Meat
Gray skies. Rain most of the day.
On our scavenge, we come across a Meat. Lucky for him. Lucky for us. He’s sitting in the mud, crying. The others of his small group, what’s left of them, are all dead. Surprise attack with guns and clubs, the best pieces hacked off and taken in a hurry. A small band of marauders, Brady guesses. We collect what we can ourselves, but there isn’t much left.
The Meat is in shock. He keeps muttering, “They hid me. They died for me.” He’s grateful. He’s amazed.
Brady squints at him, sizing him up. “What are you, two-twenty? Two-thirty?”
The Meat says he thinks so, last time he weighed himself. He starts to say, “My name is—” but Brady cuts him off.
“We’ll take you,” he says. “Okay?”
The Meat nods and starts crying again.
“I remember when Meats were three-hundred, four-hundred pounds,” Dawson says. “Not that long ago.”
Brady agrees. “But they were more of a liability.”
“True.”
And so we continue on. We’re eleven now.
Night comes fast, and it gets cold. Dawson keeps watch. Some of the skinnier ones sleep next to the Meat for warmth. He doesn’t seem to mind.
I can usually handle the cold. I’ve got some weight left on my frame, can still pinch a little here or there. Not enough to be a Meat, but I’m okay with that.
***
Gray and overcast.
We walk all day, scavenging as we go. We don’t stop to rest, and by midday the Meat says his feet hurt and his legs are cramping. But he keeps going. We position him in the middle of the group, with scouts in front and behind, and let him slow the pace. But Brady is firm about not stopping. He remembers a lake down the road. He hopes it’s still there.
And it is. It’s turning to mud, with a sheen of debris and ash across the surface. But the rain has replenished it a little. Once we strain out as much crap as we can and add the purifiers, the water isn’t so bad. We all drink. And rest. Brady allows extra food for everyone.
Meats always get a bigger portion of food, and if there’s any extra, they eat it all so it doesn’t spoil. When I give him the extra, the Meat thanks me. He seems less shell-shocked today. Not ready to talk much yet, but that’s okay. I don’t like to talk to them too much, even though we have to sometimes to make them feel more comfortable.
Dawson seems nervous. He has sent two scouts out on reconnaissance. “The marauders could be following,” he tells Brady.
Brady looks unsure. “If they’re still around, they would’ve found the Meat before we did.”
“Unless they left him as bait.”
That makes Brady thoughtful for the rest of the afternoon.
***
Hard rain all day.
We try to scavenge, but the rain is cold and biting, so we hole up in a ruined lake cottage—basically a hut with three walls and a partial roof. Dawson finds a pile of rat bones, someone’s old cache probably, and we crush them up for soup.
The kids find what look like shriveled dandelion leaves. I don’t know, maybe it’s crabgrass. But we throw those into the soup. “Vegetables,” the kids say, and the adults laugh. The younger kids have never seen vegetables. Anyway, it’s pretty good soup. We give most to the Meat, of course.
I ask him what he did before.
“I worked in a store,” he says. “I was a stocker. That’s of course worthless now.” He asks what I did before, and I tell him I was a writer. “Oh, did I read you?”
“Only if you didn’t have something better to do,” I answer.
***
Gray. Always gray.
The kids seem to have more energy. They decide to check out the water for fish and frogs and birds. Most everything like that is gone, of course, but it gives them something to do.
We conduct our ceremony for the Meat in mid-afternoon, when it’s a little warmer. This is the fourth ceremony we’ve done; Brady started them as a way to make the Meats feel welcome and significant. We all give the new Meat something of ours—something precious. We eventually get it back anyway, but that’s not the point.
I give him a silver belt buckle with a bucking bronco etched on it. I found it while scavenging. We ate the belt leather a while ago, but I kept the buckle. I like to trace the outline of the bucking horse with my fingers. It reminds me of the old days.
That night, Dawson lies down next to me and puts his hands on my breasts and pulls me against him. He’s warm. We have enough energy to kiss a little. I remember in the first months, when people weren’t sure if they’d survive, everyone hooked up. When I found this group, Dawson and I hit it off right away and had sex a lot. We tried to forget, tried to feel alive in each other’s arms. But that was back when we still had food and energy to spare.
