Whitewashed shelves rimmed the pantry like a rib cage picked clean by carrion. Along the floor, drawers gaped wide, lolling tongues holding nothing but mockery. More than one were crooked, off the rails. Their old tenants, saucers and teacups and fine sets of china, littered the floor in shards. Beneath a single, naked bulb, glass dust sparkled on the dirt-caked floor.
It was here that she sat. Here that humanity made its final stand. For there was no one left in this world, she was certain, except for her, her baby, and the beast.
Her voice was soft and cooing as she cradled the child close, trying to make him suckle. Her gaze, though, were focused on the door, as much as their heavy lids would allow. Plain, pale wood swam woozily before her; she shook her head, narrowed her eyes, tried to zero in on the knob. Waiting for it to rattle. For the panels to crack. For the beast to force its way through.
"Shh," she told the child, though he made not a sound. "Shh."
This creature, it was a tricky thing. Slippery. Invisible, spotted only in the shadows at the edges of her vision. It made no sound but quiet growls, yet she felt them in her bones. She'd never seen him flex his claws, but by god she'd felt their bite. Tearing through her gut, bending her double, teeth grit, back arced, hands reaching weakly for relief where there was none. The pain became a constant wave of dull and sharp, bearable in the ebbing moments so long as she didn't move much. A trap, she knew; the beast wished only to weaken her before its final strike.
To think she'd once thought the pantry a haven. Well-stocked, underground, away from bombs and tanks, because hadn't it been simple men that were the enemy? She'd seen their faces on the television, dirty, ugly humans who were no threat, no threat at all, don't worry about the railways, they can't cut us off completely, but stay inside just in case they get any ideas, just in case they try to invade.
They never would have made it, of course. Not them. But her husband had left to fend them off anyways, the draft practically a vacation, it'll be a week tops. He'd laughed, and she'd laughed, and the TV reporter had laughed, the day before the screen had cut to static.
No reports now. No way to tell the time. Perhaps it had only been a week. Perhaps her husband would return victorious.
It no longer mattered if they had made it to the city. The beast had. And it remained.
The light flickered. A low snarl rose from the quavering shadows. She clutched her child so tight, she felt the outline of his jaw against her breastbone.
Pregnancy was a passing memory, a dream in which she'd once been plump and joyful and full in the belly. Husband at her side, kissing her bare shoulders, the bathroom mirror before them ripe with the promise of family. She'd take it back in an instant, even the mood swings, the sore backs, the cravings. Oh god, how she'd yearned for butterscotch ice cream. Soft pretzels dipped in honey. Tuna salad and pickles, spoonfuls of peanut butter, anchovies, feta cheese, onion rings—
She tasted blood. On her teeth, drooling down her chin. She'd bit her lip. And chewed. She was still chewing.
She fought to stop, more of a struggle than she'd hoped. For good measure, she turned and spat, despite the protests from her desiccated lips. A fleck of red went wide, landed on her baby's waxen forehead. "Shh," she said, wiping it off with her thumb, even though he didn't cry.
Which she suddenly realised was odd, because she couldn't remember a time he had ever not been crying. When they ran out of food, when they ran out of diapers. All day, all night, shrill wails bouncing off the walls. She'd tried to quiet him, to make him see he was only feeding the beast, but he was a baby. What could he do but eat, and cry, and eat, even as her flesh withered and her milk curdled and she had no more to give.
She looked down at her chest. Her shirt, gossamer thread as had been the style, had long since worn to nothing. She could see every inch of her hideous body, bright red sores, bones straining against grey skin, a shallow cavity running from her collarbone to belly button. The breasts from which she'd been trying to feed her child were wrinkled, sagging, barely present. She tried to remember her beautiful, glowing pregnancy, but the only memory playing was that of her son sucking her dry. And the moment when, realising there was no more, the ungrateful brat had bit her.
"He got to you." She frowned down at her son, eyebrows raised, the sickly sweet scold of a disappointed parent. "You let him get to you." Yes, she'd felt the beast in his bite, heard its bellow amidst his shrieks. It would have consume both of them if she hadn't stopped it. She'd had to stop it.
"I had to." Her eyes fell on the nearest drawer. She'd been using it as a crib; it still had a blanket inside. The one she'd used to muffle the beast. Except its roars still tore through her skull, so she'd slammed the drawer closed and sat against it, holding the foul creature back until she could hear it no longer.
Only then had she pulled the baby out. He'd been quiet too, and she'd smiled, because she had finally freed him.
She didn't smile now. Lucidity struck like lightning through the clouds. Her eyes, newly wide, roamed the thing in her arms. Not a "he" no longer, for this was not her son. It was a carcass.
She shuddered. Choked. Threw back her head, banging it against the empty pantry shelf, and howled.
Her throat tore from the strain of two voices, for in each sob echoed gravelly laughter. It was inside her; it was her. The beast had swallowed her whole, had consumed everything. Her home, her husband, her... oh god, oh god, it had taken her child.
There had been no need for an invasion. The world had been reduced to a five-foot by five-foot pantry, and she was its sole survivor. But she could not fight; she could not stand. All that life promised was a few last, crawling hours as her mind became an animal and her body shriveled into nothing. Completely and utterly alone.
. . . No, she thought.
No, she thought again. Same word, different tone—horror-struck, a response to the first.
But already her eyes were moving back to the fresh corpse in her arms. More crimson drool dripped across its face.
Then she saw no more, for her last light shivered, popped, and finally went out.
In the dark, the beast released a gentle purr.
No, I'm not alone.
Hello to everyone! Or at least the people who managed to stick around after that super dark prologue. Welcome to a SYOT of the 1st Hunger Games - because I'm sure that hasn't bee done before.
Regardless, I am stoked to write this. This is kind of a training exercise for me to improve my skills as far as writing goes, particularly with creating mood and atmosphere and those gosh-darn descriptions. So any feedback is very much appreciated!
And of course, tributes are too! Form's on my profile, you know the drill. If it looks a little different, it's 'cause this is a little different, and also I just like to shake things up. Any questions, shoot me a PM!
And, uh, that's all! Thanks for reading, hope I didn't scare too many of you off with this chapter!
