Cannibal Country (Book 2): Flesh of the Sons

by Urban, Tony

  Wyatt watched Seth beam with self-satisfaction. He was proud of himself too.

  “Papa’s amazing. He’s taught me more about life, about myself, in the last few days than I ever thought possible. And he’s shown me that I can be important. Not just the crippled kid no one wants to be around.”

  Rosario tousled his hair and he gave her hand a playful swat. “And he’s been introducing me to everyone.”

  “Including your lovely, young lady friend.” Barbara nodded to the woman beside him, who smiled back but didn’t say anything.

  “Oh, Wyatt.” Seth turned to him. “You were late, and I just realized I haven’t introduced you. Rosario, my brother Wyatt. Wyatt, Rosario.”

  Wyatt managed a smile. She looked a few years older, and much more experienced than Seth. The woman was almost model-beautiful, aside from vacant eyes. He wondered what she saw in his brother, then chided himself for being a jerk. Why shouldn’t Seth be allowed a girlfriend?

  He wanted to agree with their mother, to find some way to be happy that Seth was finding his way here. And probably getting laid by the looks of it. But it was hard to look at his brother and see the boy who he used to roll around with in the leaves. Now, all he could see was the guy who’d set fire to a defenseless kid.

  Wyatt knew his mother and Allie were right. That everyone at the casino needed to be careful, to watch out for each other. But weren’t there better ways to go about that?

  Seth leaned into Rosario and his cheeks flared pink as he whispered something to her. She gave a wan smile and a nod. Then Seth turned to the others. “If you fine people will excuse us, Rosario and I have some pressing matters to attend to.”

  The woman took the handles of Seth’s chair and turned him away from the table, and away from his family. As Wyatt watched them go, he realized Seth hadn’t said a word about the execution or his part in it. It was as if a boy’s death was as mundane as cleaning the carpets. Just another day on the job.

  Wyatt pushed his chair away from the table and left without a word.

  Chapter 23

  Wyatt started at the nothingness of the desert, lost inside his head. He wondered what life was like beyond here, beyond the border. And he felt it calling him like a siren’s son.

  Would anyone even care if I left, he wondered. Seth had Papa. Their mother had her new beau Richard, who Wyatt knew made her happier than he’d seen her in years. Since before the bombs.

  Allie might, but some words Pete had said to him months before stuck in his mind. She’ll take you for all she can get and spit you out like used gun when she gets bored. Wyatt didn’t exactly believe that, but he saw the way she flirted with Franklin and he suspected she’d move on soon enough if he took a hike.

  He’d take Supper though. He knew that much. And the more he considered it, the notion of him and his dog wandering the world from one adventure to the next sounded pretty damn good. Especially in comparison to a place where they roasted boys like hogs at a 4th of July barbecue.

  “We need to talk.”

  Wyatt turned to his mother, who stood a few yards behind him. The distance between them was only feet but felt like a chasm.

  “Talk then,” he said.

  He knew that was rude and disrespectful. She was his mother, after all. But the woman who’d raised him wasn’t the woman here now. That woman was kind and full of love. She wouldn’t abide by what was happening here. He was unsure where this Barbara, hardened by the world, fit into his life now. Or him in hers.

  “You're pulling away,” Barbara said. “I can see it in your eyes.

  There was no sense denying the truth so he waited for her to go on.

  “You always were my gentle son, Wyatt. I loved that about you. And I know what happened at the demonstration bothered you.” She took a step toward him, then another.

  “I’d think it would bother anyone with a conscience,” Wyatt said. “You know, I talked to that boy after we got back. His name was Vern. He was thirteen years old.”

  She remained silent, perhaps sensing he had more to say, and she was right. The more he talked the faster the words came.

  “And you stood there, with everyone else, as they tortured him. Burned him alive. And then everyone fucking cheered like the Patriots had just won another goddamn Super Bowl! How is that right, mom?”

  Barbara finished crossing the gap between them. They were close enough to touch but did not.