***
Gray. As usual.
Dawson is already up when I wake. Brady’s letting the Meat sleep in. The kids are pouting because they want to see a fish and there aren’t any, not even dead ones, not even bones. Nobody’s in a good mood.
Later, when I wander down to the lake, just to touch a body of water again, no matter how small or polluted, Dawson and Brady are arguing.
“The marauders could be right behind us,” Dawson says.
“But we have water here,” Brady answers. “It’s a good place to stay for a while.”
“There’s no food.”
“There will be. Life is attracted to water.”
Dawson loses it. “What life?” he screams, waving his arms. “What life?”
And he stomps away.
We leave later that day. I think Dawson must have convinced Brady that if we know the location of the lake, the marauders might know, too. So we fill as many containers with water as we can, and we head off.
***
Overcast. But a hint of sun.
Brady thinks it must be June or July. I lost track of the months a long time ago. But the last few days do feel warmer. And today I swear the sun’s stronger through the gray sky. Brady and I talk about the weather so excitedly, that Dawson snorts and rolls his eyes at us.
“It’ll be at least a few more years like this,” Dawson says. “Cold as hell. And then it’ll all disperse and we’ll roast to death from the sun. Pick your poison.”
Leave it to Dawson to brighten your day.
On our scavenge today, we find a tin can. It’s bulging at the top and bottom—not a good sign. The label’s gone, so we don’t know what it contains. But everybody is given one guess, and whoever picks the right food gets the contents. Brady opens it while we all watch. From what we figure, it’s Dinty Moore stew. One of the mothers, Molly, guesses it right.
But the smell hits us right away. Something’s off. Whoever eats it—well, it won’t end well. We bury the can like we would a loved one. Molly tries to stay good-humored.
“I would have shared with everyone,” she says. “I really would have.”
***
Gray.
A very sad day. Justin, the oldest of the kids, snuck back last night and dug up the stew and ate it. A skinny little guy, and a good scavenger. But not very strong. We bury his vomit deep so the other kids won’t be tempted. We know they’re hungry, but this can’t happen again. Molly can’t stop crying. She blames herself.
Justin’s hanging on, but it won’t be long.
***
Later.
Justin has died. We decide to have a ceremony in his honor. Brady thinks Justin’s meat will be okay as long as we stay away from the organs. Dawson mutters something about “Not enough to feed a bird.”
The Meat cries as he eats.
Molly won’t eat at all.
Me, I can’t cry anymore, so I eat in silence.
After that, Dawson takes some of the others scavenging. The rest of us walk on for a while. The Meat has a kind of peaceful look on his face, and I ask him about it.
“I’m thinking of how lucky I am,” he says. He’s serious. “It’s sort of beautiful, don’t you think? The white frost on the ground, the lines of the trees. I like how it’s so quiet. And the way our breath fogs up in the air. That means we’re breathing, right? That means we’re alive.”
I’m not in the mood to talk about beauty, about meaning. I’m sick of the cold, the quiet. I’m dead sick of it all. “Living and being alive are two different things,” I snap.
“Maybe,” the Meat says. “Maybe not. I was worthless before. I was a taker. But everything we do is important now. My life has meaning now. I’m important.”
“We’re protecting our food, you idiot! You’re a big walking bag of fast food! That’s all!”
The Meat just shrugs. He isn’t even upset.
***
Gray. Overcast.
I think sunshine is merely an illusion. Days go by, I don’t know how many, and no sun. No rain, either. Every day we walk, we scavenge, but we don’t find anything. We melt frost for water, we shiver, and we sleep. The food is gone. No one says much. Dawson doesn’t say anything and doesn’t come to me at night.
Brady has a talk with the Meat. I only catch a little, but it sounds like tomorrow will be the day. “There’s nothing to eat,” Brady says, “and we don’t know when we’ll find food.” The Meat takes the news well. “We give the Meats a chance to run,” Brady continues. “We won’t try to stop you. We do it for everyone.”
The Meat says he understands. He says he won’t run away.
I want to apologize to him. I want to give him something... I don’t know what. To show him I’m not completely empty inside.
***
Gray. Dark. Bad.
