Dawn of the Yeti (3 page)

Chapter Six

The world is a
lush green. Snow is a thing that merely comes in winter, and even then, it can
be avoided.

I’m in the middle
of an open field, green hills, green grass, and green weeds surrounding me, the
overwhelming greenness broken by the spattered flecks of the wild flowers, the
constellations of white and purple and pink and yellow buds. The sun shines
high in the sky, playing a soft duet with the breeze for a perfect concerto of
warmth. I turn to take the whole place in, memorize the softness, the safeness,
the sanctity of
 
this world. But
when I survey the land, I realize that I am not alone.

On a nearby
hillock, a figure stands, a woman dressed in a translucent robe that wraps
around her body and lets me see every facet of her womanhood. The only thing
shrouded is her face, hidden by a dark hood.

“Come to me, Tom,”
she says. But I don’t know for certain whether or not it is her. I can’t see
her lips. “Come to me.”

I do, taking my
sweet time, letting my bare feet slide across the blades of grass.

The closer I get,
the more beautiful she becomes. Every inch of her smooth skin, glows in the
light. My pulse quickens and I long to embrace her, to let her embrace me, to
wrap me in her arms and choke the last breath from my body. She doesn’t say
another word as she lets the thin shroud of cloth drop from her shoulders. It
wavers to the ground, floating too smooth and too slow for air, as if it’s been
dropped into a pool of water and sinks to the bottom of the ocean. I watch the
ripples it makes, the fluid folds. And she pulls me to her.

My clothes have
vanished and we stand, holding on to one another, naked, but for the hood still
covering her face. Her hands slide down my back, up my stomach then congregate
at my crotch, where she starts to pull and tug. Soon, she’s wrapped around me
and I’m lost inside her.

But then she
disappears. I can still feel her, but I’m no longer in the middle of an open,
grassy knoll. I’m hovering in darkness, flames and screams filling the air. I
can still hear her whisper. She tells me that the world will not end in the
silence of snow. She tells me that everything always ends with a bang. She
tells me she’s about to cum.

Then I see a flash
of blue-green from beneath her hood. Ocean eyes, that glare and flare. It’s not
the eyes that wake me though. It’s the screams.

Chapter Seven

At first, I think
it is the howling wind, because a blizzard rages outside. But these are
different screams. They are the stretched screams, the ones that continue for
so long that I wonder if the voice will snap, break and die from overexertion.
The screams are so high pitched that I automatically think it’s Meredith. She
still huddles against the wall, her eyes focused on something behind the both of
us.

I don’t care if
they realize that I’m awake or not, I turn. The crumple of rags that used to be
near the caves opening has been dragged closer to the fire. It’s Angelo.
Instantly, I know why he didn’t look right from before. His arms and legs are
gone, bloody stumps replacing his appendages. All that’s left for him to do is
scream as they pull his intestines from his stomach and stuff them into a pot
over the fire. I gag. Retch. Wanting to help him, I struggle against my bonds,
but they are lashed too tight. I continue to fidget though, the ropes digging
into the flesh of my wrists. I keep at it until I can feel the blood trickling
down into my palms. Angelo’s screams are dying, fading with each new breath,
his voice ragged, his life disappearing.

“You bastards!” I
scream. “Mother-fucking cowards!” I spit at them, though it doesn’t even clear
the fire. The last shreds of my restraint dissipate with Angelo’s beating
heart. I kick. Scream. Threaten. Bleed. Cry. But the Banjankri pay no attention
to me, too involved with their work, their dinner.

Angelo finally
stills, and the Banjankri hack into him like a slaughtered pig, pulling of
strips of flesh, tearing out his insides. Meredith watches the whole thing, her
eyes wide, never blinking.

I drop into silence,
listening to the fire crackle, the water bubble, wishing I could seal my
nostrils, my mouth and not have to taste my friend in the air. And I wonder who
will be next, me or Meredith to simmer in the pot. Then hope it’s me. Not
because I want to save her, give her an extra chance to escape, it’s because I
don’t want to see that again, because I can’t deal with another death. It’s
because I can’t watch.

 *         
*   *

 I try to
sleep over the next few hours, but it doesn’t work. The smell of Angelo stew
too strong for me to ignore, to give me any peace. I throw up two more times in
the passing time, but nothing comes up. And it sickens me even more that the
cooking meat makes my mouth water and my unsettled stomach long for a bite.

It’s even worse
when they bring us the bowls.

One of the
Banjankri, he hardly looks older than 15, hands a bowl to Meredith, her hands
bound in front of her. She doesn’t even hesitate. She tips the bowl to her
mouth and takes some of it in. I gag again, but don’t have the proper strength
to bring anything up.

