Day Eight: Consumption
Chapter 10
Hitching sobs ebbed into silence, a weak gasp rasping out before she managed to contain it.
So quiet. Emotions at bay, her heart still ached though without the crackling shards of despair piercing throughout. It had taken her the better part of a week to calm down. Much less than average, more common as of late. Much easier without the gunshots and screams, without the shrieks and thumps of the jumpers, without the chaotic crashing of walls and wailing cars hurled through a mob.
Those beings had left the city, left it to the idling crowd and the vomiters, to the coughers on the rooftops, and her kind in the shadows, the criers. It certainly wasn't a quiet scene, but it was tranquil in its way; the softer sounds were more akin to a babbling brook by a chemical plant than the rushed craze of collapsing urban life.
Though tears had long since ceased to flow, she still wiped at her face carefully with the back of her hand, the crusted blood long since stained in as it didn't smudge at contact. Clawed fingers were only twice as long as a normal humans, instead of the over foot long sabers of the others, but they were sharp enough to cut through steel. Sharp enough to render her nearly nude as habit had her pull at her clothes and the infernal heat flashes had her avoid seeking out new cover.
When calm her eyes were dim, their sensitivity manageable as stray sunbeams that reached her haven only made her slightly wince. Large streaked glass windows had miraculously survived so far; the view past them had browned out, dust-filled and sun-bleached, the once scarlet stains now darkly copper. She searched through the grocery store she had settled in, its coffers still plentiful after all this time. Especially considering she never moved far and any normals that approached too near encountered her unforgiving wrath.
With calculated delicacy she raised a tin that had collected rainwater from a hole caused by a frisky jumper that overestimated his landing, and now whose remains still lied gnarled and shredded underneath dilapidated shelves. Though rust flavored, it soothed her raw throat, filling her empty stomach. She thirsted for more yet held it at bay and reached for an indistinguishable tin which she easily sliced apart. Picking out the morsels of food with the tips of her claws, she savored the salty gravy that flooded her mouth with saliva. It didn't matter that it was cat food, her hunger could no longer tell.
It was impossible to eat or drink or sleep when on a crying jag. Each exhausting day aggravating her sorrows, the pain compounding and spreading so deeply that numbness was the only respite. There weren't that many criers left, the ones that had never broken free from the well of sadness had long since starved to death. It had taken a little more than a month, ghoulishly thin waifs with only a few strands of hair left on their skull-like heads, eyes sunken into fiery pits, claws as long as their arms. Those beings had hidden so deep that no normals had ever seen them. Seen them and lived.
She wasn't like them, because she had learned a secret. A secret happiness that kept her from sinking into the turbid waters of despair. That kept her from wandering the streets in plain daylight, hoping for release in any shape or form. She didn't know why it worked (phenethylamine, but that was something she wouldn't have known before infection in any case) but tin-foiled bits of chocolate kept her misery away long enough to take care of herself. To camouflage her den and keep quiet when normals were running around. To remember enough that she was very sick and the people with guns were not. Sane enough to know that there was no coming back from the monstrous mutations that had distorted her frame, starved her into an emaciated size 0 when she used to be a 14.
She didn't eat human flesh. Most of the infected did because it was the most plentiful food to be found, though the odd ones that jumped around seemed more feral about it. Didn't matter anyway, because she didn't. Nonetheless, she had killed because she wouldn't give up her provisions and the big sign of the store led too many normals to her. Apprehension and anxiety always racked her as she heard them approach too closely, their flashlights nothing more than beams of pain that stung more than their bullets. Unable to cope, she would begin to whimper, then choke out a cry, then release a longer sob that dragged her back into a wretched rocking that compulsively left her defenseless.
When she was lucky, they would veer away and leave her be; she would be able to stop within a day, no harm done. When they ignored her warning cry, whether by accident or design, her head would throb as she looked at the surprised faces, death so sudden they blinked astonished as she lingered above their torn bodies. Her wounds healed easily enough from the bullets, but her heart never did. Stupid candy that kept her aware.
Stupid candy that was running out.
Only one more bag. She had to spread it out, make it last. Every time she had one, she wanted to gorge on the whole bag, so she did.
So, so stupid. There's barely any left.
