Hunger
Page 121
Then Astrid saw the little zipper bag, a little Clinique cosmetics bag lying with its contents half spilled onto the bathroom tile.
She picked it up. She dumped the contents out on the floor. A mostly empty bottle of ipecac. And several different types of laxatives.
“John, close your eyes for a minute.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m going to open Mary’s robe.” She pulled the knot on the robe’s tie and, feeling vaguely squeamish, opened the robe.
Mary was wearing only panties. Pink. Strange, Astrid thought, that she even noticed. Because the thing most noticeable about Mary was her ribs. They could be easily counted. Her stomach was hollow.
“Oh, poor Mary.” Astrid breathed, and closed the robe again.
John opened his eyes. They were wet with tears. “What’s wrong with her?”
Astrid leaned over to reach Mary’s face. She gently pushed her lips back to see her teeth. She tugged at a lock of Mary’s hair. Strands came loose.
“She’s starving,” Astrid said.
“She’s getting as much food as the rest of us,” John protested.
“She’s not eating. Or when she does eat, she vomits it back up. That’s what the ipecac is for.”
“Why would she do that?” John wailed.
“It’s a sickness, John. Anorexia. Bulimia. Both, I guess.”
“We have to get her some food.”
“Yes.” Astrid didn’t explain that just getting Mary food might not be enough. She’d read about eating disorders. Sometimes, if kids didn’t get treatment, they died.
“Nestor, Nestor, Nestor, Nestor.” It was Little Pete, chanting at the top of his lungs. “Nestor, Nestor, Nestor, Nestor.”
A wave of hopelessness swept through her. Astrid closed her eyes, not wanting to let it get the better of her. She did not need this. Did not need Mary passed out, maybe near death. She already had the autistic brother, and the depressed boyfriend in the middle of some battle. “God forgive me for that,” she chastised herself. “Come on, John, we have to get Mary to Dahra.”
“Dahra just has a medical book. She’s not an expert.”
“I know. Look, I don’t know how to take care of someone with anorexia. At least Dahra’s been reading about medicine.”
“We have to get her some of that deer meat,” John said. “We have to feed her.”
“What deer meat?”
“Zil has a deer,” John said. “He’s going to share it this evening. At dinnertime.”
Despite everything, Astrid’s stomach rumbled. The idea of meat was more compelling than anything else. But even hunger couldn’t quiet the warning bells in her head. “Zil? Zil’s got a deer?”
“Everyone is talking about it,” John said. “Turk is telling everyone that Zil caught Hunter. Hunter had this deer and was keeping it all for himself. Anyone who wants some meat just has to come and help them punish Hunter.”
“At least,” he added, “any normal. No freaks allowed.”
Astrid stared at him. John showed no sign of really understanding what he had just said.
“Is Mary going to be okay?” John asked. “I mean, if we get her to eat some deer meat? Will she be okay?”
“Ahhhhh!” Sam yelled as Drake struck again.
Again and again.
Sam on his knees now. Crying.
Crying like a baby. His shrieks of pain melding with the harsh lunatic blare of the siren.
If only there was some way to record this, Drake thought. If only he could tape this moment so he could watch it again and again.
The great Sam Temple, bleeding and cringing and screaming out in pain as Drake brought his whip hand down again and again.
“Does it hurt, Sam?” Drake gloated. “It kind of hurt when you burned my arm off. Do you think it hurts like that?”
Again. Slash!
And the reward of a terrible groan.
“They said I wet myself while they were cutting off the stump,” Drake said. “Have you done that, yet, Sam? Have you peed yourself, Sam?”
Sam was on his side now, arms over his face, covering himself. The last blow hadn’t even brought a scream. Just a shudder. Just a spasm.
“Time to mess up that face of yours,” Drake snarled, and drew back to bring all his force to bear.
Down came the whip hand.
There was a blur. Drake wasn’t even sure he had seen anything.
And then it was his own voice crying out in shock and horror. It didn’t even hurt at first, didn’t hurt, just . . .
Eighteen inches of his tentacle arm lay quivering, jerking spasmodically on the floor like a dying snake.
Blood sprayed from the severed end. He drew it back to stare at the stump.
The wire had appeared from nowhere. Wrapped around one of the catwalk ladders at one end. And at the other end, Brianna, holding the wire tight.
“Hey, Drake,” Brianna said. “I heard about your idea for cutting me up with wire. Clever.”
Drake’s mouth gaped open, but no sound came.
The suddenness of it left him dazed, unable to respond. Frozen.
The severed end still jerked and writhed. Like it had a life of its own.
“The remote!” Sam cried out.
Drake spread his fingers.
The remote fell.
“Breeze!” Sam shouted.
Drake spun away and ran.
Brianna’s body moved faster than humanly possible.
