Bring Me Flesh, I'll Bring Hell Page 12

  “Smoking’s bad,” the boy said.

  “No shit,” I answered, and the boy gasped in further offense. The door vibrated behind me, the brass knob turning, and then accompanied by a steady rap of knuckles against wood.

  Annoyed to be interrupted, I stepped out of the way. The boy lost no time, happy to be out of my clutches; the door swung open and Madam Astra stood there, delicate features in a thin face, nipples straining against the thin fabric of her gypsy garb as the boy scurried past her in his crimson cloak. A deep funk entered the room with her and I thought to myself I should follow the stink and see where it led.

  “We don’t provide very lavish quarters, I’m afraid, Mr. Adamson.”

  “Why have you told these kids I’m their father?”

  She blinked, a confused look like a dazed rabbit. “These are all your children.”

  “I had one child born to me, and I have yet to see him.”

  “Vitus,” she whispered, pleading. “Do not upset us so. Do you know how long they have been waiting for your return? Only all of their lives. And you will crush their hearts, hurt their feelings so, by denying that you are their father? Are you so cruel, Vitus?”

  I had expected outrage, an argument, maybe even a knock-down-drag-out with a broken vase and spilled flowers as a follow-up to the last meeting I had with Niko. Hair pulling would have been preferable. In all my travels and violent cases, pleas of mercy were only accompanied by gunfire. This tender plea was out of my realm of expertise.

  First Niko, now Astra. Since when did I have a female fan club? And when had Astra declared herself president?

  I groaned.

  “My patience for this game is wearing thin,” I warned her.

  “You should meet them. All of them. They’re upstairs waiting for you, where the feast is being prepared. Please, reserve your judgment; you are free to come and go as you please. Make yourself comfortable and join us upstairs. The children love you so, Vitus, and they want to see you.”

  With that, she vanished down the corridor with her blond hair swinging after her like a curtain.

  *

  I wandered back over to the picture frame, lifted it up. I had broken the glass when I slammed it down on its face. Stray shards tinkled against the end table surface. My young face. A face untouched by rot and mold, a face tanned by warm summer suns, not cold and blue-tinged and marked with striations where the flesh had pulled apart.

  And her. My Jessica.

  I sighed and ran a thumb over her face briefly. My thumb paused there, and then trembled.

  I cast a glance back over my shoulder, down the hallway where Astra had disappeared.

  Her long, blond hair. My Jessica had long, blond hair.

  Suspicion took hold. Hooked tentacles dragging through my gray matter. I balked at first. But each passing second only served to increase the sensation of fear and I had to consider the possibility. A trembling built inside my chest where a beating heart should be and threatened to send me to my knees.

  Not possible.

  But I believed my son had lived, didn’t I? Why not my wife as well?

  Well, for one, she would have to be infected. And Madam Astra did not look like zombie material, which put her out of the running.

  Yet, it would explain why she knows so much—knows about Jamie. About our son.

  And that smell. That curious scale of green at her hairline . . .

  I did not wear my wedding ring anymore. Obvious reasons—when the flesh of your fingers rots off on a regular basis, it’s hard to keep a good fit. That, and the marriage had been over since I killed her—why hold on to the memory with that thin, gold band of pain? I pulled out my wallet and opened the billfold. Nestled beside a few crumpled bills was my wedding band. I kept it on me always, even if I did not wear it.

  Let’s put the theory to the test then, I thought, pulling out the ring and cupping it in my hand.

  *

  Upstairs, the main altar I had arrived at had been turned into a feast room, tables and chairs lined up against a concrete floor, great swaths of fabric draping the tables like misshapen animals. I stood at the door, watching the children bringing in flowers from their rooms. They were the most polite, cooperative children I had ever seen, and their eyes were far from the empty, vacant stares of brainwashed cult members—they were excited and brimming with youthful energy. I was to blame for the excitement; they were making great efforts to pretend I wasn’t there, watching me from the sidelines. They couldn’t help snatching glances in my direction, with the same atmosphere of fear-worship I had already been subjected to.