She stroked the bag, its contents crinkling seductively. Might be best to go out with a bang, or save it up for the end. Or…It wasn't fair! She had so little, but she didn't want to die. Life was unbearable, but she didn't want to die. She would go crazy without the chocolate, but she didn't want to die! She. Didn't. Want. To. Die. *sniff*
Oh, no. *long wavering inhalation*
No, calm down. Happy thoughts. *low guttural moan*
Everything will be okay. *drawn out cry*
No, it won't. Everybody's dead. And she killed them because she's a monster, a selfish bitch that doesn't care about the normals. But the normals could just leave her alone, why couldn't everyone just leave her alone? She never sought them out. She never wanted to kill them. *keening wail*.
*clickclickclickclick*
Light flashed on and off, its sudden appearance jolting her still. How long had she'd been tranced in melancholy? She gasped as it flickered again, viewing her shadow wink in and out of existence from the wall. As she turned to look, a few normals giggled.
Giggled.
Thrillseekers.
Dangerous.
Torturers.
Her fear was giving way to wrath. Then the light flicked off and despair settled back in, her compulsion to rock and weep overwhelming her survival instinct. Hovered over protectively, hidden with her arms, laid the bag of sweets. That last one.
"Shh, man. Watch mah back. Imma gonna crown the little princess." Young and brash, trinkets and trophies dangled from a strap around his chest. A collector, a scavenger, opportunistic thief. Most of those she killed had been like that.
"Trying to beat my record? You got the last one, dude. My turn." The companion, just like him, though he carried more bombs and ammo than trinkets. Still, he brandished his weapon at her and flickered the lights tauntingly. Another fool. She growled warningly.
The first pushed the second aside, taking their eyes off her. "I got the shotgun, you got the AK. I win, fuck off." Arguing over her like schoolboys, her agony and death a game to play.
Door slid open with a barely audible creak; background light left only the black silhouette of a larger man. "Can you two stop bickering? Let's kill the witch, grab supplies and get out. Can't handle a tank with these peashooters." Older, wiser, likelier to get her killed.
"What tanks? The big baddies are in the countryside, brah!" Back turned away, careless and unworried. They must have encountered her kind too often. Learned that it took much to provoke into action, to free them from the all-consuming misery. Her snake-rattle of a cry an attraction rather than warding protection.
"Easy kills across the board. Pop some boomers and air out the smokers, we're good." Go away, leave her be. A migraine crept up her spine, all the sounds and lights egging on the pain to bloom inside her head. If they didn't leave soon, her fury would burst out, revenge for the hurt she wallowed in.
A hiss between teeth, the shadow moved forward and she could see his cragged face and cagey eyes. "God, you ever heard of a jinx, asshole? Fuck it. Leave the witch alone, she's in a corner. We can grab enough from the other side of the store."
Weapon pointed her way as he reloaded the shotgun, the sharp clicks as he resecured the barrel prodded her to kneel on one knee, arms spread out in intimidation though she lacked the presence of more gruesome witches. "Nah, man. She got something between those long legs Imma hunkering for."
The companion punched the first on the arm, his gunsight leaving her face momentarily. "Gross, dude. Yuck. You a corpse banger? Get a common one, some of 'em are passable." Closer by, she could see his trinkets in better detail; a leathery whip of tongue, a gargantuan finger bone, locks of white hair.
Sounds of disgust from across the store, out of her line of sight. "That's more than I wanted to know." He was stealing her food, but quietly. Each addition to his bag nothing more than a soft clink. No, NO! She wanted to attack, protect what's hers, but the inner balance of anger and depression hadn't swayed enough.
Frustrated growls made it past her clenched teeth, her insides swelling with pressurized fury. All ignored. "Shut it. I get plenty back at the camp. Ladies want to get in on the good genes. Imma talking about something that can net us a ton of goodies from that rich guy in the bunker, Mr. Sweet tooth." Weapon dipped downward and she knew then what they wanted. Her little miracle joy, her only relief. Not that, not the last one.
She lowered herself as they rounded her, picking up the bag to hold closer. The act of forethought, proof that she understood them, that her human mind wasn't all gone, went unnoticed. "Holy shit, how the fuck did she get that?"
Gruff voice, suddenly more interested than vigilant, rose up from above the shelves. "Might be more around. Put her out." A spectator now, a voyeur to her execution.
Light showered over her again and remained. The first one hovering behind her, his shotgun at the ready. She roared woefully, croaking sobs cracked her already stripped throat. "What's that? Don't like me too close, honey? Get up and dance with me. Show me that pretty face." She knew what he was going to do, had seen other criers die that way, kept quiet to stay alive as the normals cheered.
