by Matt Wallace
Little Dove loses all sense of time, her surroundings, and even reality. In the next moment, she finds herself perched on her hands and knees against the floor, gasping for fresh air. Feet and legs shuffle past her as Marta’s parents rush to the girl’s side, crying and cooing and praising as they untie her. The girl is no longer crying or thrashing. Little Dove raises her head to see Marta fast asleep in her mother’s arms, her slumbering face serene and untroubled.
White Horse groans as he forces his brittle aging bones to bend, crouching beside her on the floor. He gently strokes the hair back from Little Dove’s face to find hot tears stinging her cheeks.
“How does it feel to be a medicine woman?” he asks.
She doesn’t answer him. There’s no feeling of victory. Her mind is with the lost children whose weeping she will hear in her dreams for years to come.
“You can’t save everybody,” he says, as if he can read her thoughts. “I suppose that’s what makes saving the ones you can even more important.”
Little Dove makes a sound that might’ve been a laugh under any other circumstance.
“When did you stop being an asshole, Pop?”
White Horse smiles. “Dunno. I guess you did what five wives couldn’t.”
“What’s that?” Little Dove asks.
“You made me finally grow up,” he says.
BRING HITHER THE FATTED CALF, AND . . .
Lena smells chocolate and freshly baked pastry dough.
She’s aware of salivating before she’s truly awake. Lena smacks and licks at her lips, her eyes opening to soft artificial lighting. She’s lying on a military-style cot wedged into a corner. The walls are metallic with chipped white paint. Blinking and looking around her, she sees she’s been sleeping in a wide stall with no door. There’s a sink and a toilet affixed to the adjacent wall. Strangely, there are several thick steel rods hinged between the toilet and the floor, as if they’re propping it up or reinforcing it.
Another smell stings her nostrils with a sharp, piney scent. It’s sawdust; she can see the floor is thickly seasoned with the stuff.
Lena realizes how unusually wide the cot is when she has to roll twice to reach the edge. It could sleep two more of her easily. She swings her legs over the side and sits up, a dull pain between her ears. She’s no longer wearing the bloodstained tank top and pajama pants in which she was abducted. They’ve dressed her in black work pants, matching boots, and a black chef’s smock.
She stands, her head throbbing just slightly, and crosses over to the stall’s sink, above which is a mirror that seems as unnaturally wide as the cot. There’s a small cut at the corner of her mouth, and much of her left cheek is purple and blue. Other than that, Lena appears unscathed.
She touches the left breast of her smock. There’s a logo there, not Sin du Jour’s. There are no words, only the black-against-yellow shape of a palm tree, its trunk crossed with a wicked-looking axe, like something used by a medieval executioner.
Lena has no idea what it means.
She pokes her head out of the stall. There are at least twenty more lined up on either side of the room. They all seem empty right now. There are no doors at either end of the two rows, just wide, open archways leading out. Lena realizes those delicious dessert smells are emanating from beyond one of the arches.
Seeing no other alternative, she follows her nose.
It’s like walking into a real-life wing of Willy Wonka’s factory. The space is the size of a warehouse, and virtually all of it is filled with desserts, brightly colored confectionery creations straight out of a magazine and industrial-sized parcels of prepackaged treats. Wheels of cheese the size of big rig tires are stacked five high. There is a literal mountain of donuts piled into a perfect twenty-five-foot peak inside what looks like an indoor pool. Lena peers over the side and finds the bottom of the donut mountain sitting in what must be a hundred gallons of viscous white frosting.
She walks past library-tall shelves of different cake slices behind small glass doors. In the distance she can see a chocolate fountain as large and opulent as any fountain in the Vatican.
Only it’s chocolate.
Above the burbling of the fountain, Lena begins to register a new sound, the first sign of life she’s encountered thus far in this bizarre place. Lena hears the wet, gnashing chorus of animals, dozens of animals, feeding all in a row. It’s interspersed with sounds of pleasure that are almost human. They must be feeding all of this crap to pigs or cows or some kind of barnyard life, although why she can’t fathom.
