedly seen the light.