ME

by Tomoyuki Hoshino

  I gave in to the pressure. I took out my Victorinox Swiss Army Knife, opened the blade, and gripped the handle.

  Just as I was about to give it a thrust, a familiar sensation returned to my hand: that strange softness . . . And then my arm stiffened, as did my entire body. Unable to move forward, I was seized by violent tremors. From behind me I felt a terrible duress: Go to them! My rigid body refused.

  I was assailed by pain, another familiar sensation. My entire field of vision was buried in the glazed eyes of the MEs, as, like a hailstorm of flesh, they came crashing down upon me.

  Chapter 6

  Resurrection

  Breaking through the snow and the thicket, the sun made a faint appearance. I was instantly wide awake. My roost was in the back of a cave dug into the side of the slope. Near the mouth grew thick trees, making it largely invisible from the outside, but I had taken the precaution of gathering an additional cover of dead leaves and branches. Now having quietly removed it, shaking off the accumulated snow, I peered out to assure myself that there was no sign of human presence and then emerged, crawling on all fours. I raised myself slowly but nonetheless felt dizzy, wavering as I stood. From my bag I pinched and licked some salt, then put fresh snow in my mouth for sustenance. Today, if I did not find some proper food, it seemed that further searching would itself become impossible.

  I didn’t remember how many days had gone by since I had eaten. In any case, my last meal had consisted of a dead sparrow. Before that I had consumed a river crab and a small fish. In desperation I had also resorted to leaf buds—most of them had already been consumed, and obtaining more would require climbing up into the higher branches, which was unfeasible given the condition of my legs.

  I had had no idea that the hills of Takao would be so deeply covered with snow. Was this normal, or simply an unusual weather pattern? I did not know. But even if it had not snowed, I would still have gone hungry. And in that I was not alone: all of us who had holed up in these mountain recesses were starving. The MEs were roaming about, zombie-like, and that meant being forever on guard.

  Snow had fallen the previous evening, and I was now walking through knee-deep drifts, wet and heavy. Fatigued, and wearing only thin layers of shirts and a windbreaker, I was chilled to the bone. I made my way east, attempting to remain on a sunny path.

  I was soon hiking along the ridge. Crossing it, I went down the slope toward a mountain stream. The wind subsided a bit, though in the shade I felt even colder. The snow here was thick and heavy, and though I had tied several layers of cord around my shoes I kept slipping, crouching most of the way as I descended the icy surface of the hill.

  The stream would offer water and the promise of food. I remained cautious, well aware that MEs might gather here. Before the first snow I had camped out in a cave here, but after coming under attack I’d been forced to move to my present abode.

  The MEs dwelling in the vicinity would engage in battles for mutual deletion with those who came here at daybreak. From time to time I would find their shell-like remains lying on the ground. It was thanks to them that I now wore multiple layers of shirts.

  The more stalwart MEs had hunted prizes such as wild boars, raccoon dogs, and monkeys, the latter from Monkey Park. I was unable to catch so much as a tree squirrel or a flying squirrel, and was relegated to a diet of bugs, fish, snakes, nuts, berries, and weeds. It was dangerous to eat wild herbs and grass without knowing whether they were nontoxic. At one point I had suffered terrible diarrhea and nearly died without ever knowing which plant was the cause. I even saw a guy who had been felled by mushrooms. But once it began to snow and my hunger pangs increased, it did not matter to me whether I was munching the foliage of cedars or chestnut oaks. And yet I was nauseated by the raw smell of it all, as though I were gnawing on a plastic bag.

  Arriving at the stream, I scooped up water in my palms and drank. It was ice-cold and refreshing. I looked for minnows in the slow current but could not find any.

  When I first came to the mountains, they were crawling with MEs, as if I had entered a bustling shopping area in the capital. They were prowling about, both along the hiking trails and in the deep thicket all around. But perhaps their sheer number had a restraining influence: as long as no one set off a panic, a deletion war would not commence. But now that their numbers had greatly diminished, their invisibility proved to be an even greater strain.