Goatee grabs me by
the shoulders and props me against the wall, sitting on my hands. I try to kick
at him, but he only laughs then slaps me across the face. He leans in, his face
close to mine, and I can see that one of his eyes is an opaque blue, almost
clear. His mouth opens, the smell of his stale breath, the rotted flesh, brings
another tsunami of nausea.

In the Banjankri’s
whispered tones, Goatee says something to me, full of hissing, new waves of
breath brushing against me with every syllable. I turn away, but his hands
catch me, force me back to look at him. When his words fade, he breaks into a
smile, then rolls his eyes towards Meredith, so slow that my own eyes shoot
from his to Meredith and back before his linger on to her crouched figure.

I spit in his
face. And he hits me this time, and I can taste the blood trickle into my
mouth.

He takes the bowl
from the younger Banjankri and puts it to my lips. I tighten them, seal them
off to a thin slit. He pushes my mouth with the bowl, but I don’t open. He
presses harder, the bowl’s edge sandwiching my lips between it and my teeth,
but I still don’t give in. He knocks my head against the wall, but I turn my
face, causing some of the stew to spill out and hit my cheek. It burns as it
slides down my neck.

He brings his face
to mine again and bears his teeth in a large smile. Each one a tiny triangle,
pointed and ready to rend flesh from bone. With a quick gesture he summons the
younger Banjankri who takes the bowl in his outstretched hand. Goatee’s hand
goes for my nose, the other to my chin. He plugs my nose and starts to push
down on my jaw. I try to resist, but his hands are strong, vices that hold me
in place. I can’t take in any air or shake free or catch a breath through a
crack in a nostril. The younger Banjankri stands, holding the bowl over my
face, ready to dump its contents in the second my mouth splits. I shake. Shake.
Shake. Weaken. Need to breathe.

I crack the corner
of my mouth, thinking and hoping it’s small enough to breathe but not enough
for them to pry it open. Goatee acts as if he’s been waiting for me to do
exactly this, forcing a finger through the small gap and wrenching my mouth
open.

Then comes the
taste. The meat. Angelo.

Sputtering, I try
to spit and drool the gruel from my mouth, but Goatee keeps my head tilted up
like a small chick. He the mother, dumping the stew down my throat. It burns,
still too hot, and I finally swallow in quaffing gulps.

They leave me soon
enough, my face turning red from where the concoction spilled, my stomach full,
coughing, half-dead and wanting to die. Try as I might though, my stomach won’t
obey, too hungry for the sustenance it now holds to let it go so soon; I can’t
puke.

I hear them slurp
their soup. Listen to them devour my Angelo. Wait for them to hunger again and
come for me.

Chapter Eight

 We’re packed
and ready to go.

After another
sleepless night, I’m hauled to my feet. I’d spent the night listening to
Meredith’s snores, surprised that she could sleep in such a
situation—especially so deeply. It was a comforting sound. I tried to
close my eyes and imagine that my pack was still whole and that we’d found a
cave for the night. But the ropes around my wrists, my bound legs, remind me of
where I am, what’s happened, who I’ve eaten. I stay awake until dawn, watching
the sun creep into the cave like a fearful cat, on tip-toes, hesitant steps.
The Banjankri rise with the sun and go about packing their few things, stowing
the soup in old thermoses, their cookware, the furs they used for pillows.

The only thing
they leave behind is the half-frozen, mostly bone corpse that was once Angelo.
I try not to look at it as we pass.

Now I plod along
with the group, a guard on either side, Meredith behind, also guarded by
another two. The fifth treads a few steps ahead, blazing the trail for us to
follow.

It feels good to
be on the move again, out of the cave’s stale air and the smell of meat. The
wind blows snow into my face and eyes, stinging, reminding me that I’m alive.
My legs enjoy the freedom of movement, though I’m still tied—they merely
extended my line, allowing small steps, which lets me move, but not well enough
to run. I stumble a few times and am caught by my neighbors.

From the sun’s
movement, I can tell that we’re moving east. And I know where we are going: the
Jo-Bran’s city. There is nowhere else that they’d take us. I’d heard stories
and rumors from other, friendly packs, before packs even existed. Tales about
the Banjankri and their sacrifices to the Jo-Bran, to appease the monsters and
keep them from attacking the Banjankri packs. Appeasing the gods. Though if the
Jo-Bran are all that’s left to worship, I lost my faith years ago.

