The Feast

He's taking too long.

Ernesto froze on his knees, water sheathing his broad knuckles as he glanced downhill. His eyes followed the mountain stream to where it curved sharply, slicing deep into the woods below.

Should've been more careful.

His heart reached a familiar staccato, alarm beating in his throat as tendrils of ice crept through his lungs.

Shouldn't have left him alone.

His spine creaked wearily as he rushed to his feet, bootsoles twisting the tender clay beneath him. He bent down and scooped a heavy clump with his palm, smearing the paste with his fingers. Cleaning would have to wait.

He listened awhile, for voices in the distance. Roaming bandits would be bad; the friendliest stripped you naked and took everything, maybe an ear for sport.

The worst would run him down for miles, teeth filed into fangs, and eat him alive.

Silence. He sighed in relief and began walking.

Hoisting his pack, he winced as the nylon strap tore one of his scabs open.

FUCK me.

Infections meant slow death out here, but he couldn't afford to wait any longer. Each second away from Harlan was a wall between him and safety.

Relative safety.

If he's dead, you got him killed.

He sped up to a quick march, then reconsidered as he almost fell, heels skidding as he reached out for balance. Slowing his pace, he kept inside the waterline, careful to leave no bootprints behind.

"BETTER SAFE THAN STUPID."

He grinned despite himself, remembering that old-ass sign taped outside Mr. Piro's office back at the auto shop. Piro was a sad, sweaty manager, but he'd treated all of them well in those days: generous breaks, free Gatorade, some vacation.

He thought about Piro sometimes. About everyone.

For years Ernesto had been alone, back when he stole jealous glances at those fat husbands swinging toddlers around at the park.

Now he just thanked God for only one mouth to feed.

Two.

Harlan.

Clutching a clean patch on his shirt with the bloodied hand, he settled into a careful cadence, daybreak spilling through the sky above.

*   *   *

A sour odor invaded his lungs as he crested a small hill. He choked back saliva as he tamped his sleeve against his nostrils, nearing a dark mass damming the stream ahead.

A barricade of corpses lay stacked across the water, their withered forms twisted by weight or by cruelty. Swarms of flies surged high amidst the tangle of cloth, hair, and limbs, their deafening drone obliterating all other sound.

Blackened rivulets trickled out from beneath, seeping over the wet mud like scrabbling fingers until they embraced further downhill.

Ernesto knew this undrinkable water flowed miles down to a massive salt lake beyond the forest, its endless shores invisible in the fog between the trees.

He tried not to stare at passing faces he recognized.

Be free.

The marauders had been unusually clever: frustrated with burning precious calories pursuing stragglers, they'd gathered up all the nearby bodies in town and dragged them far up the mountain stream, poisoning that final freshwater supply.

With nothing left to quench their thirst, any innocents still indoors were soon flushed out of hiding, springing the traps laid waiting outside. Their heartbroken howls brought the gleeful bandits running, and kept Ernesto awake for hours.

Be free.

It was harder to mask his prints now, but he did his best, the mud sucking greedily at his boots. Eventually both sight and sound were left blissfully behind, though the smell lingered underneath him.

Approaching the silent treeline, he scanned carefully past dapples of sunlight and dew, into the shade beyond. Only unseasoned bandits would move at this hour, and even they were reluctant to spend reserves on distant prey, let alone uphill.

Cannibals hunted mostly at night.

Ernesto drew a large wrench from his belt and bared it menacingly, just in case. It never hurt to be careful; desperation could make anyone try anything.

Satisfied with the calm, he leapt out of the mire and onto the grass, wiping both boots clean. Flashing his wrench one more time in the light, he passed under the trees, his breath growing shallow.

Pulling some cobwebs from a nearby fern, he pressed the wad over his wounded palm and eased into the shadows, keeping the blinding sun to his back.

A single wrench to the throat could fold a grown man in seconds, muting his cries simultaneously. Downing the largest of a group would also poison the rest with fear, a far more potent weapon than violence alone.

Ernesto prayed it wouldn't come to that, but he was always willing to kill without question. Mercy toward a bandit was lunacy.

He'd made that mistake once before.

He continued deeper, damp grass padding his footfalls. He scouted around after each step, knowing he'd barely cover a mile per hour at best.

This caution was crucial: the bandits had recently unearthed a cache of rusted bear-traps.

He patiently kept pace, his back to each tree, resting awhile to chew some roasted seeds from his pocket. He stared sadly at the sludge crawling along close by.

Soon a white building floated into view through the thick mist, piercing the ground like a tombstone. A hardware store, riddled with tripwires.

He scanned for faces beside its ghostly walls.

Flanking the entrance was a parking lot, punctured by a wide trail that led back into town. Ernesto swallowed hard.

He and Harlan had decided together that the city was a lost cause. Many of its buildings were picked clean, and all the traps combined with lethal sightlines meant a swift death therein.

They'd often find remains of townsfolk tucked away inside basements or attics, rats chewing the rinds.

Sometimes the men found much worse: shattered windows, nail-marks all across the floorboards, stained underwear.

Occasionally, they would glimpse other survivors staring back from afar, but they dared not approach or make any noise, for fear of being lured by live bait.

The strangers largely seemed to reach the same conclusion, save a lone woman who had once chased them, wailing with her arms outstretched for help. Harlan and Ernesto fled as fast as they could away from the sound, until finally they'd left her echoing screams far behind.