Might be best to end it like this. Nothing to live for. It was quick enough. Could be painless. She turned to him, teeth bared, mix of rage and agony swirling inside. Eyes fixed on the barrel, white beam piercing her skull as it hid the face of her killer. "Nighty night, princess."
The blast was deafening, each decibel peeling back her sanity. Buckshot slammed against her face, ringing her skull, migraine blossoming in torturous magnitude, her sense of self shrinking into a protective speck as instinct took over.
The shot had been off, it didn't pierce her eyes and scrambled her brain; her skin, muscles and bones toughened to kevlar quality. A curse that kept her alive, a curse that made her deadly. A curse the man swore at her as he twisted to run away, his shots ineffectual as it ricocheted off her body.
The others now on alert shot at her as well, but she knew who hurt her first, knew who deserved to share in her suffering. Bastard rounded the shelves, knocking over what he could, pushing the older man into her path. "Whatareyoudoin'whatAREYOUDOIN'?"
She pushed at him with the back of her hand, but he didn't budge out of the way, feet tangled amongst strewn merchandise, gun held midair as he tried to squeeze to a side, to let her pass. Not enough space, bastard was getting away. She sunk her clawed hand into the obstacle's throat for leverage as she then dug her sharpened toes into his belly, climbing over his body as blood showered over her, bowels dragged by her feet.
Bullets strafed her side, the impact colliding her momentarily to the floor. "Get out of the store, get out, get out, get OUT!"
A shotgun blast ripped at the top of her skull, bloody hair falling to the ground as she stood up again. "Shoot the bitch dead, shoot her!" Her eyes glowed fiery red, the quickness of her movement trailing the light in the darkened room.
The companion, the collector of hair, laughed as he shot her. Uncaring, he stood aside as she ran past into the midday sunlight. "Keep running. We got this."
Whooping laughter filled the empty streets as her knee was shot out, damaged enough to leave her limping. Another blast hit her shoulder, her stomach, her foot. No longer aiming to kill her, aggression no longer fearsome, a slow death all that awaited her. Her screeches at the injustice of it all mocked by the normals.
Then her fellow infected appeared, the gunshots attractive enough for the specials.
A wet slap smacked against the bastard's face, the rest coiled around his chest, one arm raised between tongue and throat to keep from chocking. She staggered towards him as he struggled, unhindered from weapon's fire, her wounds already sealing up though her ravaged kneecap did not recover. "Motherfu…fuckin' smoker. Knock me loose!"
The friend chuckled, then crowed as the other was pulled up a wall, the cougher nowhere in sight, tongue scrapping away flesh at the building's edge. "Worse fucking luck, dude, don't squirm." He steadied his weapon and sighted the shot, shaking his head at their troubles.
As the first rose up, his arm dislocating at the increasing pressure, he could see behind the stalled trucks, could see the boomer toddling up. "Shit, behind you!" Too late. Putrid bile rained over the would-be savior, blinding him, forcing him to puke as the vomit had made it into his mouth.
A faraway group howl signaled the encroaching mob. "Fucknoshitdamnit!" No longer enjoying the scavenger hunt, he screamed and shot all around, hitting none of the infected that had yet to arrive. Bullets ricocheting against walls and glass, into alarmed cars that wailed in mock distress.
Another inhuman howl resounded, louder and closer than the last. The ensuing freak out sealed the normals' fates as the AK was reloaded reflexively and aimed higher. "Arrrrghhhh! Fuckin' asshole, you gut shot me."
Finally able to wipe the scum from his eyes, he could see the rip of bullet holes that opened the dangling survivor like a zipper, intestines slowly coiling out as blood-saturated feces spilled out from the wounds. As he hyperventilated, realization that he was now alone sunken in, the unwounded boomer let out another stagnant shower.
He wailed in denial as he ran off, blinded and on the verge of blacking out.
"Where are you going? Don't leave me! Come back!" Fat tears fell as the bastard bled much too slowly, pain skimming the border of his mind as the adrenaline wore off. He never expected to live long, but he never wanted to die slow. If his arms hadn't been tangled by the tongue, he'd had blasted his head away the second his stomach had been ventilated.
The witch couldn't care less; though heavily injured she tried to scale the wall, to slice away his face in order to forget what he's done to her. "Oh, shitshit. You wanna a piece of me, honey? Come on, baby. Come and get it, you ugly bitch." His skeleton grin, face tight against the pain, beckoned her to end it. Smokers beat up their victims; hella slow, hella messy.