Lena follows the sound to its source. She rounds several dozen side-by-side racks of chicken and waffles under what appears to be a system of garden sprinklers intermittently spritzing syrup instead of water.
It’s not animals. Lena stares at the mountainous backs of six morbidly obese men and women. They’re sitting shoulder to shoulder on oversized stools in front of a long table, gorging themselves on every manner of confection this fantasyland of desserts has to offer. They all wear simple beige coveralls with bibs tied around their bulging necks. Each one of their heads has been shaved bald, giving them the appearance of gargantuan babies.
Lena has to battle against the urge to retch. She averts her eyes from the obscene binging. Attendants stand at each end of the table. They’re dressed like busboys, wearing the same logo with which Lena woke up marked. Gleaming black plastic helmets cover their face and heads. The attached masks are molded with nondescript facial features, giving them the aspect of automatons.
She watches the pair work. One attendant is responsible for constantly loading fresh offerings onto the table in front of the feasters. The other attendant uses a long industrial broom to pull and sweep empty dishes, wrappers, and food debris into a large trash bin.
It is possibly the most revolting sight she’s ever witnessed.
“Miss Tarr! You’ve rejoined us! Excellent.”
The voice, feminine and welcoming without an ounce of genuine warmth, is vaguely familiar to Lena. She turns around, practically blinded by the shocking pastel green of the woman’s finely tailored skirt suit. The speaker is wearing matching eyeglass rims, a shock of the same color running through the otherwise dark hair tied up in a bun atop her head. Her only accessory not matching her suit, in fact, is the crimson leather attaché case held at her side.
It’s Luciana Monrovio, Allensworth’s succubus toady, wearing an empty smile Lena immediately wants to punch off her face.
“Where the fuck am I?” Lena asks.
Something sinister touches that plastic, prepackaged smile of Monrovio’s.
“Welcome to Gluttony Bay.”
GET MORE
“Welcome back to Gluttony Bay, sir!” the maître d’ greets Allensworth warmly. “It’s been far too long!”
“I wholeheartedly agree, Alfonse. How have you been?”
“Quite well, quite well!”
Alfonse is resplendent in tuxedo and tails, spotless white gloves covering his hands. He resembles any high-end host in the restaurant world, save for the silken executioner’s hood draped over his head and face. It’s jet-black with Gluttony Bay’s logo emblazoned on the forehead, the stitched eyeholes threaded with the same yellow.
“Are you dining this evening, sir?” he asks Allensworth.
“Not at the moment. I have a surprise to present to our guests.”
Alfonse clasps his gloved hands in front of his chest, his back arching impossibly deep in elation.
“That is fabulous! Your surprises are the stuff of legend.”
“May I address the diners?”
“But of course!”
Alfonse escorts Allensworth into the opulence of the main dining room. The floor is yellow-and-black marble. The ceiling is overwrought with a twenty-four-karat gold and emerald palm tree forest. Many of the tables are arranged family style, long and draped in yellow and black linen, but there are also private booths lining the walls. The booths are far more private than your standard lovers�
�� nooks, coming complete with closing doors on each. The servers all wear the same molded plastic face masks and helmets; none of the staff, in fact, reveal their faces.
The clientele is largely demons of the upstart Vig’nerash clan, all of them decked out in their best Hugo Boss. There’s also a large group of squat, albino-white ghouls with their saggy, cottage-cheese faces. They wear funereal suits and all seem to have comically obvious wigs atop their heads. Very few humans patronize the place.
Allensworth strolls to the middle of the tables, addressing the restaurant at large. “Excuse me, gentlefolk; may I have the attention of the dining room for a moment?”
All heads turn toward him, and all seem to recognize Allensworth on sight.
“We greatly appreciate our guests here, and in our continued efforts to show it, I have a surprise for the loyal diners of Gluttony Bay, something to enhance what I hope you all agree is already the ultimate dining experience.”