  The child I spoke with earlier in my room set plates and linens on the table for him and the other children and I studied him, as though I might have a second chance to crack the facade he wore and delve beneath the surface. To my frustration, he maintained his joyful presence and hid the darker monster beneath. As I watched him with cold detachment, a fly landed on his cheek.

  I pulled a face of disgust.

  The boy stood still. He sensed the fly’s presence and deferred to it, remaining frozen with a stack of plates in his hand, silverware gathered in the other. My eyes narrowed as I observed him, and he waited until the fly was done sampling his skin. The insect flitted off into the darkness, satisfied, and with a long sigh, the boy resumed his duties.

  What the fuck was that all about?

  Nothing good. I had a sharp longing for Niko—to be able to see her, to talk to her, but that was all over with now. She wanted nothing to do with me. I couldn’t say I blamed her.

  Through it all, Astra moved between the children, dictating and giving orders. Nothing sinister there—from time to time, she tousled their hair or squeezed their shoulders with all the warmth of a natural mother. Except now, I could not help but compare her to Jessica, looking for similarities. When she helped a child set a platter, was that the way my Jessica had done so? Impossible to tell. Asking questions got me nowhere.

  Then maybe you should play the part. They’ve set up a grand stage, and you’re supposed to be the loving father to the children, husband to her wife; they expect your defiance. Throw them off balance by acquiescing and see what shakes out.

  I nodded to myself and took a moment to breathe deep. I disliked such a charade. These were not my children. That strange, fey woman could not possibly be my wife. Pretending that they were offended me at my core. And why? Haven’t you guessed?

  “Because I can never go back,” I whispered, tracking her with my eyes. “Those days are over. There is no more pleasure, no more happiness. I can never, ever, get them back.”

  I would still be as dead tomorrow as I was today. No amount of pretense could bring me back to life, coax my cells to divide anew, my DNA to reawaken like hungover crashers at a drunken party and carry on with their lives.

  What if she were my wife, alive after all these years?

  Who said I even wanted her back?

  The pain of losing her was sharp; no less knowing that I had killed her. The dead man I was now knew no other existence than that heart-rending pain. Without it, I was nothing. The man I had been stood in awful counterpoint to the man I became: honest, naïve, integrity, courageous, a non-smoker. I had stood for something pure, something greater. I was a twisted shadow of my former self, and now that I had tasted the blood of my family, consumed them down to their marrow, I knew no other way to be. The darkness was my home now. I chose my evil of my own free will.

  Straightening my suit jacket, I waded through the children—my children—to Astra.

  *

  She turned as I breached the distance between us. I hesitated, and then pushed forward, fighting against my basic instincts. Everything inside me rebelled; but time and circumstance and bitter memories are persuasive factors. With great effort, I choked the sentiment into my words.

  “Jessica,” I said.

  Astra remained still, frozen. Continuing the charade, I reached out with a gloved hand and caressed her cheek, moving a str
and of her hair away from her face. This was the sort of motion I would have made when I was alive, a tender gesture. I often did so when I came back from service, coming up the porch in my fatigues. She’d run outside with a shriek, throw her arms around me. So small, she still had the power to squeeze until I gasped to catch my breath.

  “Vitus,” she said.

  She did not deny it!

  I wanted to turn my open hand into a slap, ring her across the face and demand the truth. Jessica was dead. Why was she pretending? What could she hope to gain by this insult, by throwing the death of my wife in my face?

  To keep you under her thumb, to throw you off balance.

  My fingers twitched uncontrollably. From this distance I could almost taste her blood, the meaty texture of her flesh. I contained myself, swallowing back my rage and letting my hand fall to grip her comfortably around the waist. I moved in close to whisper in her ear.

  I could kill you here. I could eat you just like I did my wife.

  “Are we ready, honey?” came out instead.

  She smiled, a sway in her hips like an excited schoolgirl. Her lashes dipped over her cool eyes, bedroom eyes.