There was much the pair tried to forget nowadays. Sometimes Harlan cried in his sleep.

From the nervous looks he caught some mornings, Ernesto knew he did too.

Forging ahead, he abandoned the store, crouching lower as the treeline dwindled. There was only one stop left before Harlan, but Ernesto wanted to give it a wide berth after the previous night.

The fog was thicker now, coating his tongue with its bitterness. Ernesto gladly welcomed the drink.

It appeared in the grey like a crooked smile: a gas station, eerily unlit. He felt sick, shuddering at the memory.

Near midnight, he'd gone inside to check the mousetraps between its empty aisles. Upon leaving, a booming groan greeted him at the door, and he'd wheeled around to face an emaciated bear.

The beast was crippled, one forepaw mangled by a trap. Spotting him, it charged clumsily, Ernesto sobbing in terror as he sprinted for the trees.

Tripping over a concrete footpath, he'd sprawled onto shards of broken glass, rending his hands and enraging the starving creature. He'd bid farewell then and there, looking up at his death, when a sharpened signpost sailed out from the trees and slammed down the monster's throat.

Its owner appeared from the treeline, mane matted to his forehead, wiry arms burdened with heavy stones. Harlan was a deadeye by now, slamming stone after stone against the bear's gushing snout until it fled its tormentor.

Calling Ernesto to him, Harlan had chased after the animal in rare excitement, tracking its lumbering charge through the gathering darkness. Collecting himself, Ernesto had arrived at the lakeshore to find Harlan whooping over the creature's carcass.

A prize like this was unthinkable bounty, Ernesto feverishly praying that any disease from the paw hadn't spread overmuch.

They'd planned for Ernesto to head back to their campsite far upstream, where the nearby clay deposit could help stave off infection. Ernesto was nervous to abandon Harlan, but the latter reassured him it was safe, and after what had just transpired Ernesto was slow to disagree. Any ambushers would be sacrificing at least one man for certain.

Keeping the only knife between them, Harlan had set about concealing the bear with their camping tarp and carving its flesh, while Ernesto left only after Harlan's promise to bring meat by dawn.

Dawn had come and gone. Ernesto sped up.

Hurrying past the station, he finally broke free of the mist, his vision stretching out beyond.

Steel bands of water smothered the horizon, drowned treetops needling their shallows. To the far side, Ernesto could barely discern peaks as high as his own.

He spat hatefully at the sight.

The earthquakes had come on a Tuesday, 3:14 AM. Mountain lakes rose with ancient vengeance, spewing melted glaciers onto eons-dry earth, swallowing kilometers of adjacent life within minutes.

Two days later, soil beneath the invading water finally collapsed. Its weight opened spontaneous sinkholes, burying roads and buildings alike in sudden tombs, locking screaming inhabitants under a hundred feet of water and concrete in seconds.

A month afterward, not a single helicopter crossed the sky. Ernesto kept his radio on during the daytime, desperately tuning for anything besides automated safety guidelines on every channel. Weeks later, his batteries ran out.

That was a year ago.

Townsfolk had bravely persevered, but nobody at that elevation owned a single boat, or could build one. Plans were made for rafts, to cross the lake with sufficient cargo to reestablish contact with the outside world.

But soon the looting started. Then the suicide-pacts.

Piro's son had been the first to escape, standing up suddenly during a town-hall, drawing a pistol from his coat.

Only four months in ... he was a sweet kid.

Gritting his teeth, Ernesto concentrated on the shoreline, seeking Harlan.

Gratitude filled his heart as he recalled the night's events, already resolving to forgive his friend for the delay. Their lifelines were indispensable.

They'd first met at Piro's, Harlan awaiting an invoice for his truck. The two struck up conversation over sports, and Ernesto was soon over for dinner.

Harlan had made steaks with whiskey sauce, both men finishing the bottle as they bonded over their lack of fathers and their loneliness in a town of ninety thousand. Weeks later, Harlan shared an old VHS of his last meeting with his daughter: her second birthday. The two friends became inseparable.

Ernesto knew Harlan still kept the tape in a case under his pillow, alongside a half-empty revolver and a New Mexico postcard.

Skirting a broad pine, he finally spotted Harlan between the bear's limbs. The latter's back was turned, pelt trimmings and entrails littering the grass.

... he's okay.

Spirits soaring, Ernesto pressed forward and whistled a low greeting.

No response.

"Harlan! What kept you?"

Drawing close, Ernesto could see Harlan's shoulders shaking. Both hands were at his knees.

"Hey ... you good, brother?"

Fearing the worst, he scrambled to his friend's side.

"I got worried ... that ..."

Blood drenched Harlan's arms to each elbow. He wept silently, something gleaming in his palm. Ernesto leaned forward.

It was a golden locket, its heart-shaped lid bent shut.

"What ...?"

Harlan slowly raised a trembling finger, toward the bear. Ernesto looked.

A ridge of bristled fur, banded folds of purple flesh, and then ...

A rainbow-striped sleeve. Tiny, milk-white fingers, curling out from their bed like daisy petals. Chipped fingernails.

Nausea bubbled in his throat.

Pulling Harlan aside, he hunched forward. Grunting through the pain, he tucked the tarp beneath the bear, smothering its humid stench.

He stood up and backed away, wiping both hands on his knees as he peered at Harlan's nape. His voice was gentle.

"We'll ... finish up tonight, okay? That way ... we won't have to see anything."