The kitchen doors are flung open and two attendants wheel out a towering gift-wrapped package the size of a phone booth to the delight and anticipation of the crowd. They bring the giant present to a rest a few feet from where Allensworth stands.
“My fellow Gluttony Bay patrons, it is my deepest pleasure to present to you your very special guest chef for the weekend. You’ve no doubt eaten in his restaurants and many of you will remember him from his game-changing weekly cooking program, The Double-Cross Ranch Chuck Wagon, and his winning season of Survivor: Celebrity Chef Edition. I give you . . . Bronko Luck!”
The attendants tear the wrapping away from the front of the package and pull open the door of the crate beneath.
Bronko stumbles out into the light of the restaurant, confused and shielding his eyes with one hand. He’s wearing the same black boots, pants, and smock as those in which Lena awoke, only his has full-length sleeves and more decoration, befitting an executive chef.
The crowd cheers riotously. Bronko lowers his hand as his eyes adjust, scanning his surroundings.
“Byron!” Allensworth greets him over the bedlam. “Welcome back!”
He strides forward and slips an arm around Bronko’s wide shoulders, gesturing grandly to the approval and further cheering of the crowd.
“What is this?” Bronko asks him.
“Think of it as a field trip,” Allensworth answers, for Bronko’s ears only. “An educational one. Now, don’t make a scene. These are all important people, human and non. Think of your own staff you expressed such concern for. Their fate is tied to yours here.”
Bronko’s head is spinning, but Allensworth’s words register plainly all the same.
The maître d’ approaches them, applauding animatedly.
“Alfonse, meet Chef Bronko Luck!” Allensworth bids him.
“It is such an honor to have you here, Chef,” the hooded man praises Bronko. “I cannot even imagine the interpretations of our cuisine you will offer! It is so exciting!”
Allensworth claps Bronko between the shoulders several times and steps away. “I’ll leave you in Alfonse’s capable hands for now, Byron. I have other business to attend to here, but I promise we will reconvene soon. Understood?”
Bronko nods dumbly, unsure of what else to do in that moment.
Satisfied, Allensworth turns and exits the dining room, leaving him alone with the maître d’.
“Are you all right, Chef?” Alfonse asks. “You seem a bit livid. You are feeling well, I hope?”
Bronko does his best to shake it off, remembering what Allensworth said about his staff.
“No, I’m . . . I’m good. I’m sorry. I don’t like being packed in giant birthday boxes.”
“Of course! Who does, after all?”
Alfonse giggles beneath his hood, and there’s something very disturbing about the combination.
“Um . . . tell me, Alfonse, what kind of restaurant is—”
Bronko trails off. He stares out through the panoramic windows of the restaurant at the blue and grey waters of the bay. It is undeniably beautiful, but he quickly realizes it’s not the only feature the view offers the restaurant’s patrons.
Across the bay Bronko sees many tall fences crowned with barbed wire. He sees tall guard towers with blacked-out windows.
Finally, he sees a large sign enblazoned with military insignia erected in front of a grey stone acropolis.
CAMP DELTA, it proclaims in bold black block letters.
His mind offers him no alternate explanation. He knows exactly where he is.
“Guantanamo,” Bronko barely manages to force past his lips. “That . . . that is fucking Guantanamo Bay out there.”
“But of course, Chef!” Alfonse happily confirms. “Where else would we establish such a rarified fine-dining experience as this?”
Bronko’s mind is racing, and the track doesn’t lead anywhere that’s not utterly horrific.
“I’m guessin’ y’all don’t serve Cuban food here,” he says quietly, a timbre of pure dread underscoring his voice.
“Rarely, Chef,” Alfonse informs him casually. “The menu is largely Middle Eastern. We also do wonderful Chinese, and even the occasional Russian. Now, I don’t mean fusion, you understand.”
The hooded maître d’ pats Bronko’s arm and laughs heartily at that, as if he’s made an everyday joke.