  “I thought you’d never ask,” she whispered in return and, taking me by the hand, led me to the head of the grand table, where plates and silverware and wine glasses set out before us. I bit back a groan as she ground my decomposing finger bones against each other in her grip, leading me to a seat with her place setting beside it.

  While she turned her back to usher a child into a chair beside us, I dipped the wedding ring into her drink. A gold ring descended in a swallow of wine and settled on the bottom of the glass.

  You think she’s a faker. How did she know about Jamie, then?

  “No,” I muttered.

  “What?” she was back beside me, watching me with hungry eyes. Difficult to define the emotions I saw there—more than worship, I was a god whose light she borrowed for an instant. A cruel word from me could extinguish it forever. Her level of devotion was frightening.

  “Nothing,” I said, and waved her off.

  Far from throwing her off her game, I was the one who was unbalanced.

  Get control of yourself, man!

  But I did not have control. Silence fell in the altar room, now transformed into a dining hall, and she gestured with the raising of her graceful arms. Together, they sat as one, moving in eerie concert. Children of so many ages, in my experience, are noisy and excitable, but they were on their best behavior, speaking in soft tones amongst each other, often looking toward where myself and Astra—Jessica—remained seated.

  The plates were empty. I glanced down the line of children with their blond heads poking through their crimson capes, a hundred twins. I meant to ask about the food—what was on the menu tonight? But the words were mangled, shriveled, would not suffer my clumsy tongue.

  Something else came out instead.

  “I never got a chance to tell you,” I said aloud.

  “Yes, dear?”

  Just like that, a lilt in her voice, a turn of her head. Astra watched me with Jessica’s cobalt eyes.

  Did I eat her eyes?

  God, did I?

  “I never got a chance to say I was sorry,” I blurted.

  “That’s all in the past now,” she returned smoothly.

  “I don’t remember that night.”

  “Calm yourself, Vitus, you’re—goodness, you’re trembling. Are you well?”

  “No, no, I think I need . . .”

  I stood, nearly upsetting the chair, the tablecloth, the glass beside it. The gold ring at the bottom of her wine glass winked at me, like a yellow eye in a draught of pus. I reached convulsively for the pills inside my suit pocket, my fingers pulling out the prescription bottle.

  My wristwatch should have noted the time for my last dose, but the lights were burning overhead in the cracked ceiling, brighter than they should have been. I looked at the watch.

  The digital face was empty. The surface was a dead mirror, reflecting my rotted face back into my white eyes. If I had life functions, I imagined I would have experienced a cold sweat, hairs standing on the back of my neck. Instead, there was a wire of panic winding around my belly, then up my spine.

  I missed my dose.

  It’s not too late, I thought, and began to struggle with the childproof bottle. My fingers grew thick and clumsy in their gloves, clawing and sliding. My coordination slipping, a sign of my slow digression into monstrosity.

  “That’s not what you need,” she spoke gently, and lifted the bottle out of my fingers, the way she used to take a rattle out of Clay’s hands. The pills shook inside with musical noise, amplified a hundred-fold.

  “I need that,” I protested. “Don’t make me—”

  “—hurt you?” she filled in, her voice deep, husky. “Like you did to me before?”

  Her last words felled me and sliced me at the nerve. I fell back into the chair, staring into her eyes. Locked to each other as pythons constricting into a single, crushing knot.

  She handed the bottle to a child. Another Clay disappeared with it, fading into the crowd of red Clays where he had come from.

  My throat and my chest tightened, choked with iron bands. Every dead, rotting cell in my body pulsed with decay, a decay far deeper than that of a corpse. All my guilt, my shame, my devastation was bound inside my undead body and the tide threatened to drown me. The tide was coming. The tide was death, ultimate undeath; a great mouth that ate and gnashed and devoured everything before me, a hollow opening from the inside out.

  If I did not have my dose soon . . .