  “I never said it was right, Wyatt. But that’s the world we live in now.”

  He tilted his head back, unable to look at her. He stared at the gunmetal sky, trying to find something to focus on. A cloud. A bird. Anything. But it was a bleak and barren sea of emptiness.

  “Do you remember the song I used to sing to you when you were little?” Barbara asked.

  He could feel her body heat beside him but wouldn’t look. He shook his head.

  “It was from one a musical called Betsy. Your father took me to see it once at an off-Broadway revival, back when we were dating. I think the song’s called Blue Skies but I’m not sure. I’d sing it to you when we were outside, especially on pretty days.”

  He felt her take his hand and give it a soft squeeze.

  “Blue days, all of them gone. Nothing but blue skies, from now on,” she sang, a little off-key. “Do you remember now?”

  “A little,” he lied.

  “When I decided to leave Maine, I told you that I wanted to go because it wasn’t safe. That I didn’t want us to starve. But there was something I didn’t tell you, I guess because it seemed so silly at the time. Especially after everything that had happened.”

  Wyatt finally looked at her and saw tears rolling from her remaining eye. He wiped them away with the backs of his fingers. “Tell me now.”

  “I wanted to see blue skies again.”

  He glanced at the sky which was anything but blue.

  “It’s a metaphor, Wyatt.” She squeezed his hand harder. “Every day in Maine was sadder than the one before. Grayer than the one before. And I wanted--” She swallowed a sob. “I needed to go somewhere that there was hope. Not just for safety and food and warmth. But hope for better days.”

  She was full on crying now and the resentment he’d built up toward her melted away. He put his hands on his shoulders and pulled her into him. Her chest heaved against his.

  “I feel like there’s hope in this place. It’s not perfect but there are good people here. A society. A plan for normalcy. And I want to be a part of that.”

  “Okay,” Wyatt said. “Okay, mom.”

  He rubbed her back as she cried. He didn’t share her optimism, but she was his mother and he owed it to her to try.

  Chapter 24

  Seth was in love. The head over heels variety. He had been since Papa introduced the two of them and, instead of her face clouding with disgust or pity, Rosario looked at him like a person. The time they spent in bed together soon after solidified the deal.

  He loved everything about her. From her perfect body and the way she used it, to her gentle acceptance of his condition. She made it easy to be vulnerable in front of her. As much as he would have wanted things to be the other way around - him caring for her- he was learning to accept the situation.

  As they made their way back to their room, passing by Papa’s quarters, the man’s voice called out. “Seth? Is that you?”

  They turned to see the door ajar.

  “Yeah. It’s me and Rosie.”

  The electric whir of Papa’s scooter approached and the door opened the rest of the way. “Why don’t you join me for a minute?”

  “Sure.”

  Rosario began to push Seth through the doorway but Papa held up his index finger.

  “Ah, do you mind giving us a little privacy, hon? I’ll have him back to you in one piece, don’t worry.” He gave her one of his patented comforting smiles and added a wink for good measure.

  Rosario looked to Seth, as if he had authority over her.

  “Go on to the
room. I’ll be over soon,” Seth said.

  She looked back and forth between the two men, finishing on Papa, then turned and left them. Seth wondered if there’s been anything between the two of them. Papa had assured him that Rosario wasn’t one his wives, but at random moments he picked up on a feeling, a vibe, that struck him odd. He kept that curiosity to himself. Maybe some things were better not known.

  Papa stopped his chair at the dining room table where a glass of orange juice sat accompanied by a dinner plate. Seth wheeled himself over and saw Papa’s dinner was far superior to what had been tendered in the dining hall. There was a medley of fresh vegetables, a fruit cup, and what looked like a steak. But that wasn’t possible unless Papa and company had livestock hidden away somewhere.

  Maybe he does, Seth thought. It wouldn’t have surprised him considering all the other amenities at the casino. And it would only make sense that meat would be reserved for the leadership. For the important people. That was the way the world worked now.