She grabbed at his ankle, her sharp fingers digging past his jeans, past his tendons, till they reached bone. She pulled, gristle and fabric fell into her face as the normal screamed, cursing her to hurry up, to do the job right, even as the smoker reached out to hook hands underneath arm pits and haul him up.
In the distance, gunshots and a single person's screams chorused his demise, the hollering of the diseased drowning out his calls for help. As she reached up his thighs, each inch arduous agony for the immune, he rained obscenities down, the cloud of spores from the smoker already choking his words.
Then the world was nothing but sound, a wave of force that hurtled a 'no smoking' sign that slammed mid-chest and knocked the witch off down two floors and toppled the smoker that had overbalanced himself. In quick succession heat bellowed out and warmed the cool February day.
The scavenger had survived the fall as well. A broken spine his reward for living, pain a low echo at the back of his mind. A ball of flame and smoke rose nearby, its heat crinkling paper and the flesh of the now dead that peppered the ground. Acrid smell of burning gasoline smoldered away the last sense of smell, ringing ears disguising the surroundings; yet his eyes could see the witch crawling over his mangled body. Her own had been badly twisted, jutting bones of broken ribs poured out her lifeblood, covering his open wounds. Her eyes and ears bled as well, their sensitivity leaving her senseless after the blast, but she could feel.
She leaned close to his face, felt his laborious breathing across her skin, each breath a losing struggle to support the dying man. She keened then, sobbed and rocked as she straddled him, the pain of her existence overwhelming the hatred. He couldn't take it, watching her move like a cheap whore, the kind that would do anything for a tin of food. "…bitch…kill me. Come on'…slut. Slice…me up."
Her cries stopped and she stroked the sides of his scrapped face, claws tingling against his raw skin. He knew then that she understood him. Had always understood the survivors. He had killed enough zombies to not be surprised by this. "Please…it hurts. You…know 'bout that, don't you? …Kill me." Her head tilted skyward and she screamed, the orange flame highlighting her wounds. Fingers splayed over his face, she leaned down, feeling as the bridge of the nose gave way, the slickness of blood that warmed her hands. With a quivering sob she clutched, resistance hard then soft as her fingers racked all the way through.
As she looked back down, eyes recovered enough to tell apart shadows and outlines, all she saw was a mass of mush in her grasp. Clarity of sound was returning to her as well, the cougher's shuffling steps alerting her of his presence. She watched as he kneeled by her side, the outline of his tumorous head recognizable in her dimmed sight. He coughed, wheezed, then screeched questioningly in that high-pitched way coughers did.
She had just killed by choice. Her first time. It struck her at how at peace she felt when compared to killing during a rampage. She didn't feel like running away to hide, to repent her shame of being a monster, to grieve the dead and her situation. Instead she was numb. Numb and lonely and aware. Utter desolation. She shook her hands free from the slimy mess she had created, left the dead for the sick man to eat as she slid off the ruined one, lying in the street like a corpse herself. Unable to chew due to the tubular tongue, the cougher picked out the softer organs to swallow whole.
She pushed at her ribs, to get them back inside before they healed out of place. The blasted knee had already sealed off, the bones set in a jumble of fragments. She'd never be able to run again. Her vision returned, adapted to the bright since she didn't run into shadows. From her side, she watched the morbid feast, first the pink brains, then the torn flaps of skin, skipping past ribs to reach into the gory hole and pull out the liver, each piece swallowed quickly as he moved to other parts. Though tall, the cougher was skinnier than usual, his clothes loose and baggy, still distinguishably military with pixilated browns and beige. Unlike her, he couldn't rely on the preserved goods as nourishment.
Squelching belches approached from down the street, the scent of burning sewage tagging along. Upside down, she saw the vomiter totter to a side before exploding, the heated gasses in his belly had reached critical mass. Behind him, the crowd was running, heads held, lighting others in flame.
The fire. The gas station had exploded and a fire was spreading. Her shelter. Her food.
The bag of chocolates.
No, no. She pushed herself off the ground, limping heavily as she rushed into the store. Windows now shattered, littered the floor harmlessly. Safety glass, she thought. Cans rolled and expired bags of chips popped as she stepped over them. Where did she drop it? Where was she shot first? The air was heating up, orange embers falling from the front, wood crackling.
She didn't want to risk a flash fire. Didn't want to go up in flames. It took so long for criers to die, everything took too long to kill them. But fire was the worst. And sometimes criers would survive it. But no longer cried. Just screamed and screamed for days and days till they succumbed to their injuries.
