“Oh,” I said. “Will neither of you be joining me?”
“I fear not. Everybody in this house strictly adheres to Colonel Stark’s miracle diet.” Ferguson’s eyes flicked over to Magerzart, who was staring in rapt fascination at the small pile of sugar cubes. “Strict adherence!” he added. She gave a sad little moan.
“An admirable resolve,” I said. As Ferguson seemed to be exhausted, I leaned forward and begin fixing myself a cup of tea, with a splash of cream and—much to Magerzart’s chagrin, I think—two lumps of sugar. Just as I began to savor my first sip, a door opened at the top of the stairs and the man of the house appeared. Colonel Stark was every bit as thin as his fellows, yet his eyes were alight with a merciless energy—the spark of intelligence, bereft of pity. When he spoke it was with just a touch of accent, yet the care with which he both chose and pronounced his words showed that his was a mind accustomed to rigorous study.
“Ah! My honored guest,” he said. “I do hope you will forgive the delay, but I was not in a condition to receive company, Mr. ah…?”
“Doctor John Watson, at your service,” I told him. I had no prevarication ready, but did I need one?
“Hmm… your name is familiar, I think,” said my host.
“I’ve been in the papers of late. I recently sold a pearl of great value to the Russian czar.”
“Ah, yes. That was it.”
“As a doctor who spends his days helping his patients retain their health in the face of advancing age, I have been unable to help but notice: I never actually manage to succeed at it. I have long dreaded the decline in my own health. Yet I have heard, sir, that for those with sufficient funds, you might have an alternative. Is that correct?”
“I do,” he said, with a little smile. He reached into his jacket pocket and withdrew a simple glass bottle, its cork sealed with a splash of white wax. “Would you like to see?”
“Very much.”
He glided down the stairs towards me. I took another sip of tea, striving to seem as calm and unconcerned as I could. He cradled the bottle in both hands and presented it gently to me. I took it and turned it appraisingly about. After a few moments I said, “It seems as if the base is made of multiple liquids.”
“Very astute. The primary base is pure rainwater. At the top you must have noticed the thin layer of corn oil we employ. This is used purely for its properties as a sealant. It stops air from touching the surface of the water and mingling with the precious cargo therein.”
“Which seems to include a mint leaf and a twist of lemon?”
“Merely as garnish,” he scoffed. “My companions and I do not partake of such frivolities, but for the distinguished palates of our patrons, we include them.”
“I see. And what is this pulpy red mass, floating in the middle of the jar?”
“The active ingredient,” said the colonel, with ill-concealed glee.
“Which is…?” I prompted.
“A trade secret.”
“Yes, of course,” I demurred. I paused for another sip of tea—so warm and welcome—and then added, “Such a compelling appearance. As a doctor, I cannot help but reflect that it looks almost like pulverized connective tissue, holding an unidentifiable mash of flesh and… unless I miss my guess… half a tooth?”
“Oh, you can spit that out,” he assured me. “The tooth is only a byproduct of our manufacturing process.”
“And what benefish could I expect, from dringong this juice?”
“Ah, but you misunderstand. The juice is not a single treatment; it is a process. Yes. You see, this is hardly a representative sample—too many solids, you know. You begin with fare such as this, and slowly advance to the pure juice.”
“Joooooose…” Magerzart whispered reverently.
“We are what sustains us,” Ferguson added.
“Halbs,” I said, which was not the word I had intended. In fact, it was not a word at all, was it? I blinked, confused by my inability to express the thought I wanted. Or even to remember what that thought was. And why did my limbs feel so buzzy and distant?
Colonel Stark reached over to retrieve his precious bottle before I had the chance to drop it. From the other side, Ferguson leaned in with a horrible, knowing smile to retrieve my tea.
Oh god… my tea…
“I think we are nearly ready to begin,” Stark opined. “Ferguson, why don’t you go see if the press is ready?”
“Jooooooooooooose…” said Magerzart, as darkness claimed my sight.
As if from the depths of a dream, I could hear Ferguson’s excited, “Juice! Juice! Juice!”
“We are what sustains us,” Stark agreed.
* * *
I awoke sometime later with something cold, metallic, and discomfortingly serrated pressed against my cheek. What was it that had wakened me? The closing of a door, wasn’t it? The harsh clicking of a lock. Beneath it all, I could hear the constant hiss of escaping steam. Blinking the sleep from my eyes, I realized I was in a small chamber with featureless white metal walls. Beneath me was a floor of solid steel, corrugated with the familiar pyramids of a meat tenderizer. The ceiling above me was made of the same. From behind one of the walls, I heard Ferguson’s muffled tones.
“He is still sleeping. Please, may we begin?”
“No,” came Stark’s voice. “Fear makes The Juice sweeter. We must wait for him to waken.”
“But I am so thirsty,” Ferguson complained. “It will be a poor batch, anyway. The ingredients have been drugged.”
“Then we will all sleep deeply tonight!” Stark snapped. “Yet this does not change the fact that I intend to enjoy myself. Patience! We will wait for the sweetest juice!”
With that, the full horror of my situation occurred to me and a wave of cold sobriety swept away the
