Flesh Worn Stone Page 5

  Steven didn’t know. He wasn’t much of a fighter and never had been. He’d shied away from violence his whole life, not out of some grand moral standing against it but because he was an absolute coward.

  “He managed to get to his feet, though, and he hit me in the face a bunch of times. See the tooth I lost?” she asked like a school child might, expecting a visit from the tooth fairy that evening. “He really walloped on me, Steven.”

  Steven’s heart filled with a mix of rage and fear. He wanted to kill the man who’d hurt his wife, but he also wanted to protect her, to heal her, though she didn’t seem like she wanted to be healed. “I really think we need to get you to the hospital.”

  “No, I’m fine,” she told him. “Anyway, I was laying there under him thinking I’d never see you or the boys again and he was pounding on me. Just hitting me again and again. I guess I’d hurt his manhood by, well, hurting his manhood,” she said with an unnatural laugh, “and he wanted revenge. He’d dropped his knife at some point and I found it and I stuck it in his neck,” she finished matter-of-factly, “I stuck it in his neck and when he fell over I watched the blood pour out for awhile before I finally left.”

  “So you killed him?”

  “I don’t know,” she lied, and he knew she’d lied yet he wouldn’t let himself believe it.

  “I still think we should get you to a hospital and file a report. Did you even call the police?”

  She unbuttoned the front of her jeans, dark with blood, and let them slide to the floor. “I think you should get me to the bedroom.”

  * * *

  The mood back inside the large cavern was downright festive. People sang and danced to music from an ad hoc band playing with recycled instruments—guitars and drums that were heavily patched, a homemade bass, and a wide variety of bamboo flutes. The music was intense, heavy on the drums, and people danced to it rhythmically, leaping towards the ceiling and grinding on each other as if they were having sex. Steven, somewhat panicked and searching for Rebecca, couldn’t help but stare at the gyrating people, dancing as if that’s all there was.

  He supposed that really that’s all there was, here in this place. To dance, he thought, was to be free for a little while.

  The old woman and the skinny man were escorted through the crowd by the Samoan’s guards, driving back fans who wanted to touch them. The old woman, her new stump still bleeding profusely, smiled and laughed despite her obvious pain, like a Hollywood star parading for the paparazzi. She waved her stumps at them, blood trickling down her arm and adding to the stains of her dingy white dress. She was absolutely lapping up the attention.

  The skinny man was no different. Bending down from the grip of the two large men who carried him, high-fiving little children and smiling profusely despite the obvious agony from his smashed leg. Both of the victors seemed oblivious to the pain from their Games.

  The large Samoan led the parade, and that’s what it was—a parade—to the area where Cassandra’s body still lay and the cooking fires burned. He looked at her dead, lifeless form with some disdain and turned to the crowd like a king addressing his subjects. “It seems our refrigerator has quit.”

  The crowd laughed as one.

  “I suppose we’ll have to eat all of her right now! Along with Salias, the loser, we will feast!”

  The roar of the people threatened to dislodge rocks from the ceiling, or so Steven thought, and he watched in disgust as workers moved to finish butchering Cassandra and start on the broken body of the Game’s loser. They were careful to strip skin first, piling it in neat stacks next to the bones. The corpse’s hair was carefully removed, wrapped up on sticks. Nothing of the corpses was wasted. Raw meat, along with rotting vegetables from the garbage, went into the massive pots, along with a multitude of mushrooms that Steven assumed were from inside the caverns somewhere.

  “And today we are blessed with two more Game winners,” the large Samoan told the crowd. “Two more people have joined the ranks of those who have fought and won. We have two more people…no, not people,” he told them, sounding like an inspiring politician at a campaign rally, or maybe a televangelist. “They aren’t people, they’re winners…” he said, the word like a promotion, like the two, the old woman and the skinny man, had been somehow elevated above the rest of the population. “Two more victors that are one step closer to being reborn!”

  The crowd roared back, and it was several more minutes before the large Samoan, standing among the pots and dead losers under the corpse of a pirate ship, could speak again. “And to our fallen brothers and sisters who have lost…we hope you find rebirth after death, as always.”

  That produced a solemn few moments as the crowd considered the losers. “Your loss, though, will be the Cave’s victory. Now come to Block and receive your mark,” the Samoan, apparently named Block, ordered.

  The woman stepped forward first, her stumps at her side, and knelt in front of the leader. He withdrew a sharpened piece of iron from the fire, its tip glowing bright red in the dim light of the cavern, and carefully cut another 1 next to the one the woman already had on her forehead. She didn’t flinch, didn’t cry out. After the cut, she stood and Block embraced her.

  “You nearly failed us, Cecilia, nearly failed your people,” he told her sternly. “Had it not been for Joseph, we might very well not have been eating today. Or we may have been eating you. You, however, pleased those in the Castle, and are that much closer to rebirth. And Joseph,” he said, pointing to the man who’d cut the woman’s hand off. “You will be eating extra today.”

