"Not even gonna try it, Papa? It's a new recipe. Never made it before."
Emmit's stomach was growling, purring up at him as if a cat had appeared to eat the gnawing anxiety rat that lived in there. He was very disturbed by the conflict he felt. He didn't want to eat this person; he didn't even want to hold the flesh now that he knew what it was. And yet he was salivating, and it smelled like good old fashioned beef jerky. Part of him did want to eat it.
Then there was the fact that if he didn't eat it, Roy might get suspicious. Roy might wonder why a starving man would refuse to eat the food he's been given. Roy would lash out at Tim, because he knew the two men were growing closer than he usually allowed, and then come after him.
Closing his eyes, he shoved it between his lips.
He thought he might gag, or god forbid puke, all over his bedding. He began to chew the tough piece of meat, hearing his jawbone pop each time he brought his teeth together. It tasted like a porkchop that had been left on the stovetop overnight, cold and greasy with the slightest hint of salt and smoky char. He tried to swallow the mush he had been gnawing and only managed to get down half. It was connected to the rest of the meat he was still pulverizing by a tiny tendon, and when Emmit flicked it with the tip of his tongue to try to snap it, he only plucked it like a guitar string. Then, it seemed to strike home again exactly what was in his mouth. He began to feel the need to cough and gag, to spit the meat out onto the floor. His eyes were watering again, making Roy appear blurry as he stood there with his bag of people meat, watching Emmit devour one of his victims. Finally, after what felt like an eternity of swallowing and chewing, grinding his teeth and sucking small pieces from between them, the mass of chewed cadaver slid into his stomach. He could almost hear the hollow sound it made as it landed, like a pebble thrown down into an empty well.
Roy was smiling as he popped another nugget of dried meat into his own mouth.
"Pretty good right? Sometimes you have to get creative with the scraps, so nothing gets wasted."
Emmit's stomach heaved and rolled again, turning his guts into a stormy seascape. He burped up the flavor of pork and stomach acid.
Around him, the quiet room was filled with the crunching and tearing of animals eating, tearing their food apart with their teeth and glancing nervously at each other, like they didn't trust the man next to them not to pounce and steal their share. The Reverend, a pleasant African American man of God named Tim, didn't seem to be put off by what he was eating at all. His eyes were closed as he savored the food, his scarred cheek bulging and flexing. Pup was sucking his fingers, and Emmit decided then that he had watched enough—he focused on the fireplace where the flames were eating as well, reducing the wood he had chopped to silvery ash and soot.
Roy stood at the fireplace and knocked against the wooden shelf three times, making the little wooden bowl of toothpicks jump. All the men snapped to attention like the perfectly trained soldiers they were.
"Men, I know you've all probably been wondering what Poke and I have been doing while you're all here busting ass," he said, pulling his long hair back out of his face and wrapping it around his fist, tying it into a loose knot behind his head. It made him look like a grizzled Viking. Emmit caught himself agreeing, nodding nonchalantly, then promptly made himself stop before Roy noticed.
"We've been huntin’," Poke chimed in, smacking his lips as he chewed.
"We have been hunting," Roy continued. "I have good news, bad news, and really bad news. Which one do you want first?"
Pup surprised them all by speaking up, raising his hand like a kid in a classroom, eager to answer the teacher's question.
It probably wasn't so long ago that he was that very thing, Emmit thought, frowning at how depressing it really was. It's easy to forget how young he is.
"Good news, please," he said meekly.
Roy and Poke's eyes both shifted to lock onto Emmit, like two anti-aircraft guns dialing in on an enemy fighter. He curled his fingers around the spear head, which he had shifted into his sleeve, and rubbed the smooth stone surface reflexively. It was quickly becoming his talisman.
"The good news is, we found Muddy," Roy said, speaking to everyone but more so to Emmit. Emmit swallowed hard and refused to lose the staring contest. God damn it, he was innocent. He would not be gaslighted into feeling like he was a murderer when the real murderer was standing beside Roy, smacking his lips as he ate human flesh like an idiot dog with flopping jowls.
Bastards. Both of you.
"He made it quite a ways, even with a busted leg," Poke sneered, and then actually mimed the way Muddy's murdered corpse had been walking when they found it. Mocking him. Poke put weight on the leg he knew he had stabbed Muddy in and feigned it giving out beneath him, rushing to catch himself on the other leg. He shuffled that way, slowly and meticulously, over to stand beside his commander. He even imitated the sleepy grin that all the dead things wore. Roy, to Emmit's relief, didn't seem to be enjoying the charade.
"He did, but we were able to spot him from far out by his armor. We dispatched him with dignity, I want you all to know that. Not like we do the