  In less than an hour I reached Kiyotaki, the first station on what had been the funicular railway. The cable cars were no longer running; I couldn’t remember when they had been abandoned. Judging from their dilapidated condition, clearly some time had passed. Takaosanguchi Station on the Keiō Line had also been reduced to ruins. I vaguely recalled arriving in a packed train, as if it were the evening rush. A deletion battle had broken out on board, so that as soon as the doors opened, surviving MEs came bursting out. At the head of the mad dash was the conductor. There was no sign of any station personnel, who had no doubt abandoned their posts some time before when the horde escaped from the urban center. Soon the trains ceased to run altogether.

  And it was not just Mount Takao that was filled with ME refugees: well-informed MEs spoke of similar scenes across the country. Trains and buses stopped running. Transport and distribution of goods slowed, supermarkets and convenience stores closed their doors, electricity and gas were soon cut off, radio and television broadcasts terminated, newspapers were no longer published, communication systems ceased to function, and those in the know fell silent. Society had gone into cardiac arrest. Deletion followed deletion, and soon it became apparent that the number of MEs had dramatically thinned out; though I might glimpse footprints or remnants of meals, days would go by without me seeing a soul.

  As soon as I arrived, I hastened to secure a supply of food. I gave little thought to the long run; simply getting something for the evening meal was enough of a struggle. I had naively assumed that because I had money in my pocket I would be able to buy whatever I needed. Neither the station nor the restaurants around it were in operation, so in the middle of the night I broke into a store and stole some food. I must say in praise of myself that at least I had the foresight to take salt and a lighter as well.

  As supplies were exhausted, the real bloodbath began. Plundering was at fever pitch, as the struggle for resources became further motivation for mutual eradication. Every day, in quite a literal sense, it came down to eat or be eaten. Still, I had no intention of leaving the mountain, since I imagined that everywhere else would be the same. If I went back to central Tokyo with the expectation of abundant food, I would merely find a worse hell awaiting me.

  I couldn’t say whether or not I survived amid the storm of carnage. I remember stabbing someone, but on the other hand I myself had the feeling of being stabbed, of being pushed down and my head cracking open under a hard and heavy object, of being pinned and crushed by a mass of feet. I had utterly no memory of engaging in reciprocal deletion: the time, the people, the particular circumstances . . . Concerning those events, all that was engraved in my memory—and periodically revived—was the pain, sharp and cold, in my hands, in my chest, in my head, a sense of weightlessness, an explosive impact, labored breathing, the weight and tepid warmth of flesh on my arm. If all that was true, I had been deleted at least three times. And yet I was now here, hungry and scrounging for food. I was not at all confident that I was then the same me. And if not, what was I? I did not know. Perhaps because all MEs were the same, our collective consciousness would remain as long as at least one of US still lived.

  When not foraging, I remained brooding in my cave, and, it would appear, slowly going mad. And then I stopped thinking about MEs: I was quite incapable of seeing the whole picture. All I could do was cope with the immediate problem before me, and that consisted of finding food.

  I would painstakingly sift through every empty store. Even though I knew that all the provisions had long since been plundered, I would go looking nonetheless, thinking that this
did not mean that I might not turn up some new supply. The result was always the same, bringing me to my knees in despair. The situation had grown quite impossible, I thought; I had not the strength to go on.

  I finally spotted what appeared to be a buckwheat noodle restaurant: once inside, I collapsed. I thought that here I might as well meet my end, and at that my despair was eased, as my tense and cold body softened and consciousness dissolved. I yielded to a most agreeable sandman and began to doze. I knew the danger: to fall asleep here, a place likely to draw others, made me ripe for deletion. But if this was where I was to meet my end, so be it. And I knew that such would not really be the end. Sarà quel che sarà.

  * * *

  There was a loud noise at the door, followed by the sound of clawing. I leaped up, instinctively gripping my knife, and cautiously went to the source. A ME I did not recognize was lying there, already silent and motionless. I picked up a nearby chair and hit him over the head with one of the legs.

