Cannibal Country (Book 2): Flesh of the Sons

by Urban, Tony

  “They’re getting settled in, just as you are. If you follow me, I’ll introduce you to some other people. Smaller groups, I promise, so it won’t be such an overwhelming situation. Then Papa will speak to us all.”

  He motioned at the door like a concierge directing a hotel guest toward the sauna and she took that as her cue to leave.

  Chapter 6

  “You’re one of the newcomers!”

  Barbara sighed before looking to see who’d spoken. She’d enjoyed the privacy of the shower and the break from the people with their never-ending questions, their warm embraces, their wide, prying eyes. She’d hoped it would last longer but no such luck.

  After turning toward the sound of the voice she found a small woman who wore her gray hair pulled into a harsh bun. Her face was etched with deep wrinkles and Barb guessed her to be well into her seventh decade.

  “Guilty as charged,” Barb said.

  The woman smiled revealing teeth so perfect they could only be dentures. “As big as this place looks, word travels fast. Everyone’s talking about y’all.” She grabbed Barbara’s forearm and pulled her in close. For someone so tiny and old, she was strong. She planted a dry kiss on Barbara’s cheek. “I’m Myrtle.”

  Barbara shook her arm free. “I’m Barbara.” She forced a smile and looked down at her wrist where the imprint of Myrtle’s hand lingered.

  “Sorry about that. Just got a little excited I guess.” Myrtle studied Barbara for a moment. “Not much for strangers, are you?”

  Barbara shrugged. “It’s not that. It’s just that we’ve been on our own for so long. Years really--”

  “Say no more. I have just the thing. Follow me. We’ll go around the building to avoid the crowd.”

  Barbara could tell Myrtle was the type of person who would have greeted new neighbors with a pie or cake upon their arrival. And then insisted on coming into the house and eating it with you, all the while coaxing out your life’s story whether you wanted to surrender it or not.

  Nonetheless she followed the woman through the back corridors until they came out in a storage room filled with canned and dry goods. It was enough food to last an army a decade or more.

  “Wow.” Barbara stared at the impressive assortment. While it was reassuring to see the casino was well-stocked, she wasn’t exactly sure why Myrtle felt the need to drag her here. “I should probably be going though. One of the other women said there was going to be some kind of announcement.”

  Myrtle shook her head and moved further into the room. “That’ll hold. Nothing moves quick around here. You’ll learn that soon enough.”

  Barbara watched as the old woman pushed aside a few cases of food, then crouched. Her knees crunched audibly but Myrtle didn’t flinch in pain. Instead reached deep into a cabinet and fished around with her hand a moment, then broke into a wide grin. “Got it.”

  What she extracted wasn’t a cake or a pie. It was exactly what Barbara needed. A bottle of gin.

  “Well shit,” Barbara said. “You must be a damned mind reader.”

  Myrtle unscrewed the lid and passed it to her. Barbara took a large swallow, then paused. She didn’t want to look like a pig - or a drunk.

  Myrtle nodded. “Drink up. After what you folks have been through, you deserve a nice buzz.”

  That was the truth, and Barb realized she had earned this. Earned it with her work. Earned it with her suffering. Earned it with her loss. She closed her eyes and took another long swallow and began to cry.

  “I can’t even imagine what you’ve been through,” Myrtle said. “Thank Papa that Alexander found you when he did, right.”

  Barb wiped her cheeks with her free hand. That turn of phrase struck her wrong. Whatever happened to Thank God? “Thank Papa?”

  “Oh,” Myrtle laughed, giving Barbara a slap on the arm. “Not like that, honey. Thank Papa as in, thank him for having the foresight to assemble the protectors.”

  Barbara handed the bottle back to the woman. “Thank you. I did need that.” She was still unsure about the Papa talk, but the warmth of the booze made it easier to tolerate.

  “As I suspected.” Myrtle took a sip and replaced the lid, then returned the bottle to the cabinet.

  “You back there, Myrtle?” A man’s voice called from the other end of the kitchen.

