by Tim Waggoner
“What the fuck are you looking at?”
A man’s voice, followed by shuffling footsteps.
“You some kind of pervert?”
The second voice was female, and she sounded even angrier than her companion.
You could run.
His mother’s voice, sounding far calmer than he felt.
He was fifty-one years old, and he spent most of his time sitting behind a desk. He was twenty pounds overweight – at least – and the most exercise he got was walking to and from his car. Even with the help of adrenaline, he doubted he’d make it an entire block without having to stop and gulp for air. Besides, if he ran, he might drop the fliers, and he couldn’t bear the thought of them being scattered on the sidewalk to be rained on and stepped on. So he stood his ground as a pair of figures emerged from the alley. They were younger than he expected, in their teens, and both wore jackets, jeans, and sneakers. The girl was brunette, her hair buzzed short in a military-style cut. The boy’s hair was black and it was cut in the same style. But their similar hairstyles didn’t make much of an impression on Jayce. He was too busy staring at the dark smears around their mouths and the dark splotches on their clothes. But far more disturbing were the large hunting knives the teens carried. The blades were slick with the same dark substance that smeared their lips, and thick drops fell from the metal and hit the ground with audible plaps.
It’s blood, he thought. He’d never seen blood in dim light before, and he was surprised by how black it looked.
The teens rushed toward him, and the boy reached forward, grabbed hold of Jayce’s jacket collar with his free hand, and pulled him into the alley with surprising strength. He shoved Jayce against the alley wall and pressed the point of his knife to the fleshy underside of Jayce’s chin. The back of Jayce’s head smacked against brick when the kid shoved him, and bright pain flared behind his eyes.
“I asked what you were looking at,” the boy said.
They were still close enough to the alley’s mouth for the streetlamp’s feeble light to penetrate, and Jayce saw that the boy’s teeth came to sharp little points. The girl hung back, but she smiled, revealing equally sharp teeth. The newly shaved heads, the filed teeth…were these two in some kind of bizarre gang? If so, it was one Jayce had never heard of.
Jayce’s head throbbed, and he felt dizzy and nauseated. He forced himself to stay calm, though – or at least as calm as possible – as he spoke.
“Have.… Have either of you seen my daughter?”
The boy frowned, then he turned to the girl and they exchanged confused looks.
“She’s missing,” Jayce continued. “I have fliers in my jacket. I’ll show you one if you’ll.…”
The boy returned his attention to Jayce, looked at him for a moment, and then nodded. He took the knife away from Jayce’s throat and stepped back, but he didn’t lower his blade. Moving slowly, Jayce unzipped his jacket and removed the fliers. They’d gotten a bit crumpled when the boy had shoved him against the wall, but they were still usable. He held the entire stack out for the teens to look at. The girl came forward then and the two of them leaned their heads forward slightly and squinted, and he had the impression that they could make out Emory’s picture fine despite the poor light in the alley. A strong odor like wet dog came from the teens, and since Jayce was already nauseated from the head blow, the stink brought him close to vomiting.
“She’s pretty,” the girl said.
The rain had picked up by this point, and it had washed most of the blood from her mouth, but not all. And quite a bit still clung to her knife.
“Don’t be stupid, Reta,” the boy snapped. “It’s a trick. The poster’s fake. He probably doesn’t even have a daughter.”
She turned to him, a skeptical expression on her face. “Why would he be walking around the Cannery with a fake poster?”
“Because he wants our meat.” The boy shot Jayce a dark look. “Don’t you?”
Jayce had no idea what the kid was talking about, but the teens’ blood-smeared mouths and knives told him that whatever meat meant in this instance, it wasn’t good.
“I don’t,” Jayce said. “Really. I just want to find my daughter.”
The girl stepped forward and examined Emory’s picture more closely.
“She does look kind of old.”
The boy nodded. “Not exactly an Amber Alert candidate, right?”
This is what you get for coming down here at night, Mother said. You should’ve stayed at home and let the police do the searching.
Jayce wanted to explain to the teens that adults went missing too, but he was suddenly struck by the bizarre absurdity of the situation. He was standing with his back against an alley wall, head throbbing, gut twisted with nausea, while sharp-toothed, knife-wielding teenagers debated about whether or not his flier was legit.
“Look, I don’t care if you believe me,” Jayce said. “But I’ve got a lot more fliers to distribute, so—”
He started to step away from the wall, hoping that if he could make it back to the sidewalk the kids might leave him alone. But before he could move more than a couple inches, the boy rushed toward him and swept his knife in a horizontal arc. The tip of the blade sliced the back of Jayce’s hand, and he dropped the stack of fliers he’d been holding. The papers tumbled to the alley floor, and at first he was more upset about that than he was by the wound on his hand. But then the pain registered, and he drew in a hissing breath and held up his hand to examine it. The boy had sliced a thin line just behind his knuckles and blood poured from the cut. It fell onto the fliers scattered on the ground at his feet, the thick drops splattering on the paper like crimson rain.
Jayce grabbed his hand to put pressure on the wound and cradled it to his chest. Blood smeared on his jacket, but he barely noticed.