The thought of it made her inhale worryingly, exhale with a quaver, moan in distress. She had to stop. Had to resist it. Not here. Not now. Please. To anyone or god or spirit or mom, please, keep her from crying. Please, please. Not like this.
The crinkle of plastic brought her back, she had shuffled into the bag. Now focused, she grabbed it; claws nearly ripped through. Luckily it had enough give to not tear. She ran out into a different street from the one she had been in minutes ago. Though it was day, the dark smoke clouds had hidden the sun and raging flames painted the surroundings in flickering oranges. A heavy heat shortened her breaths, body recoiling away. She didn't sweat. Too dehydrated for too long for that.
The cougher had made quick work of the dead man, the pockets of his jacket bulging with fleshy remains for later. Still he tried to rip an arm loose. Had he not eaten for that long? One of the crowd ran up and started to gnaw at a leg, then another and another, pushing the cougher away. That was very unusual, she had gotten out of touch with the rest of the sick. The crowd had shied away from the specials before. Then again, coughers didn't kneel close to criers and this one had.
Coughers were more cautious than that, used to be anyway. They died easy, were slow. Still, they managed to hide well, to get away from danger. Like now, a raging inferno should have had this one running.
A manhole cover shot up into the air, burning crowd pushing out, a river of fire beneath them.
The gasoline had gotten into the sewer, such a big explosion and still so much fuel. Every apocalypse movie and book had her assume it would be empty, the rush to escape a cause to hoard and drive away. But that isn't how it happened. There wasn't any real warning.
Like now, her normal escape route underground was a deathtrap and she didn't know where to go.
Another explosion from farther away, she couldn't tell where. All of the smoke hid the danger. Where to go? No time.
She eyed the cougher, still struggling with the crowd for a leg. Hunger more of a motivation than preservation. He would know a way to safety. Coughers always knew that better than any of the sick. She hobbled her way and shouldered him away from the corpse, screaming at him, words long since lost to her. He flinched, arms held up, yet she pushed him again. Arm held up and circled around, showing him what he was ignoring.
The tall man wheezed, glanced at the mangled corpse, then at her. He screamed then, voice gravelly yet glass filled. Through the crackling and snapping timbers, the holler of the burning crowd, another cougher's yell pierced through. She didn't understand it, it all sounded like gibberish, but he listened and reacted by heading in that direction.
Stunned, she realized the coughers communicate, warned each other of incoming danger, of a safe route. It was so hard for her to keep her mind cohesive; she thought none of the sick could do it. As she followed behind, her wounded leg kept her slower than the other special, she saw him reach into a pocket and remove a bloody heart. No, the others still weren't like her. No stage of starvation would enable her to swallow a heart while running from a fire.
Such a depressing thought. She tore a small hole into her bag of goodies and took out a single chocolate to suck on, tin foil still on. Clear headed, she hurried her pace, intent on surviving long enough to eat them all.
//////////
"Hallo, hallo. This is Lani for the Communication Nation with news from the West Coast. Hate to say, but healthy living has taken its toll in California and other quasi hippie states. Since the infection hit at the end of the year, we didn't have that many crops up and running, so hobby gardeners be glad that spring is on its way because we are out of food. You know all those preservatives that cause cancer and obesity and yucky-yuck-don't-wanna-eat it? Well, they preserve food. I know, right?
So when it's taken out of food, even in canned goods, it's not gonna last that long.
Yay, moldy prunes.
I mean, even most of the pet food didn't have preservatives. What the hell is up with that? I could do with a can of friskies about now.
Of course, there is old-school food to be found… in the cities…full of hungry infected….surrounded by starving hunters.
Good luck, scavengers. Much love and muchos besitos.
By the way, we have reports that San Francisco is burning, so scratch that off your list of places to visit before you die. Oakland though is still holding strong as a base camp. Thank you, lack of gun control.
Anyway, safety tip numero uno for our corner of apocalypse, DO. NOT. EAT. FROM. BLOATED CANS.
Let me repeat that, a bloated can is not filled with more yummy food. It's filled with botulism and death, okies? A germ gets in the food, grows in it, releases a heat-resistant-toxin that stays in the food. No amount of boiling, barbecuing, baking, searing, cooking…broiling…sunbathing…blah blah blah… is going to make it safe to eat. Use it as fertilizer or to kill some rats. But you can't eat the rats afterwards, so nix that idea too.
