Selected Short Stories Featuring Cry Wolf Page 13

of us over to the fire. She spent a long time just staring at the flames, until she looked up. “Fuck it. I want to think there’s still hope. That we’ll still get rescued. But you two, you’re a lot of that hope. I’ll probably get back to my life as the same stuck-up, bitter bitch- but I can’t stand the thought that I cost you two your happiness.” She paused. “I’ll go first.”

  Claude spent a few days procrastinating, saying it looked like rain, or that his hand was cramping up. But our hunger wasn’t going away, and Rita’s insistence was unwavering.

  Rita seemed calmer after the surgery. Or maybe it was just that we spent more time with her, walking her down to the ocean to feel the surf on her foot, helping her over to our bathroom pit. I hadn’t realized how much Rita must have done for Bob after his surgery, and in my idle moments I wondered if perhaps they’d developed some kind of indentured romance.

  We had only just run out of meat when Rita heard my stomach growl and asserted that we would take her left arm next. She was almost happy about it; I think she got caught up in how our lives revolved around hers. After a few weeks we were out of meat again.

  Rita passed out while we were laying on the beach; I didn’t know if she was being brave or we were, at that point. I cut three lengths of grass, and that night at the fire I held them out, and Rita’s face went pale. “Put those in the fire,” she said. “Now.” I looked down at the sand; she’d given so much already- but I didn’t know if I owed it to her to listen or to contradict her. “I can’t get around on one leg, anyway. But this is the last one.” She glared at me when she said ‘last.’ I think she was starting to feel bitter and maybe even paranoid; I imagine watching other people eat you, a piece at a time, does that.

  The next day, at sunrise, Claude prepared Rita for the surgery. I wanted to assist, since Rita wouldn’t be able to this time, but he told me to, “Stay where you can hear me if I shout; I wish I could spare you this completely, but if something goes wrong, I might need you.”

  The sounds were horrible, like all the worst birthgiving noises you’ve ever heard mixed together in a single cacophonous symphony, but I was woozy, sleepy and oh so hungry. I don’t know if I fell asleep or passed out, but at some point Claude sat down in the sand beside me. His hands were still covered in blood, but it was drying and caked on. “She died,” he said.

  “Why didn’t you call me?” I asked, still not yet awake enough to be truly indignant about it.

  “Because it wouldn’t have done her any good. Her femoral artery retreated back up into her thigh; she was bleeding so fast. I fucked it up, and for that I had to hold her hand, and watch the life drain out of her eyes. But I… I couldn’t make you go through that, too.”

  We had sex that night, sad, angry sex. I wanted to blame him, and to think that there was something I could have done to help, but I knew blaming him, blaming myself, that was all my neurotic mess. Rita was just a part of the larger tragedy.

  The next morning, Claude cooked the rest of Rita. We made her last. And for a time, it was nearly idyllic, a couple with a beach and the sun to themselves; we rarely wore clothes. It was almost a honeymoon.

  But eventually, the meat ran out. And we waited. We wanted desperately to escape this nightmare together. And one day I knew we couldn’t, and I asked as he held me, “Could you still love me,” I choked on the words, “without my leg?” He loved my legs, spent hours touching and kissing them.

  He touched my cheek with his hand and whispered, “Of course.” I’d seen the progression before, but now it made all the more sense to me; one of us needed to be able-bodied, to fetch wood for the fire, and to be able to cut and cook the meat, and of course to care for the other. And it continued to make good, logical sense, until I found myself limbless, waiting by the fire as he cooked my arm.

  He leaned forward, the hint of a smile on his face. “I have several confessions to make.”

  “I had something to do with the plane crash.” I waited for a punchline, but when it didn’t come I just cocked my head to the side. “I engineered it, because I wanted to eat people.”

  “And Martin’s death wasn’t entirely an accident. Martin ate false morels, which I misidentified as normal morels. They contain monomethyl hydrazine. He’s actually not the only one who ate them, but MMH affects everybody differently. Thankfully for the rest of us, MMH cooks off into the air, so we could eat him with few if any side effects.”

  “And last, I have a satellite phone in my bag, and a chartered boat anchored off Okinawa, waiting for my word. Which I’ll give, once the meat’s all gone.”