The Banjankri stop
at the crest of a small hill. From this vantage, I can see the Spire we left
behind, the site of our downfall. I should’ve listened to Charles. It’s about a
day’s travel—if we were headed to it, instead of away from it. I wonder
where Charles is and hope that he’s still alive, still going. Though I can’t
find any reason why he would, why any of us do.

A thermos is
thrust in my face, the cap off, the thin smell wafting into my nostrils. I turn
my head away and brace myself for the coming attack. But it never comes. The
offering Banjankri shrugs his shoulders, takes a gulp and passes it to my other
guard.

I sneak a glance
at Meredith, who drinks from another thermos without any sign of disgust. How
she can do such a thing is beyond me. And it takes me back to when we found
her.

*         
*   *

“Let’s just get
the fuck out of here,” Angelo says.

I can tell he’s
uneasy, as am I. Charles is a few paces ahead, peering into a half-standing
tent flap.

“We need to see if
there are any survivors,” I say, stepping over a large patch of red snow.

“And food,”
Charles says. “Don’t forget the food.”

How could I, I
think, but I don’t say anything. We haven’t eaten in a day—the last of
our supplies having run out the night before. Charles grabs a small chunk of
frozen blood and pops it into his mouth when he thinks I’m not looking. I saw
him do it a few weeks ago when the food was low, and it turned into a screaming
match. I’m not about to have one here, not in front of Angelo, not amongst the
dead.

I stoop and sort
through a loose backpack. There is blood covering half of it, looking in the
darkness like a glob of sky dripped and was soaked up by the fur bag. Inside, I
find a few books, worn and well used, spines broken. There are a few photos,
but I toss them aside without looking at them: It’s better not to know who this
belonged too, who they were trying to remember, to forget. My own haunting
figures wisp through my mind, but I brush them away with the focus of food.

“You just going to
stand around or are you going to help?” Charles says. He’s staring at Angelo.

“Leave him be,” I
say. “He’s on the lookout. Right?”

Angelo shoots a
quick look from me to Charles and back, then nods.

“See,” I say, my
eyes pointing to Charles. “He’s doing his job.”

Charles scuffs
away, kicking a discarded doll.

I rummage a bit
more and find a few cans of vegetables. “I found some peas.” I hope this will
buffer the last few minutes, but neither of the other two even looks my way,
Angelo focusing on the night, Charles crawling through one of the still
standing tents. I tuck the cans in to my own pack and head further into the
camp.

It surprises me
that any of the stragglers are still trying to stay in such large groups. They
must still think it’s safer in numbers. It’s just a bigger target. An easy
kill. From the look of things, it looks like the majority of the camp must’ve
been made up of children. There are more toys spread around than I’ve seen in a
long time. All the broken dolls and action figures symbols of the lost kids,
the lost future.

A stuffed lion
rests at my feet, his stuffing half-hanging out, gutted. I see my daughter
cradling something similar, the stuffed bangle tiger my wife and I got her for
her fifth birthday, before everything went wrong. I can see her smile. Both of
their smiles. I kick the lion. It floats through the air for a brief moment,
arcing into the night before landing with a scream.

I whip around to
see Angelo standing to the west side of the camp. He backs up as both Charles
and I run his way. “What is it?”

Angelo crouches
down and wraps his arms around his knees.

Charles is the
first to reach the site, his face wrinkling into disgust. I take a spot beside
him, building myself up for the soon to be witnessed horrors.

At first, all I
see is blood. Blood everywhere. But then I notice its source. A Jo-Bran, torn
to pieces, like someone had stuffed a live grenade down its throat. I step
away, the smell reaching my nostrils.

I check on Angelo,
who is still huddled a few feet away. This isn’t something someone his age
should have to deal with. That anyone should have to deal with.

“Something’s
moving,” Charles says.

“What?” Sure
enough, in the midst of the blood and muck, a large ball starts to open. I’d
assumed it was just the Jo-Bran’s torso, it looked the size. Angelo comes up
next to us and stares, his mouth agape. I want to tell him to go back, to look
away, but I can’t speak.

The three of us
continue to stare as the ball opens up, gushing more blood and removing
entrails with blood-stained hands. Hands. I take a step forward. Angelo tugs at
my coat, but I brush him aside, needing a closer look. I can see it now, a
woman, covered in blood and guts, huddled in the middle of the snow, the middle
of a decimated camp, shutting out the death and destruction by curling into a
ball.

“Are you okay?” I
ask, still searching for a face. A few bones pop from the unfurling person but
no words. I hunker down. Then see its face. Her face. Covered in blood, her
hair plastered to the sides of it like a newborn, she meets my eyes with hers
and they cut straight through me, assessing my very soul and weighing out my
fate. Those aqua eyes.