  “Jessica,” I whispered. I opened my mouth to beg her to bring back the pills, but it occurred to me that this was the reason I was here—what I had done to my beautiful wife must be repaid in full. No judge or jury had ever exacted retribution or justice for my crime. Instead, Jamie had plucked me from disaster and saved my unlife with no consideration for the lives I took or the price that must be paid for the abomination I had become.

  I had begged him to kill me and he had refused. To live as a monster was unconscionable, but as a monster that had killed its own wife, every moment elevated into agony.

  I deserved this; I deserved to be a monster.

  She lifted the glass to her red lips, refracting a semicircle of light as she swallowed the wine. The ring tapped against her teeth and, startled, she looked at it once more, plunging a delicate pinky finger into the bottom and bringing out the wedding ring.

  “Oh, Vitus,” she sighed, lovingly.

  My sick heart thrilled at the sound of her voice.

  She turned and gripped my hand in hers and peeled back a layer of black glove from my fingers. She slipped the ring over my wedding finger, pushing metal against flayed flesh that parted beneath the pressure and lacerated bone at the faintest urging. I did not object or shy away, but let her, as though we were newlyweds before the altar.

  Abruptly, she let go of my hand and rose before the dining room to command the attention of all the children. Their eyes tracked her like a thousand fireflies in their curious Clay faces, the most well-behaved, brainwashed children a father could have.

  “The time has come, my sons! Your father needs you now! His evil brother has starved him so! Years we have gone without our Lord, been deprived of his holy presence, and we are not the only ones to suffer, no! Your father has spent these ten years in search of nourishment, and what did they give him in return? Nothing! Snatched the food from his mouth, delayed the moment of feast! Let it begin now! We take back all that has been taken from us!”

  A great cry rose, a ringing clatter as countless small hands gripped silverware and banged forks and knives against glasses and plates in enthusiastic applause. Stupefied, the sound filled me with a miasma of emotions impossible to define. Jessica gripped me by the shoulder and raised me to my feet. Before, their scrutiny had been a dissection, but here was an entirely new sensation that had me gasping for air and struggling not to dr
own in the feeling.

  Admiration. Pride. Overwhelming love.

  They loved me. They were my children and they loved me.

  Few seductions prove so powerful. Booze couldn’t replace it, sex couldn’t allay it, there wasn’t a drug or experience in the world that came close. Unconditional acceptance. Undying love. All my life, torn from happiness and tossed among the waves of misfortune, brought home at last. The maelstrom spat me out after a thousand years on the fringe of a downward spiral and this is where I landed.

  Just as I was about to open my mouth to speak—without any understanding of what I was about to say—the eldest Clay beside me picked up his knife, jerked up his shirt, and cut into the flesh of his abdomen.

  *

  Blood spurted across the white table cloth.

  With my mouth open, I stared like a village idiot, tongue like raw meat hanging down between my teeth. The smell of the coppery blood, metallic and salty and earthy and delightful, hit the air like a mist. I could taste his youth, his lipids still circulating through his blood, cells dividing in a frenzy of enthusiastic youth. Like a non-smoker holding a first cigarette until I was dizzied and swayed by the taste of his blood on the air.

  God, I needed those pills.

  “Make him stop, Jessica!” I cried.

  Speaking hurt my head, riving it into halves, a too-ripe pumpkin run riot with decay. Brain-seeds spilling out from the leaking tissues.

  “It’s happening all over again,” I groaned and stumbled, Jessica’s strong grip still upon my shoulder and her fingers dug in through the fabric of my suit to pull me back and steady me.

  “You must feed,” she hissed. “It never would have happened if they had only given you what you truly needed!”

  “I need my pills!”

  My breath wafted as sweet as exhaust fumes from a past-era diesel truck. My fists clenched convulsively to satisfy a desire to tear and rip and claw my way through the world. Bring me flesh, I’ll bring Hell.

  “And look,” she persisted in arguing with me, “they’ve turned you into a spineless junkie. This is not the man I married.”