  There was no reaction. He did not appear to be playing possum. Not letting down my guard, I bent over his body and pricked him on one side of his neck with the point of my knife, even as I checked for his pulse with my other hand. There was none. I put the blade of my knife under his nose, but it did not cloud over. He appeared indeed to have expired.

  I dragged the body inside and closed the door, smearing a trail of blood across the floor. Turning him faceup, I could see his gory abdomen. He had clearly been attacked by another ME.

  I took several deep breaths in an effort to calm myself. Tears came to my eyes. Heaven’s grace was upon me; I sensed I had been favored by fate, that some sort of higher purpose was at work. I felt the urge to offer up a prayer of thanks or some such. And so I closed the eyes of the ME lying there, bowed my head toward the body, brought my palms together, and silently paid tribute.

  “Shall I begin with the femora?” I mumbled aloud to myself, as I took off his trousers. The body had grown colder since I’d checked for a pulse. From the cupboard I took a large plate, gathered kindling to place on top of the stove, and lit them with my lighter.

  It was finally time to cut away the flesh, when again I heard a noise at the door. I clicked my tongue, thinking that someone had detected the scent of food. I had been aware of the possibility that someone might have followed our tracks at the entrance, so I had hastened to complete my task.

  With the chair in one hand and my knife in the other, I carefully left the kitchen. As I feared, there was a ME standing inside the threshold, clutching his own knife. Both his hand and his weapon were covered in blood.

  Seeing me, he trembled slightly. He glanced over at the kitchen. The smell of burning wood and paper drifted toward us.

  “Is he dead?” he asked me.

  “Yes,” I replied.

  He continued to stare at me, his eyes insistently informing me: The prey is mine; I brought it down.

  I replied with my own look: That’s got nothing to do with me.

  We were constraining each other, even as we made the same calculation. In the end we would inevitably go at it, with one deleting the other, the winner winding up with a second carcass and thereby doubling his supply of meat. With careful rationing, that would get him through an entire month, by which time the snow might well have melted.

  Among the MEs there was now no other food source. That is how all those roaming the hills had surely survived. In any case, one would eat what one could. That was the only operative life principle. Anyone who thought otherwise would wind up starving, becoming sustenance for the remaining MEs.

  “Get lost!” I challenged.

  “If you return to me what’s mine,” he said, nodding toward the kitchen, “I’ll let you go unharmed.”

  “No. You can leave empty-handed.”

  “Sorry, but you don’t have a chance against me. I was an aikidō instructor at the police academy.

  To test his claim I threw the chair at him. He shifted his body reflexively, dodging the object and in the same instant closing the distance between us. Anticipating his move, I had turned as I made my throw, and was now running back into the kitchen to pick up a burning stick from the pile of kindling. And yet I knew I was still no match for him and was bound to become his dinner.

  “All right,” I said. “Let’s do it this way: we’ll share it. If I simply give it to you, I’ll remain your would-be prey, and so we’ll still have to fight. If we share, neither one of us will die.”

  I was speaking off the top of my head, the words simply spilling out. And yet I found myself believing them.

  Share. Why not? Why had I not thought of that before? Why had I convinced myself of the necessity of bringing the other down? Share. Was that not a splendid idea?

  He stared at me as though searching for something. Perhaps he thought that my real intentions might be reflected in my expression. “Fine,” he said after a while. He put his knife into his pocket, and so did I.

  Gaining his trust filled me with simple happiness. Seeking to reciprocate, I dropped all defenses, turning my back on him as I bent over the remains of the ME and set to work. He followed me into the kitchen. “Will that fire do the job?” he asked.

  I turned around, looked up at him, and handed him a piece of the meat. “Go ahead and cook it according to your preference.”

  By the time I had cut away as much as the two of us intended to eat, the smell of roasting flesh and smoke had filled the kitchen.