Told you, Mother said, sounding smug.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Jayce shouted at the boy. “Why don’t you go back to cutting up whatever the hell you were working on and leave me alone?”
The girl gave the boy a doubtful look. “I think he really might be telling the truth, Zach.”
The boy gave Jayce a venomous glare.
“Bullshit. He’s a meat-thief, plain and simple. And you know what we do to those.” He grinned, displaying his sharpened teeth.
“I don’t want to waste time on him,” the girl said in a near-whine. “I’m hungry.”
Zach held up his knife and angled it back and forth slowly, as if he were imagining doing the same thing with the blade inside Jayce’s body.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “It won’t take long.”
Jayce’s yelling at the boy had been fueled by adrenaline and anger, but now all he felt was fear.
“Fine.” The girl sighed theatrically. “It’ll go faster if I help.”
She stepped toward Jayce and raised her own knife as she came.
He might have been able to fight off one of them, but two?
I always figured you’d end up dead in an alley somewhere, Mother said. If you’d listened to me.…
“I can’t believe you’ve left your kill unattended for so long.”
Jayce and the teens looked toward the mouth of the alley. A woman stood there, the one who Jayce had seen in the CrazyQwik. She held a white plastic bag which he assumed contained the clay jar she’d bought. Her tone was calm and her body relaxed, but her eyes were cold and serious.
“Fuck off, cunt,” Zach said.
“Hey!” Reta smacked him hard on the shoulder. “Show some respect!”
“Fine.” He looked at the woman again. “Fuck off, Ms. Cunt.”
“That’s better,” Reta said, then giggled.
The woman’s body language didn’t change, but her gaze grew even colder. She reached into the plastic bag, removed the clay jar, and held it up so the teens could see i
t. Neither of them said anything for several seconds. They just looked at the jar, expressions unreadable. Finally, Zach spoke.
“So you’ve got a vessel. Big deal.” A pause, and then in a less-confident voice, “What’s in it?”
“The screams of a hundred dying men,” the woman said. “Can you imagine the kind of damage they’d do if I released them in an enclosed space like this?”
Jayce had no idea what the hell she was talking about, but as long as it kept the sharp-toothed teens from gutting him, he didn’t care.
Zach and Reta exchanged glances.
“A hundred’s not so many,” Reta said, sounding uncertain. “Besides, anything that happens to us happens to him too.” She jerked her chin in Jayce’s direction. “He’s in the line of fire just as much as we are.”
“What makes you think I give a shit about him?” the woman asked. “I don’t like dog-eaters, that’s all.”
The teens bared their teeth at the woman, but they made no move toward her. The strange standoff continued for several long moments, Jayce cradling his bleeding hand and wondering if the situation would be resolved before he passed out from blood loss. Finally, the teens lowered their knives.
“C’mon,” Zach said to Reta. “Let’s go finish our dinner.”
“About goddamned time,” she muttered. She turned away, started walking deeper into the alley, and within seconds was swallowed by darkness.
Zach gave Jayce a parting look.
“I’ll be watching for you, thief.”
Then he too walked into the darkness and was gone. A moment later, the sounds of tearing flesh and loud chewing filled the air, and Jayce thought about what the woman had called them. Dog-eaters. He understood then that it wasn’t merely an expression. His stomach lurched, and he almost threw up, but he concentrated on the pain in his hand and his nausea subsided. He turned to the mouth of the alley, intending to thank the woman for helping him, but she was gone. Of course she was.
He thought about retrieving the fliers he’d dropped, but they were wet from rain and blood, and he left them where they were. He could always print out more. Still cradling his wounded hand to his chest and putting pressure on the cut, he walked out of the alley and headed toward his car – a silver Altima – a trip to the emergency room in his immediate future.
* * *
It didn’t take Reta and Zach long to finish the dog – a bull terrier that hadn’t been on the street too long, so it still had plenty of meat on it. Their bellies full, they held their knives out and let the rain wash them clean, then they slid them into the sheaths on their belts. They turned their faces skyward and held out their hands so the rain could clean them as well. It wouldn’t do much for their clothes, but that was okay. They liked wearing bloodstained clothing, liked the stiff feel of the fabric and especially liked the smell. They wore their clothes as long as they could, until they became so disgusting even they couldn’t stand it anymore, and only then did they get new ones.
When they were clean – or at least clean enough – Zach took one of the terrier’s ribs to gnaw on. Reta didn’t like chewing on bones if there wasn’t any meat on them, so she walked away from the carcass and headed toward the mouth of the alley. She saw the scattered, sodden fliers that the meat-thief had dropped, and she picked one up, handling the wet paper gently so it wouldn’t tear. She knew Zach believed the fliers to be fake, a part of the meat-thief’s ruse, but she wasn’t so sure. Who’s to say the man couldn’t have been a meat-thief and the father of a missing daughter? She felt sorry for him. It must be awful to lose someone and not know what—
Zach screamed. Or rather, he started to scream, but his voice cut off abruptly.
Reta dropped the flier and whirled around. She drew her knife and started running back toward the terrier’s carcass, heart pounding in her ears. All she could think about was Zach. They’d been close since they were born, and they’d stayed together even after the rest of their litter-mates had gone their separate ways. He was brother, lover, and hunting partner, and she would do anything to protect him.