Bronko doesn’t laugh. His flesh has begun to crawl and tremble uncontrollably beneath his new executive chef uniform. He looks from the chuckling maître d’ to a nearby table, where a foursome of Vig’nerash demons is currently being served by one of the restaurant’s faceless waiters.
A covered platter is placed on the table between them. Something in Bronko screams at him to look away, while another voice, a much more jaded and calm voice, not unlike Allensworth’s, tells him he already knows what he’s about to see, and there’s no point in denying it.
The masked waiter lifts the stainless steel lid from the platter with a flourish.
In the next moment, Bronko finds himself staring into the placid, glazed eyes of a severed human head. It’s resting on a bed of butter lettuce leaves and garnished with spirals of lemon slices and mint sprigs. What appear to be roasted chestnuts fill the deceased man’s mouth.
“Shall I show you the kitchen, Chef?” Alfonse offers.
Bronko’s mouth feels full of cotton. The world around him, every sight and sound, seems to have slowed. He has to struggle to move his gaze from the maître d’ and the entirely ordinary eyes beneath his hood to the nearest sharp knife, resting atop a napkin on a nearby table.
He can see himself taking up that knife and scoring Alfonse like the fatty layer of a roast. He also knows, beneath the shock and terror he’s experiencing, how irrational and ultimately self-destructive a course of action that would be.
“I’d like . . . to freshen up first,” Bronko manages to say.
“Oh, of course, Chef!” Alfonse sounds absolutely appalled “How atrocious of me! You’ve traveled so far. I’ll have you escorted to your quarters immediately!”
“Thank you,” Bronko hears himself tell the odious little man.
He waits, trying not to see what’s happening at every table around him, trying not to see what else is wheeled out of that kitchen.
Later, he’ll tell himself he succeeded, and most nights, he’ll even be able to believe that lie.
ONE WILL NOT COME BACK
In approximately twenty minutes, Jett will sincerely wish that walking in on Nikki and Dorsky making out in Sin du Jour’s pastry kitchen was the most noteworthy and most disturbing news of the day.
But right now, she’s still en route to the small haven of baking ovens perpetually smelling of maddeningly fresh dough, and it’s Dorsky surprising Nikki with his presence.
“You alone back here?” he asks, popping his head around the side of the kitchen’s open arch.
Nikki nearly drops the tray of cherry amaretto cookies she’s holding in hands covered by oven mitts shaped like starfish. She places it down atop one
of her stainless steel prep stations and shakes the gloves loose like a hockey player preparing for a brawl. She removes the buds from her ears. The faint strains of a Muse song can be heard.
“What did you say?” she asks.
“I was asking if you’re alone back here.”
“Just me and the live yeast,” Nikki says with an uncertain smile.
“No, I just meant . . . I guess I expected to find Lena back here power-drinking wine.”
“Oh. She didn’t come in today, I don’t think.”
Dorsky walks over to her, eyeing the cookies she’s just taken out of the oven with interest.
“Have one if you want,” she bids him. “I’m baking them to send Mr. Mirabel’s family.”
“That’s cool of you.”
Dorsky picks up a cookie and bites into it. “Jesus, how do you do this?” he asks, almost dreamily.
Nikki grins. “Natural talent.”
He quickly polishes off the rest of the treat. “Listen, I haven’t really . . . I guess I just wanted to make sure you were okay. We haven’t really talked since the inauguration.”
“Do we . . . and I’m not trying to be a dick here, because I see you’re trying to be nice . . . but do we ‘talk,’ Tag?”
At first, Dorsky looks taken aback by that question, but in the end, he realizes it’s a fair point, and he nods.
“All right, yeah. But we used to, right? I mean, at least a little. And like I said, I was worried about you.”
“You didn’t say it, actually,” Nikki points out quietly.
Dorsky looks directly into her eyes, his expression soft on her. “I was worried about you,” he says.
Nikki feels that thing happening inside of her that she promised herself after the incident with Dorsky and the succubus would never happen again.