  “You already know I am, or you wouldn’t be asking.” Myrtle winked at Barb. “You can’t break wind in this place without everyone knowing.”

  Footsteps sounded against the concrete floor as the man approached. “Cassie told me she saw you heading in there with our new friend.”

  Myrtle rolled her eyes. “Told you.”

  Barbara hadn’t seen a soul on their trip here and wondered how that was even possible, but didn’t have much time to consider it before the man came into view. She blinked twice, trying to clear her eye, because at first glance he looked so much like her dead husband that she thought it was him.

  “Are you okay, miss?” He asked. His voice carried a strong British accent.

  She closed her eye again. Longer, composing herself. When she opened it, she realized the resemblance had been a trick of her mind, at least for the most part. The build was similar, and this man had the same kind eyes and dark brown hair that was graying at the temples, but the similarities ended there. “Sorry. I’m fine.”

  He raised an eyebrow at Myrtle. “You get her pissed already?”

  Myrtle laughed. “I’m an old woman. Don’t drink anything stronger than ginger ale and even that’s only when my tummy’s upset.”

  He shook his head, but grinned. “You’re incorrigible.” He looked to Barbara. “Don’t let Myrtle corrupt you. She’s one of the bad seeds around her.”

  Barb couldn’t hold back a smile. “Is she now?”

  “The worst.” He extended his palm to her. “I’m Richard. I’m one of the good ones.” His grip was strong, but gentle and his skin had the rough texture of a man who’d spent many years working with his hands.

  “Barbara.”

  “Pleasure to meet you.”

  “Same here.” Suddenly she remembered her scarred face. Her horrible, disfiguring injury. He turned her bad side away from him instinctively.

  “You mind if I steal her away from you Myrt?”

  “Not at all.” Myrtle pointed a finger at Barbara. “Any time you need to clear your head, you find me, honey.”

  “I will.”

  She followed Richard out of the kitchen and into a hallway decorated with bright, striped wallpaper and a myriad of posters featuring supposedly famous guests of the casino, but the only one Barbara recognized was Blake something or other from The Voice.

  “I apologize for that,” Richard said.

  “For what?”

  “For letting Myrtle get her claws into you. She has issues with personal space.” He held his hand up, curling his fingers like talons.

  She stared at him, his joke going past her. “Right,” she muttered.

  “Well, so much for my humor,” he said.

  She finally caught on and shook her head. “No, it’s... Yeah, funny. Her claws.” She mimicked him except she added a Rawr sound and immediately hated herself for it. “Sorry.”

  “Don’t be,” Richard said. “I rather like you, Barbara. You’ve got pluck. Now how about you allow me to give you the five pence tour.”

  Barbara couldn’t hold back a smile. “I’d like that. Thank you.”

  Chapter 7

  As soon as Seth was out of the shower and redressed, Supper leapt in his lap. Even though he considered the mutt Wyatt’s dog, he thought of them as something of kindred spirits. Two creatures who had each lost a limb and were outliers amongst their peers. He hoped Supper felt the same way.

  As he wheeled the both of them out of the room and into the hallway, he realized the crowd that had been so eager to greet them was nowhere to be seen. His family too was absent. A hell of a way to make him feel welcome and part of the supposed community.

  “Well thi
s is kind of fucked up. What do you think, Supper?”

  He wasn’t sure why being excluded shocked him. It was the story of his life. Most people didn’t mean any harm and he tried not to take it personally. They simply didn’t know how to act around a paralyzed person. It was like throwing them into a room with something exotic and unusual. Like a platypus.

  After losing use of his legs, he’s grown accustomed to being left out. He didn’t get invited to birthday parties because there were steps to his friends’ houses. Roller and ice skating get-togethers were also nonstarters. Even the rare occasions he was invited to join his buddies at the movies were awkward because he had to sit alone up front and get a crick in his neck from staring up at the screen while they sat in the cushy seats at a normal distance.