Her brain moved at normal speed. So it took her several split seconds to see the remote falling, to realize that if Sam was yelling about it in his condition, it was very, very important.
She picked it up. She dumped the contents out on the floor. A mostly empty bottle of ipecac. And several different types of laxatives.
“John, close your eyes for a minute.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m going to open Mary’s robe.” She pulled the knot on the robe’s tie and, feeling vaguely squeamish, opened the robe.
Mary was wearing only panties. Pink. Strange, Astrid thought, that she even noticed. Because the thing most noticeable about Mary was her ribs. They could be easily counted. Her stomach was hollow.
“Oh, poor Mary.” Astrid breathed, and closed the robe again.
John opened his eyes. They were wet with tears. “What’s wrong with her?”
Astrid leaned over to reach Mary’s face. She gently pushed her lips back to see her teeth. She tugged at a lock of Mary’s hair. Strands came loose.
“She’s starving,” Astrid said.
“She’s getting as much food as the rest of us,” John protested.
“She’s not eating. Or when she does eat, she vomits it back up. That’s what the ipecac is for.”
“Why would she do that?” John wailed.
“It’s a sickness, John. Anorexia. Bulimia. Both, I guess.”
“We have to get her some food.”
“Yes.” Astrid didn’t explain that just getting Mary food might not be enough. She’d read about eating disorders. Sometimes, if kids didn’t get treatment, they died.
“Nestor, Nestor, Nestor, Nestor.” It was Little Pete, chanting at the top of his lungs. “Nestor, Nestor, Nestor, Nestor.”
A wave of hopelessness swept through her. Astrid closed her eyes, not wanting to let it get the better of her. She did not need this. Did not need Mary passed out, maybe near death. She already had the autistic brother, and the depressed boyfriend in the middle of some battle. “God forgive me for that,” she chastised herself. “Come on, John, we have to get Mary to Dahra.”
“Dahra just has a medical book. She’s not an expert.”
“I know. Look, I don’t know how to take care of someone with anorexia. At least Dahra’s been reading about medicine.”
“We have to get her some of that deer meat,” John said. “We have to feed her.”
“What deer meat?”
“Zil has a deer,” John said. “He’s going to share it this evening. At dinnertime.”
Despite everything, Astrid’s stomach rumbled. The idea of meat was more compelling than anything else. But even hunger couldn’t quiet the warning bells in her head. “Zil? Zil’s got a deer?”
“Everyone is talking about it,” John said. “Turk is telling everyone that Zil caught Hunter. Hunter had this deer and was keeping it all for himself. Anyone who wants some meat just has to come and help them punish Hunter.”
“At least,” he added, “any normal. No freaks allowed.”
Astrid stared at him. John showed no sign of really understanding what he had just said.
“Is Mary going to be okay?” John asked. “I mean, if we get her to eat some deer meat? Will she be okay?”
“Ahhhhh!” Sam yelled as Drake struck again.
Again and again.
Sam on his knees now. Crying.
Crying like a baby. His shrieks of pain melding with the harsh lunatic blare of the siren.
If only there was some way to record this, Drake thought. If only he could tape this moment so he could watch it again and again.
The great Sam Temple, bleeding and cringing and screaming out in pain as Drake brought his whip hand down again and again.
“Does it hurt, Sam?” Drake gloated. “It kind of hurt when you burned my arm off. Do you think it hurts like that?”
Again. Slash!
And the reward of a terrible groan.
“They said I wet myself while they were cutting off the stump,” Drake said. “Have you done that, yet, Sam? Have you peed yourself, Sam?”
Sam was on his side now, arms over his face, covering himself. The last blow hadn’t even brought a scream. Just a shudder. Just a spasm.
“Time to mess up that face of yours,” Drake snarled, and drew back to bring all his force to bear.
Down came the whip hand.
There was a blur. Drake wasn’t even sure he had seen anything.
And then it was his own voice crying out in shock and horror. It didn’t even hurt at first, didn’t hurt, just . . .
Eighteen inches of his tentacle arm lay quivering, jerking spasmodically on the floor like a dying snake.
Blood sprayed from the severed end. He drew it back to stare at the stump.
The wire had appeared from nowhere. Wrapped around one of the catwalk ladders at one end. And at the other end, Brianna, holding the wire tight.
“Hey, Drake,” Brianna said. “I heard about your idea for cutting me up with wire. Clever.”
Drake’s mouth gaped open, but no sound came.
The suddenness of it left him dazed, unable to respond. Frozen.
The severed end still jerked and writhed. Like it had a life of its own.
“The remote!” Sam cried out.
Drake spread his fingers.
The remote fell.
“Breeze!” Sam shouted.
Drake spun away and ran.
Brianna’s body moved faster than humanly possible.
Her brain moved at normal speed. So it took her several split seconds to see the remote falling, to realize that if Sam was yelling about it in his condition, it was very, very important.