  The man grinned sheepishly as his friends around him slapped him on the back and congratulated him as if he’d just rescued a child from a burning building or performed some other act of heroism.

  The old woman’s smile turned to sudden anxiety and fear. “I’m sorry, Block. I didn’t know how to do it.”

  “Of course you didn’t. How do you know how to cut off one hand when you only have one hand? How is it possible? That is why we are here, Cecilia. Sometimes, though, that is the aspect of the Game…the act of learning how to be reborn. But we are here to help each other through the Game, and we must help each other,” he said forcefully, turning back to the crowd. “We must help each other because there is nothing else.”

  The crowd agreed, and though Steven heard no one say “amen,” he felt like he was sitting in the pews with the congregation.

  “Go, Cecilia, and take your place among the winners,” he said, pointing to the area behind him where his group had gathered earlier. “And eat first. Eat first and be strong because the Game will surely call upon you again.”

  She waved the stumps to the crowd again, the fresh one still pumping out blood, and Steven wondered how she was still walking around. Three of the large muscular men with multiple marks on their heads helped the skinny man with the shattered leg kneel in front of Block. The bone protruding just below his knee scrapped stone and the man faded from consciousness for a moment.

  “And you, Thomas, native born son of the Cave, this is your first Game, your first win, a win that I knew that you would win,” he said, taking the man’s shoulder. “I had no doubts, none at all. You are now truly a son of the Cave.” He sliced the man’s forehead above his left eye. As the other men helped him stand, he handed him Cecilia’s hand. “And here. She won’t be needing it anymore.”

  The man grinned and took a large bite out of the palm of the severed hand, turned, and showed the crowd a mouthful of fleshy skin. They roared in response and the music started up once more, along with the dancing.

  As the music and the party resumed Steven watched as the old man, Richard Nixon, the only name they had for him, went and tended to the two victors. He first had Block’s men hold Thomas down and, after painfully stretching out his broken leg, tied a stint from his ankle to his thigh to keep it in place. He shoved the bones back in the best he could and, thankfully, the man finally stopped screaming and passed out. The old woman he took by the arm, a
nd, as gingerly as a nursing home attendant, led her to where one of the large fires burned. He guided her down to her knees and then produced a wooden stick from one of his many pockets, giving it to her to bite down on. When she nodded that she was ready, he thrust her arm into the fire. The woman’s eyes went wide and she bit down on the stick until Steven was sure she would pass out as well. She didn’t, and when she finally removed her stump, it was blackened and smoldering, but no longer bleeding.

  “This is sick…” Steven said aloud, to no one in particular. “I have to find my wife…we have to get out of here.”

  “She’s over there,” John said, taking Steven by the arm and pointing to an area away from Block. “See her? With the little girl?”

  Steven looked and saw Rebecca kneeling with a small girl whose thick mane of black hair contrasted oddly with her dingy yellow sundress. Rebecca held the girl tightly, hugging her and whispering in her ear like they were long lost relatives. He went to them and saw fresh tears on his wife’s face.

  “Rebecca?”

  “Hi,” she said, wiping away the tears and loosening her grip on the girl. “I…I met this girl.”

  The little girl looked up at his with dark brown eyes, much like his wife’s, and managed a smile. She was missing teeth and he was unsure if it was from the fact that kids lost teeth or if it were something more sinister, which he wouldn’t doubt in this den of cannibals. How any of the children had avoided Block’s pot amazed him, and as he thought about it, he wasn’t sure that they had. He also noticed that the girl, along with the other children he’d seen, didn’t have the tattoos on their arms.

  “Hi, there,” he said, trying to hide the fear and panic that still gripped his voice. “My name is Steven.”

  She smiled again, showing the expanse of missing teeth, but didn’t say anything.

  “Her name is Mia,” Rebecca said flatly. “But she doesn’t talk.”

  “You act like you know her,” he said, wondering how his wife would know the girl’s name if she didn’t talk.

  “How would I know her, Steven? I just arrived here with you.” There was something different in his wife’s tone, something new and separate from the grieving mother of just a few hours earlier. She stared at him coldly as if daring him to counter or even ask something else.

  “I don’t know…”

  “She’s all alone here, Steven. She needs someone.”

  Steven felt as if he were barely there, barely part of the conversation. She held the girl’s hand for a moment, and as the two locked eyes and souls, Rebecca pulled her close again. Steven wanted to break them up, worrying for his wife’s sanity and safety. For all he knew, the girl might be buttering her up to get her in the pot later. John, who’d followed, gently pulled him back.

  “Leave her be, Steven.”

  “Don’t tell me how to treat my wife,” he said defensively.

  “I’m not trying to, but she’s just lost her sons. You’ve just lost your sons. It’s natural for her to latch onto children. It will help the healing.”

  “Do you really think this is a place for healing?” he asked John mockingly. “Do you think that cannibals and whatever sort of mad gladiator show that was is good for healing? This place is death, John, plain and simple. It’s literally hell on earth.”