  In some ways, the apocalypse was good for him because, as everything else turned to shit, his handicap became less concerning. And when his friends all moved away and it was just his family and Trooper, he stopped feeling left out. But now, around all these new people, it was like the first day of school all over again. They got to know each other and explore while he sat alone and isolated.

  Shit, what a pity party I’m throwing for myself, Seth thought. He hadn’t allowed himself to wallow in a while and just as he was working up a good case of righteous anger ceiling mounted speakers crackled to life.

  “In five minutes, Papa will address everyone in the courtyard. Please find yourself a spot. Good luck and good love.”

  He heard footsteps and shuffling as people moved, he presumed, to the courtyard. A few men and women passed him by, not bothering with a ‘hi’ or ‘howdy’ or ‘hey there cripple can I give ya a push?’ The most he got was a nod, but the majority of them pretended they were blind to anything from their neck down and didn’t see him at all.

  The hall had emptied by the time Seth worked up the gumption to turn his chair and begin wheeling himself in the direction the others had gone. He made it a few yards when a door to one of the rooms opened and a steady, electric whine spilled out.

  Supper’s ears perked up at the foreign sound and Seth stopped. A moment later, one of the heftiest people he’d ever seen in real life emerged. The man rode a motorized scooter that crept along only at a pace only marginally quicker than the average tortoise. When he was in the hallway, he turned to close his door and saw Seth watching him.

  “Well hello there.” His voice had a heavy southern accent and he shared a genuine smile that lit up his face, which was as big around as a basketball.

  “Hey.” Seth wheeled himself closer. It was nice to be acknowledged, even if the guy who finally greeted him was a real-life version of Jabba the Hutt and looked to be pushing sixty-years-old.

  His white hair was pulled back in a loose ponytail and he wore an equally crisp, white guayabera shirt and linen pants. An angry, purple scar covered much of the left side of the man’s face and neck and, from what Seth could see, it looked as if it might extend down his gargantuan body.

  “There’s a meeting or speech or something in the courtyard,” Seth said.

  “I heard. Do you know your way?”

  “Not really.”

  “I can show you. Shall we roll there together?”

  “Sure.”

  They continued down the hall, making a right, then another right.

  “Your dog’s quite handsome. May I pet him?”

  Seth nodded and the man tentatively reached toward Supper who watched with mild interest and allowed his head to be scratched.

  “I see the both of you share a malady.”

  Seth glanced at his stump and nodded. He then looked to the man and saw he wasn’t watching the dog, but him. His scar was more obvious up close and appeared to be some sort of burn. Intermixed with the thickened, rough skin were boils or sores. Odd growths that looked like acne from hell. It was tempting to stare but Seth made a special effort not to, as he’d spent the better part of his life on the receiving end of such gawking.

  Still, the man’s unabashed inspection made him both uncomfortable and annoyed. “So,” Seth said. “Are you paralyzed too?”

  The man gave a low, breathless chuckle. “Not paralyzed. Just fat.”

  Seth wondered how it was possible to stay so fat in a world where food - real food - was in such short supply but saw little reason to be rude to the first person who’d treated him like, well, a person.

  Ahead, light spilled through a series of sliding glass doors which were open, allowing a chorus of chatter to spill inside. Seth wasn’t eager to join the masses, to again be different, and slowed, allowing the man to pass him by.

  The man also hesitated. He half-turned his scooter toward Seth so he could look him in the eye. His gaze was so earnest and prying that Seth thought he might be reading his mind. Then he opened his mouth and seemed to confirm that.

  “I’ve been different the better part of my entire life,” the man said. “And I used to loathe the attributes that made me stand out in a crowd. The perceived faults that made others look down upon me. But there came an incident, maybe I’ll share it with you some time, when I became enlightened. I became aware that what made me different also made me unrepeatable. A markedly unique person unlike anyone else. And I embraced my differences. You should too, my child.”

  A striking, middle-aged man stepped through the open doors and drew the attention of both the fat man and Seth. “Everyone’s waiting, Papa.”