  “Don’t you think we should get some ventilation going?” I said. “I’ll poke some holes in the door.”

  “That’s likely to draw others,” he replied.

  “But otherwise we’ll suffocate.”

  “All right then. But make them small holes.”

  I took several steps toward the entrance, then suddenly turned and thrust the knife at his neck from behind. In the same moment, however, he seized my wrist and knocked the weapon from my hand.

  “So you thought you could con me!” he hissed. Pushing me onto the countertop, he seized my throat and blocked my windpipe with his viselike grip. I soundlessly gasped, unable to breathe.

  I had experienced it all before: brought down by a throng of MEs, crushed, prevented from breathing, dying as though sucking on my own throat. And now that same agony was returning, joined to my present suffering, as I sadly went through it all again, lessons unlearned. Full of self-contempt and realizing it was my own doing, then and now, I laughed in scorn at my well-deserved folly and so once more perished.

  * * *

  When awareness returned, I saw that I was being consumed—cut up, roasted, and devoured.

  Hey! I thought. The bastard’s not even waiting until I’ve been completely deleted before diving in? Am I being eaten alive? But in fact such was not the case: I was indeed quite dead. Whatever was done to me, I would feel nothing.

  How’s the taste? I might have asked him, but I had no voice, and he could not hear me. All I had was my consciousness floating in space.

  Despite knowing that he could not hear me, I nonetheless addressed myself to him, saying: I am sorry. I thought that if I could persuade him to forgive me, I might be trusted just one more time. But I knew that this could not be. And that was why he was now eating me—as a form of revenge for my betrayal. He had already roasted the flesh from the other ME, but it was me he had dissected and was now chewing up. He was devouring me out of spite, even in death.

  Ah, that was ultimately it. I now understood why I too had gone on eating MEs. I had been able to eat MEs because I scorned them, because I thought of them as different from me, because I regarded them as inferior. But, in fact, what I was eating was my own flesh, and that made me the inferior. I, who had come to devour MEs, was all the more wretched for devouring myself, and the more I did so, the more worthless I became. I was no better than scum, but the more I despised that scum, the more intent I was on proving that I was different. Every time I engaged in self-deletion, I wound up eating once again . . .

  It wa
s a vicious circle, one that would not end as long as I looked down on myself. And yet I continued to engage in despicable acts that could only encourage me to view myself in that way. I had grievously betrayed someone who had put his trust in me.

  Go ahead and eat me, I thought. Every bit of me. Give my bones to the beasts to gnaw on. See to it that there is not a trace of me remaining. And if my carcass has any nutritional value, I should be grateful. Eat me, live long, and prosper! It is enough if I can contribute to your welfare.

  But wait! I felt an uneasy stirring. Had I ever before proved this useful to anyone? Here I was, earnestly in demand—and fully living up to it. Had I ever sparkled so brilliantly? Suddenly I was bursting with pride. I felt wonderfully, wildly fulfilled.

  Yes indeed, I had finally become useful! Whatever revenge and retaliation might be involved, I was still providing nutrition necessary for his survival. I was genuinely needed! My existence had meaning!

  I had already died, but for the first time I felt that it was good that I had lived. It appeared to me that my life had had value. There was something quite delightful in being eaten.

  Joy flowed through the body I had lost. Blood was bubbling up and dancing. Though I was dead, the heartbeat, the brain waves, the blinking of the eyes . . . all the rhythms that make for the ticking of the body were creating music.

  I felt gratitude to the guy: Thank you for eating me! I am happy now! I called out, shedding sweet tears.

  A grim expression on his face, he sank his teeth into my flesh, slowly chewed, then swallowed. Once more he took a bite, chewed, and swallowed. At intervals he produced a loud burp. His stomach, long neglected, was responding with strange sounds to the sudden task it had now been given.

  “Mustn’t eat too fast,” he muttered to himself. Then he stopped eating and looked at the remains of the two MEs. “Nothing to do but dry it,” he said, and began cutting the meat into strips.