Anyway, that's it from me, Lani. And to all you eastcoasters, don't send love. Send food.
Stay tuned for the comedic stylings of Arnolfo. It's in tagalog though. So you'll probably understand one out of every five words no matter what language you know.
Byes!
/////////
Parker switched off the radio and leaned back, the crick in his neck kept his head crooked towards his chest. He had been eavesdropping, more like a peeping tom since he couldn't hear anything on most of the feeds. But there was still something to be said for body language and all it communicates.
Like Dr. May plotting something and being very obvious about it.
Or Jameson wanting to get into the cell with two hunters by the way, to videotape another class when what he wants is to beat the shit out of something.
Or the doctor and the dogcatcher sneaking around and trading secrets.
Even the hunters had a story to tell. Peter had fallen asleep after screaming himself hoarse and Jack watched him. Just prowled around for hours and waited till Peter woke up.
Not in a caring way. In a hungry way. In a 'Jack licked at the blood and growled, then padded off to the plate of still edible meat and ate it'.
Which disproves May's conclusion that hunters only eat what they kill.
That's just Peter being picky.
///////
The itch was gone. Miraculously, thankfully gone.
Now there was only the burning left. A deep rooted ache that pulsed with his heartbeat.
And his heart beated very fast.
The cylindrical cell was still dimly lit, but Peter could see the other hunter. The leader. The weakling that was going to get its throat ripped out, bloodgush and deathbit, no mercy, because Peter did not like it when leaders imposed dominance and made him hurtbleed for no reason. And this one ripped small cover for no reason, because it was intimidated by the strong hunter that Peter was, is and will forever be!
Peter hated Jack. And it was damn personal.
Killyoukillyoukillyou. Runjumppounce. Scratchbiterip. Shredpulltear. Killyoukillyoukillyou.
From across the cell, Jack smirked as he adjusted his hoodie, flakes of dried blood falling off in layers. Some of it was Peter's blood.
Stupid cover. Kill you, take it. Mineminemine.
As a slim rectangle of light shone into the cell, Jack startled up a wall. Peter chortled at that. His reaction had been more extreme, but Leader hadn't witnessed that. He now knew that it was just the prey leaving behind no-good-food and water. Nothing else. He struggled to the water basin and drank two gulps before he felt a weighty impact at his back, joints cracking.
Jack breathed against his ear, hot and meaty, the proof of his redteeth on every exhalation, then bit him. Not a light bite; a bite that pierced the tip of his ear, snipped it off and was swallowed. As blood flowed, it was lapped. Then claws sank in, warning growls to move away. GetoffmeGETOFFME! Peter struggled with the heavier hunter, squirming as he tried to buck Jack off. More dominant growls, the kind that claimed ownership of a meal. Peter didn't understand. If Leader wanted the water, Leader could have just pushed Peter away.
For several minutes, Peter attempted to escape as teeth carved out shallow wounds and a tongue followed after. It wasn't life-threatening as Peter would heal. But it was demeaning and like losing his cover, Peter had no idea why any leader would be this cruel.
Hyperventilation shook Peter's frame. It was an anxiety attack, the latest in several he's had since being captured. The pain from his wounds, the burning, filled him with so much fury, but he had no strength for it, no outlet. Just like escaping, just like killing Jay-meh-son, he wanted to kill Leader so badly. But he had no idea how or when. Just that every second he spent being subjugated was an eternity in hell.
Jack dismounted, pleased with the wash of endorphins that mimicked a human kill to a lesser degree. It would do for now, but he had other hungers to feed. He drank the rest of the water the prey had left. Why? The hunter had no idea. But the weak one drank freely so Jack didn't worry about it. He then ate all of the food. Bits of meat, and a small portion of cream of corn. He was still an omnivore after all, just with a heavy lean towards cannibalism.
The screech of disgust jolted Jack as Peter swiped at the grime covered face.
Peter was appalled, because Peter never had to adapt to it like many other hunters were forced to do.
Scavenger! Weakpathethicscavenger!
Jack understood though. Understood that not only was the other hunter weak, he was inexperienced and ignorant.
That wasn't an excuse for challenging Jack's authority, of course.
No more waiting; Jack would eat fresh meat, strengthen his would-be ally and reassert his supremacy in one move.
A/N:
Sorry for the long wait. Yes, on the east coast we have a project to find a vaccine. On the west coast, there's a witch with partial immunity with help from the happy chemical. Things are brewing. Let's see if any of our protagonists live long enough to do anything about it.