  Seth wanted to shake his head to make sure he’d heard what he thought he heard. That this corpulent, scarred man in the scooter wasn’t just another rando, but Papa himself. The man everyone here spoke about as if he was a Greek God crossed with the King of England.

  “I’m aware, Franklin.” Papa never looked away from Seth as he spoke. “However, my attention at the moment is on this fine, young man who has brightened our community with his very presence. Tell me, child, what is your name?”

  Seth opened his mouth to speak but it was so dry his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. He conjured enough spit to loosen it, then croaked out, “Seth.”

  “A pleasure, Seth. And I mean that sincerely. Won’t you please join us in the courtyard?”

  Although he still struggled to believe any of this real, Seth nodded.

  “Franklin, be a dear and guide my new friend outside and ensure he has a place up front.”

  Seth thought Franklin looked annoyed, or at least peeved, at being ordered, but the man didn’t protest out loud. He stepped behind Seth’s chairs and took the handlebars. As he pushed, Seth noticed Supper eyeing Franklin all the way, the fur on his scruff raised to attention. He put his hand on the dog’s back to calm him. The last thing he needed was Supper going all Tasmanian devil and attacking.

  Seth was first out the doors and embarrassed to find nearly one hundred people staring in his direction. Crammed into the small area the crowd appeared even larger and more impressive. And they all looked at him. He wondered if this was how rock stars felt when they walked on stage. He was mostly uncomfortable with the attention, but as his heartbeat quickened, he realized it was somewhat intoxicating too.

  And then everyone burst into cheers. He almost raised his hand in a wave when he realized their eyes were no longer on him. They were looking beyond him.

  To Papa.

  Chapter 8

  There were so many people in the crowd - a hundred or more - that Wyatt thought he had little to no chance of spotting his mother, Seth, or Allie. He stood on his tiptoes, trying to find their faces in the throng of strangers, but had no luck.

  “They’re in there somewhere,” Alexander said.

  “I know. I just--” Before Wyatt could continue, the speakers rang out again. This time, instead of an announcement, there was music. It was an instrumental piece featuring trumpets and a piano. It sounded somewhat familiar, but certainly wasn’t the kind of tune you could dance to. It was the style of music they played to announce the arrival of a President. Or King.

  And then came the cheering and
applause.

  Wyatt was staring upward, thinking that the man who garnered such a reception must be high above them, like the Pope on Easter Sunday. His eyes drifted across the balconies but saw no one. That’s when Alexander put his hand on his shoulder.

  “Not up there. Papa’s down here. With us. Because he’s one of us.”

  He pointed at ground level and Wyatt followed his finger to a set of nondescript glass doors which opened to a random hallway. Through them came an obese man on a motorized scooter. Not any different from the people Wyatt would need to sidestep in the grocery stores back home.

  This is their hero, Wyatt thought.

  Papa raised a hand in a wide, arcing wave as he rode the scooter toward a microphone that waited on a stand. Franklin, a tall, middle-aged man, walked at his side but unlike Papa his face was sober, his eyes alert. If he’d have been wearing a black suit Wyatt would have pegged him for Secret Service and he wondered if he was some sort of bodyguard.

  Not that it seemed as if Papa had anything to fear from this crowd. Movie stars received less impressive ovations. He even saw a few women, and one man, crying tears of joy over Papa's arrival.

  He looked to his side and found Alexander beaming, his face in a kind of rapturous awe. How did this ordinary man garner such fanfare? Wyatt struggled to understand it.

  Upon reaching the microphone stand, Franklin began to lower it so it would be at face level, but Papa shook his head and said words which were inaudible over the din of the crowd. Then the man, with great effort and a fair amount of sweat, managed to push himself to his feet. Franklin held his elbow, steadying him.

  With that, the crowd fell silent. The only noise that remained was a soft breeze and Papa’s wheezing into the microphone.

  “Greetings, my children.”

  The crowd spoke almost in unison. “Hello, Papa!”

  “Have you heard the good news?” He paused a theatrical beat. “We’re having fresh peaches with dinner this evening.”