He Runs (Part One) Read Free Page B

and stained his hands. He shudders, shakes it off and closes the door slowly behind him.
                  He fishes a lighter out of his pocket and in the darkness the flint sparks like Chinese fireworks, the gas igniting in a primordial firestorm. He has always loved fire.
                  The glow from the lighter’s flame is enough to illuminate what he needs to see: a black, paint-peeling girder used to hang number forty three’s butchered remains. It seems that David and Celesye have used everything; the lungs, liver and kidneys hang at the end of the gory clothesline, best to use quickly to preserve the quality. Two rear legs, two front legs, a torso halved. The head is missing, more than likely next on the menu.
                  Man moves forward, weighs up both the rear legs and picks the one he thinks is larger. He releases his grip on the lighter and the world turns ink-black, has Man imagining what existence was before our sensory experience began. He shakes it off, no time to dwell on such things.
                  It takes two attempts for him to successfully remove the preferred leg and he staggers back under its weight. With a brutish heave he throws it over his shoulder and waddles to the outside world. No need to close the door; they’ll know they’ve been robbed. But they have more than enough to share and the leg will last Man as long as he can make it last.
                  Hound will eat. Man will eat.
                  He knows he’ll be back for more.
     
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    A sharpened punji stick pierces cow flesh, the point blackening with heat of fire. Not long, two minutes each side. Hound takes his steak raw, a large cube of marbled meat to keep him busy. Man has fully removed the dog’s muzzle. Hopes to keep it that way.
                  Laphroaig is the accompaniment, along with some water that Man has had tucked away. No need to boil it this far up; no toxicity, and Man’s stomach has adapted appropriately. A swig from the whiskey burns his throat in a good way, a pleasurable pain. He lifts his steak from the fire, bites into it and tears, warm, salty juices splattering his beard. He chews slowly, letting the pink flesh melt with each movement of his jaw, swallows and falls back in child-like jubilation.
                  On his back, eating and drinking, he feels like some sort of Roman nobleman. Hound is grunting quietly, attacking his food with patchy paws, bouncing on the spot like his legs are made of springs.
                  ‘Told you, boy! Didn’t I tell you? A reward for the both of us. There’s enough to last us a while but I think we should go back.’ Man looks up at the tree line, watches as the moon, fuller these days, hides behind two tall trees, its luminous glow creating a white skull-like shape through the protruding branches. ‘They’ll be more careful next time. But I’ll find a way. I always find a way. You’ll find that out about me.’
                  Hound ignores him in the way that dogs do when they are eating. Man laughs under his breath, thinks about how wonderful it would be to have that much focus every time he ate. Of course, he’s had that focus before. That focus that comes when you need it most, that arctic chill that infects the eyes, turns them a bloody shade of black. The time when violence is absolutely necessary. The act that ignited his hunters’ pursuit, day and night. He had to be focused that night. He had to be to get the job done.
                  At least that’s what he tells himself.
     
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    A smouldering grey volcano of ash throws miniature plumes into the sweet morning air. Man sleeps well, deeply, the reward after a