But as she raced toward Zach, a figure emerged from the alley’s darkness before her. It opened its mouth wide and an ebon cloud gusted forth to engulf her.
Her scream was even shorter than Zach’s.
* * *
The alley was silent after that except for the patter of falling rain. The Harvest Man walked to the end of the alley, crouched down, and picked up the flier Reta had been looking at. He gazed upon it for a time, reading far more from it than the information printed on its surface. He held it to his nose and, even though it appeared clean, he could still detect the scent of Jayce’s blood. He stood then, crumpled the flier into a wet ball, squeezed it tight in one hand, and inserted it into his mouth and began chewing.
He then turned, walked past two piles of black dust that were already being washed away by the rain, and headed back into the darkness from which he’d come.
Chapter Two
Jayce sat in his doctor’s waiting room, staring at a small flat-screen mounted in the corner of the wall. Health information appeared on the screen, mostly still photos and text, like a slicker version of a PowerPoint presentation. Most of the info started with Did You Know? and then went on to talk about such basic health concerns as proper nutrition, regular exercise, good sleep, hygiene, and so on. Normally, he would’ve brought a book to read or he might read the news on his phone, but he still had a mild headache from last night, and the simple info on the screen was as much as he could manage to take in right now.
It was early morning, but the waiting room was already full, mostly older people in their seventies and up. Retirees, Jayce figured, people who needed to see a doctor regularly and had the time to do so. There were some younger people, most notably a mother with a toddler-aged girl. The girl looked flushed and listless, and Jayce guessed she had a fever. The mother looked tired, probably from being up most of the night taking care of her daughter. He felt sorry for the girl, but seeing her brought a sad smile to his face. He’d sat up with Emory many nights. Mackenzie was a heavy sleeper who needed a full, uninterrupted eight hours, otherwise she could be a real bitch all day. Because of this, he’d tended to take night duty with Emory, but he hadn’t minded it. He could forgo sleep when necessary without ill effect, and he liked spending time alone with Emory, just the two of them, as if there was no one else in the entire world. A damn shame it had only happened when she was sick, but that was a parent’s duty – to provide aid and comfort when needed, without asking for anything in return. He wondered where Emory was at this moment. Was she in need of his help? Not knowing and not being able to do anything for her ate away at him like acid, and it baffled him that her mother didn’t seem nearly as concerned about Emory’s disappearance as he was.
She’s twenty, Mackenzie had said when he’d first called her about Emory. You know how kids are at that age. Impulsive. Erratic. She probably took up with some boy, and she’s so caught up in her new romance it hasn’t occurred for her to get in touch with either of us and let us know how she’s doing. We’ll hear from her when she comes up for air. Or when the relationship has run its course. Don’t be such a worrywart.
That’s what she called him whenever he became – as she put it – obsessive about something, usually a threat of some sort, real or perceived. He hated the term, not only because Mackenzie had used it so often, but because she always said it with a sneer in her voice.
Worrywart.
He looked back at the screen to distract himself from thinking about his daughter and ex-wife. A message about erectile dysfunction was on, and a good-looking woman in her late thirties was talking, but there was no sound, so at least he didn’t have to listen to her going on about limp dicks.
His fellow patients were a mix of runny noses and deep, phlegmy coughs and he imagined their germs drifting in the office air like snow.
You’ll catch your death, Mother said.
He’d rarely seen a doctor growing up. His mother refused to take him. Too damn many sick people there, she’d say whenever he asked her why. Just one more danger in a world full of death and destruction as far as she’d been concerned. Her fears hadn’t kept the adult Jayce from seeking medical attention when he needed it or from getting yearly checkups. As an insurance professional, he knew the importance of regular medical care. But he couldn’t help feeling uneasy whenever he visited the doctor, and after what he’d been through last night, he felt more uncomfortable than usual. After the bizarre experience in the alley, he’d driven himself to the closest emergency room. He’d had to wait about an hour for someone to see him, and then he got a doctor so young he looked like he was still in high school. The doctor examined him, found no sign of concussion, then a nurse cleaned his hand wound and the doctor returned to stitch it closed. The doctor bandaged it and told Jayce to go see his regular doctor in the morning, especially if he still had a headache. He’d sent Jayce away with a prescription for Vicodin, but he hadn’t filled it. He didn’t like to take strong medicine unless it was absolutely necessary. He took a couple ibuprofen and acetaminophen when he got home to the small apartment he’d lived in since divorcing Mackenzie several years ago and tried to get some sleep. The medicine only did so much to blunt the pain in his head and hand, though, and what sleep he got was fitful. He finally gave up and got out of bed around 6:30 and called the office to leave a voicemail informing them he wouldn’t be in today. He rarely took sick days, and he was reluctant to take one now, but given how little sleep he’d managed to get, he figured he wouldn’t be much good at work anyway. He’d probably end up nodding off in front of his computer. He wasn’t especially worried about his injuries, but he’d chosen to follow the ER doctor’s advice anyway. Better safe than sorry, he figured. It was, after all, the insurance professional’s motto.