  “It’s a pity, really; I came to care for you. But if I took you back I have no doubt you’d turn me over at the first opportunity, and for that I could hardly blame you.”

  “I know this creates a strain on our relationship, but I wanted to be honest with you; I think you’ve earned that much from me. I imagine our physical relationship is over, but you should know that I did not start out to use you, or mislead you. I’ll let you live as long as you like- or at least until the meat runs out. And… I’ll make it as painless as I can. I know there’s cruelty inherent in what I’ve done, but I am sorry for the hurt that I’ve caused.”

  The meat on the spit began to sizzle, and for the first time I recognized my left hand, and I remembered the night before. We had talked about taking one of his arms, since he could still gather firewood with one good arm, and I'd told him “No.” I'd stroked his cheek with that hand and said, “I want you to live, to be whole.” He took the hand off the spit, and offered me my ring finger, still clinging to the bone, and without thinking I bit into it.

  I want not to eat it, but I’m hungry and it’s so good- especially cooked with the false morels. And I want to believe that he does care, even now; otherwise, why would he share with me? He eats my middle finger, and he seems cautious not to stare at me, but also not to ignore me while he does so. There’s almost admiration in his eyes- no, it’s appreciation.

  I want to hate him- I want to hurt him- hell, I want to roll myself into the ocean and drown. But I can’t. I hate being helpless, and vulnerable. I want to scream out, but no one would hear me. But I’m cold, and I’m lonesome. “Hold me,” I whimper.

  “Of course.” He does.

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  The Necromancer’s Gambit Preview

  Initiative

  I’m not going to tell you my name. Names have power. But we’ll get to that. For now, know that everyone calls me Knight.

  It’s raining, but this is Portland, so that’s redundant. My hair is soaked, plastered to my head. I get it cut at a little shop in Hazel Dell. The owner is a gentle, older woman who decorated the place like it was her parlor: balls of yarn, old portraiture, and a pink, flowery wall paper that all give it a 1950s feel. Each time I go, she’s decides I look like a different celebrity from the 30s or 40s, and insists on cutting my hair that way. Right now I’m Gary Cooper, apparently. But I go there anyway, because she’s the only one who doesn’t disturb my cowlicks, and make me look like Alfalfa.

  I check my watch. Rook’s late. That’s not a good sign- or maybe it’s just a character flaw- I don’t know her well enough to say.

  I’m huddled under an awning to stay out of the worst of it. Some poor bastard in a beat-up pick-up left his lights on. If it was warmer, or drier, I’d leave it alone- and I should. Never draw attention to yourself. It was the closest thing to a maxim my mother ever had. But the idea of someone having to walk home in this downpour, fuck- being stuck in this city’s lousy enough.

  I leave the coffee under the awning, and walk slowly over to the truck. I hope a driver careless enough to leave his lights on maybe didn’t lock the doors. But that would make things simple, and this driver’s apparently a very practical moron.

  Simplest unlocking spell I know involves sympathetic magic. You spit in the keyhole, to make the lock a part of you. Then you use an incantation to convince it that you both want the lock open; my favorite I l
earned from an Irish klepto who might have stolen my heart if she hadn’t made off with my wallet first.

  Sympathizing a lock open always reminds me of that scene from Empire, where Luke can’t get his rocks up- because it only kind of works. Sometimes, you just look at the lock sideways, and it’s done. Other times, you can work a lock for hours, and nothing.

  The Toyota’s lock has seen better days, and its owner isn’t gentle about shoving his key inside, so it's used to being manhandled, and gives quickly. I glance around. There are enough people on the sidewalk that I’ve definitely been seen, but nobody’s paying enough attention to care. I open up the door, and feel around for a second, just long enough to find the light switch and push it in.

  “The fuck are you doing in my truck?” a man asks from behind me. He’s drunk; I’m not sure if the smell or the slur hits me first. I feel a hand on my shoulder, that works its way to the collar of my leather jacket. I turn around.

  “Just turning off your lights,” I say, earnest.

  “You were busting into my car.” I can’t be sure if he shoves me against his truck, or nearly passes out against his truck, and uses me to cushion his landing. Either way, it’s all I can do not to punch him right in the face. I take a breath.

  “You left your lights on and your door unlocked. I