  “But it’s the child’s home,” he said, nodding towards Mia, who was smiling in Rebecca’s embrace. “And here, I fear, we have to take comfort where we can.”

  Darius joined them, Amanda just behind him, though not close enough where he could touch her. Steven was sure she was swallowing her fear of the black man, and what she alleged he’d done, in favor of being near the only thing that was known to her. Awakening in the Cage had been a birth, or rebirth, and they’d all latched onto the first thing that they had seen—each other.

  “There isn’t any food that doesn’t have people in it,” Darius said simply.

  “It’s Soylent Green,” John said, managing a small laugh.

  “What?” Darius asked, not getting it.

  “Never mind, obscure movie reference…so what do we do about food?”

  “I don’t know,” John said. “I’m not at the point where I want to eat others. Honestly and truthfully, I can see it coming. I can see the point where we’ll all stand in line, eat from the pot, and be happy about it. If we live much longer, that time will come. I guarantee it, but I’m not there now.”

  “I won’t be there. Not ever,” Amanda insisted, shying away from Darius and sitting next to Rebecca and Mia. “I will never eat people.”

  Steven didn’t know. It just wasn’t something he’d ever thought about and never expected to have to think about. Who would? He didn’t have the desire, but he knew hunger could be an overriding factor. He could realistically see himself eating from the pot as well.

  “There are mushrooms somewhere,” he told them. “I saw them putting them into the pots.”

  “I’m sure they’re guarded,” John replied. “What about the refuse? Was there anything worth eating there?”

  “Also part of many of the pots,” Darius said. “We’ll have to be quicker next time and acquire some for ourselves.”

  “Where does it come from?”

  “What?”

  “That much garbage,” Steven asked. “It was a whole truck full. It had to come from somewhere. Maybe, if we can find out, we can get help.”

  “I think that next time,” Darius answered, “maybe we should be more concerned about eating. We can’t escape if we’re dead.”

  Indignant and somehow feeling the big black man didn’t really want to escape, Steven asked, “Next time? How do you know there will be a next time? How do you know we’ll even live through the night? You saw what happened to Cassandra, you saw what they did to her. They’re still eating her.” He felt like screaming and breaking things. “They tried to keep her alive so her meat would stay fresh like she was some harvest to be protected.”

  “She broke the rules, Steven,” John said simply. “And she was punished for that. I think we’ll be safe as long as we don’t break the rules.”

  “Safe until that infernal billboard displays this number,” he said, dramatically raising his sleeve and displaying his crust-covered tattoos. “And then what? Are you going to fight to the death so some freak up in the sky box can get his kicks?”

  “I fear we won’t have a choice,” John responded. “You heard what he told the old woman. Her refusal to lop off her hand may have resulted in the garbage not coming. Her refusal to participate in the Game would have affected every single person in this cave. Should you not participate,” he said seriously, “you not only have the possibility of dying, but of hurting these children as well.”

  “If I’m dead, why do I care?” Steven replied flippantly.

  “I’ll fight,” Darius said, not really to the group but to himself. “I’ll do whatever it takes to survive here and find a way out.”

  “That’s fine for you,” John told him. “But what about me? I’ve never had a fight in my life. I grew up, well,” he said somewhat uncomfortably, “privileged. My father runs the fourth largest oil company in the Middle East. I’ve gone to the best schools, had everything I ever wanted handed to me.” He almost sounded resentful. “I’ve never had anything to prepare me for something like this.”

  “You do what you have to in order to survive,” Darius said, still not looking at any of them and staring at his feet instead. “That’s all there is to any of this. Any of the morals you brought with you are out there,” he said, pointing to the cave entrance that led out of the cave, “outside that bamboo cage. You either survive or you don’t. It’s simple.”

  “So are you going to protect us?” John asked. “You look like you’ve fought a time or two in the past.”

  The scars on Darius’ face agreed. His body was a patchwork of scars, like a road map, and Steven knew of only one way he could have gotten them. “What, you want to be my prison bitch?” The big man laughed hyster
ically. “You think I’ve done a lot of time or something?”

  “Honestly, the thought had crossed my mind,” John said frankly, “and I apologize for that.”

  “Don’t. I get it a lot. The big black guy has to be a criminal, right?” he said, finally looking up and staring at Amanda. “We’re too stupid to succeed without turning on each other?”

  “I didn’t mean it like that,” John countered.

  “Of course you didn’t, but you did. You did and then you felt guilty for even thinking it. Don’t worry about it, but no…I can’t protect you. I can’t protect myself. We’re on our own here, and we either survive or we don’t.”

  They were silent a few moments, each wrestling with their own thoughts and fears. Steven was much like John, though he hadn’t led a life of privilege growing up. He’d led the typical, urban American life, born and raised in Houston, going to college there, and only leaving the city on vacation. The closest he’d ever come to fighting had been one badly thought out season at high school football. He’d never been robbed, never mugged, never raised a fist in anger to anyone in his entire life. He didn’t know how to make a fist, as far as he knew.