Paste is a good word for it.
Salty.
A hint of citrus, or is that just the taste of metal?
Really frickin’ salty.
The second bite is no better.
I dig at it with a cracker and the stale carb is no match for the overpowering smell and puckering taste.
“How did you assholes eat this?” I called at the window.
Despite my complaints, I was having a great time. It was my first chance since moving into the mill that I got to try something new, even if it was shit that tasted like cat food.
The screaming downstairs had finished hours ago. He had held out much longer than I thought he would. I mean, I thought he would pass out and succumb within a minute but he held on for damn near ten minutes, apparently scrapping and fighting with the caged zombies long after I turned my back on him. Cheers to him and his efforts and his disgusting potted meat. I tipped an invisible hat at the door and laughed insanely.
Sebastian.
Why the hell did he have to be such an asshole? Why did he have to put himself in the cage? He wasn’t great company, no, but he was still company. Instead of having someone to hear all of my witty comments, I’m sitting here alone, eating cat food and making cracks at the door.
Damn I could use a drink.
I dropped the can on the table and cursed myself for being so dramatic and impulsive. Why did I have to dump out all the liquor? Was that really necessary?
“I mean,” I say out loud, “what will I offer my guests when I have a dinner party? Huh? Water and potted meat? They’ll sure as hell need something strong to wash down their cat food, and what will I give them? Nothing!” I pop another small bite of the spongy meat paste in my mouth and bark, “How did you people eat this?!?” Bits of food spray the table as I cough the flavor out. “Next time, I’m killing the people in the nice neighborhood,” I joke, and then catch myself.
Four.
Four men are dead now because I killed them. There have been more who have died just from being with me, but these four are different. They weren’t zombies. They weren’t attacking me or trying to take anything from me or threatening my existence at all.
True, they are the band that killed my parents, but I didn’t recognize any of them.
True, they killed and raped Bertha and the rest in her group, but the leader, the rapist and real murderer, he wasn’t even with them. That didn’t slow Sebastian one bit, but it gave me pause then and is causing me grief now.
Did I do the right thing?
I didn’t try to save the ghost in the box.
I didn’t interrogate the three in the house on South Murphy. As soon as they told me the boss would be returning soon I put a bullet in each of them.
Pop.
Pop.
Pop.
I’m a murderer.
Sebastian saw us as lawmen. Classic western heroes dispensing justice and punishing others for the very thing we were doing.
Who were we to say that we were right to kill and they were wrong? What made us better? That we only killed bad people? How did we know they were killers? The testimony of a man dying in a safe? The statement of a man so wracked by grief he was willing to settle for the blood of an accomplice over the life of the perpetrator.
What did we do?
What the hell did I just do?
I marched out of the kitchen and out to the stairs. Down the steps, past the cage without looking and out to the front door. The sight of the Jeep brought me to a halt.
I forgot to add car thief to the list.
And I screamed out loud. I yelled and screamed into the night sky. I called to the angels and the devils and the living and the dead. I made my voice crack and split. I yelled until I had no air, then breathed and did it again.
A year ago, the police would have been called for the crazy man on First Street. I would have been interrogated by an officer. It would have been decided that I was being disorderly and probably told to shut the hell up or get a ticket.
Now? I’m the fuckin’ sheriff.
I scream again but this time it trails off into a sad laugh.
Nothing makes sense. Nothing is as it should be.
“Look out, Cheney!” I warn the night. “Look out! Watch what you do. The law has returned!” I can’t explain it, but I became suddenly angry at the town, as though the decimation of the world had anything to do with them and nothing to do with the poison in my blood. I roared and stomped and balled my hands into fists. I cursed and swore and promised. I railed for god knows how long. Eventually, from exhaustion or frustration or any other excuse, I made my way back inside. I locked the door behind me, not sure how long it would be until I came out of my castle again.
◊◊◊
The man sits upon the floor in his living room. The bodies on the couch had stiffened hours ago and were beginning to smell. There were dark purple blotches where their blood had pooled in the feet, legs, and hands. Pale faces twisted and mutilated from the single gunshot to each of their foreheads. The three of them, propped-up in front of the television as though it were Sunday afternoon and the Seahawks were about to kick off. None of this affected the man the way he