  Seth watched Papa slice through the meat on the plate. Not only watched but stared curious and envious. And Papa knew he was staring.

  “An occasional treat,” Papa said. “Most days I eat the same as the dishwashers and maids. But once in a great while I allow myself to be a glutton. All part of the sacrifice.” He shoved a bit of the rare meat between his lips and chewed with his mouth open.

  The smacking noises coupled with the occasional glimpse of masticated food and blood made Seth’s own stomach heave and he looked away.

  “It’s an acquired taste, truth be told. I’d prefer a nice rump roast if I had my choice. Or maybe some venison. But from a young one though. Deer get gamey as they age. People aren’t much different really.”

  Seth bobbed his head as it seemed the polite thing to do. Then his mind comprehended what Papa had actually said. “Wait. What?”

  “I’m telling you about where this meat comes from, son.”

  Realization clanged in Seth’s mind like a dull clash of thunder. No meat for anyone else… Sacrifices…

  “Are you saying--”

  “That is exactly what I’m saying.” The words came out matter of fact, like he was teaching a child where that bacon came from pigs.

  Seth made a weak attempt at concealing his disgust. His shock.

  “Awe don’t get your underwear in a bunch now. What should we have done? Thrown him out to be devoured by the bugs and vermin? You think Yahweh wants us to waste precious resources? No. He sends them to us so that we can thrive!”

  “But the cannibals, they’re our enemies. Aren’t they?”

  Papa blotted his mouth with a napkin and nodded. “But not because they’re cannibals, son. Because they’re Godless, murdering savages. Cannibalism is just a convenient buzz word. Gets those who aren’t as enlightened as us riled up.”

  He cut off another chunk of man meat with disturbing eagerness and continued to eat. “To keep people under control, you must know what they fear. And if a boogeyman doesn’t exist, we need to provide one. Otherwise…” He waved his fork through the air. “Anarchy.”

  Seth’s head started to nod again even though he wasn’t sure what his brain was doing.

  “Yahweh provides for us. For our minds and for our bodies.”

  Us. Seth knew that us meant himself and Papa. Together.

  “Though we are Yahweh’s children like everyone else here, you and I are unique, Seth. And because of that He provides for our unique needs.”

  Papa put his utensils down and slid the plate across the table to Seth. The china made soft, protesting sounds as it glided over the Formica.

  “Do you want to try some?” He asked, nonchalant.

  “Uh, I… I ate a bunch at dinner. Stuffed, really.” He patted his stomach, trying to infer that he would have gobbled it down if he still had an appetite, but the notion of it, despite Papa’s assertions, was unbearable.

  “Oh, come now. There’s always room for dessert.” He extended his fork to Seth, his smile now looking sinister rather than sincere.

  Seth took the fork. He spun it between his fingers, procrastinating.

  “When the Israelites were sent manna from Heaven, they didn’t say, ‘Thank you, maybe later.’ They ate.”

  Seth gripped the fork and tried to shut down his mind. It was just meat, after all. Just meat. Not worth risking his relationship with Papa. His position in the community. Just meat.

  He speared the smallest piece he could find. It was somewhere between the size of a nickel and a quarter. He could get that much down even if he had to swallow it whole.

  “Eat, my son,” Papa said. “Show Yahweh you appreciate His gifts. That you won’t waste the sacrifice.”

  Seth shoved the morsel between his lips. Saliva flooded his mouth as the flavor overwhelmed his taste buds. It didn’t taste like chicken. Or beef. Or pork. It was more like veal, but tougher, stringier. And by God, it was delicious.

  “There ya go,” Papa said.

  Yes, he was doing it. He was proving himself to Papa. To Yahweh. To himself. There wasn’t anything he couldn’t do.

  Until the memory of the boy’s screams echoed through his head. He panicked and tried to swallow, tried to force the partially chewed food down his gullet, but everything else he’d eaten in the last hour was too busy making a hasty retreat.

  Seth spun to the side, spotted a wastebasket within arm’s reach and grabbed it just in time to--

  Barf up the human meat, the fruit, the coffee, the potatoes he’d had for dinner. It all came out projectile style and the backsplash splattered against his face as he wretched into the can.

  “That’s okay,” Papa said with a gentle chuckle. “You’ll get used to it. Just remember, these nutrients sustain us and allows us to carry on Yahweh’s mission here. We do this for Him.”

  Seth pulled at the sleeve of his shirt and wiped at his face as he nodded. He was relieved Papa wasn’t angry with him for wasting the meat.

  It will get easier with time, he told himself.

  And then Papa will be pleased.

  Chapter 25

  Next to Richard, the best part about life at the casino was being able to go for a walk at night without worry. It was one of the simple pleasures that she’d so enjoyed in the days before the bombs. A glass of wine, a full belly, and a stroll through the dark, breathing in the cool, evening air.

  She never thought she’d be able to do that again before ending up here. And even if her belly wasn’t quite full, she wasn’t about to let that ruin the moment.

  A half dozen or so other members of the community wandered about, but the atmosphere was more relaxed during the night. Everyone seemed content to enjoy the relative solitude and quiet. No forced small talk. And she appreciated that. After the past few days, she needed to clear her head.

  There were reminders that life wasn’t normal. One of them was the guard who stood atop a wooden platform and surveyed the land around him. His desert fatigues stood out in stark contrast with the black night, but his presence was calming. Not normal, but safe.

  The guard caught her staring and locked eyes with her. Embarrassed, she gave something between a wave and a salute. She was trying to be friendly but her awkward gesture made her feel self-conscious and she regretted it straight off.

  She was surprised when the guard waved back. It wasn’t what she was expecting, especially considering his position. She’d imagined these guards as similar to the unflappable, bearskin hat-wearing types who held station outside Buckingham Palace. Stone-faced and statuesque. Solemn and staid.

  “You should have on a jacket,” he called down to her.

  Barbara shrugged. “I’m from Maine, remember? This is balmy compared to what I’m used to.”

  The guard flashed a broad grin. “If you say so. I’ve never been able to abide the cold. Especially out here in the desert. My crap luck I drew the short straw and got night watch.”

  “Want me to bring you some coffee?” Barbara asked.

&nbs
p; The guard set aside the AK-47 which he cradled like a baby, bent down, then emerged with a thermos. “Already handled.” He unscrewed the lid. “I’m Carlos.”

  “Barbara.”

  “Nice to meet you, Barbara.”

  He brought the thermos to his mouth again and tilted it back for a long drink. And then he froze.

  Carlos’ eyes stayed locked on her and grew wide, two cue balls against his tan face. At first, Barbara thought the coffee was too hot, that he’d scalded his mouth and didn’t want to let on.

  But then he dropped the thermos. He began to tilt forward, slow then picking up speed. His upper body broke the plane over the safety rail and the momentum he’d built up was too much, sending Carlos toppling over it, doing a single somersault as he fell from the platform.

  His body slammed into the pavement, so close to Barbara that his hot blood splattered her face. She stared down in shock, trying to comprehend what just happened.

  And then she saw what took his life. A thin, white spear jutted from his back.

  A shrill whistling sound stole her attention away from Carlo’s motionless body. Now she looked upward, toward the noise, and she saw what looked like flaming birds arcing through the black sky.

  Before she could react to that, she heard glass breaking and fire erupted at dozens of spots around her, the flames licking the asphalt and setting ablaze anything within its orange grasp. The wooden platform upon which Carlos had been standing was hit with another Molotov cocktail and went up like a pyre.

  We’re under attack, she realized.

  One after another the glass bombs rained over the fence. She heard a woman shriek and turned, finding the wretched sight of a girl sprinting as flames consumed her. The faster she ran the faster the fire spread and soon she was nothing more than a human-esque shape of fire and pain.