Marauders arrive when night falls. Six of them. They have guns with actual ammunition. We try to run and hide. Then we fight. Dawson, thank God, was keeping watch. He fights like an animal. Brady overpowers some of them, and Dawson does the rest. But the marauders kill Brady. They kill Gail and the kids. And they kill the Meat.
We’ll have a ceremony later. Right now, we’re eating, gorging, regaining our strength. A lot of it will go bad, but we eat what we want for now. And we’ll keep the guns and ammunition.
Brady was a good man. I’ll miss him.
I dig the silver belt buckle out of the Meat’s backpack and look at it for a long time. I finally put it in my pocket. And then I break down and cry.
***
Gray. Cold.
A long time goes by. Weeks. It’s all gone and there’s nothing to scavenge and everything moves by in a blur.
There are only four of us. It’s hard to get up each day.
***
Maybe brighter. Maybe.
We pick up a small group. They’re pretty bad off, skinnier than we are. Now we’re nine. We find some outbuildings for shelter in the remains of a small town. And we find two cans of soup tucked away in a cupboard. That even gets a smile from Molly.
Dawson comes to me in the night and put his arms around me. He whispers close to my ear. “We’re going to make it,” he says. Then he leaves before I can reply.
***
Gray. No rain.
Dawson has a meeting with everyone. He says we’re designating a new Meat. He looks at me. I’m the least skinny, at a hundred and thirty pounds.
So, I get to have a ceremony tonight. I get more food and water than the others. And everyone gives me a present. Molly gives me her favorite necklace, a gold chain with an amber pendant. She knows I’ve always liked it. Then she gives me a hug.
“Don’t worry, it won’t come to... you know,” she says.
I tell Dawson I want his gun as a present so I can kill him when he falls asleep. He laughs at that, but I’ll do it, I swear. Dawson says he never sleeps anymore, anyway, and he gives me his share of food for the night. He really wants to fatten me up, I guess.
I decide if I start losing weight, I won’t be the Meat for long.
That’s my plan.
***
Gray. No rain.
We find two people while scavenging today. They’re sick and beyond help. At least that’s what Dawson says. I try to give some of my food to Molly, but she only smiles and says she has enough.
I want to throw it away, but I can’t. So much for my plan.
If there’s an abundance of food, Meats eat it so it doesn’t spoil. Otherwise, it goes to waste. It’s like we’re the holders of life in our bodies.
***
Brighter today, I’m sure of it.
Because I’m a Meat, I don’t have to scavenge. I can rest more, which is nice. And Dawson sleeps with me every night he’s not on watch. There seems to be less urgency these days, and I have time to think.
I think a lot about what the Meat told me: everything we do is important now.
So, as I walk, I look at the frost, at the trees. I listen to the quiet. I hold my silver buckle up to the sky and watch the dim, hopeful refraction of light.
And I wonder, when it’s my time, if I’ll run. Or if I’ll choose to find the beauty in the world, the meaning.
On our scavenge, we come across a Meat. Lucky for him. Lucky for us. He’s sitting in the mud, crying. The others of his small group, what’s left of them, are all dead. Surprise attack with guns and clubs, the best pieces hacked off and taken in a hurry. A small band of marauders, Brady guesses. We collect what we can ourselves, but there isn’t much left.
The Meat is in shock. He keeps muttering, “They hid me. They died for me.” He’s grateful. He’s amazed.
Brady squints at him, sizing him up. “What are you, two-twenty? Two-thirty?”
The Meat says he thinks so, last time he weighed himself. He starts to say, “My name is—” but Brady cuts him off.
“We’ll take you,” he says. “Okay?”
The Meat nods and starts crying again.
“I remember when Meats were three-hundred, four-hundred pounds,” Dawson says. “Not that long ago.”
Brady agrees. “But they were more of a liability.”
“True.”
And so we continue on. We’re eleven now.
Night comes fast, and it gets cold. Dawson keeps watch. Some of the skinnier ones sleep next to the Meat for warmth. He doesn’t seem to mind.
I can usually handle the cold. I’ve got some weight left on my frame, can still pinch a little here or there. Not enough to be a Meat, but I’m okay with that.
***
Gray and overcast.
We walk all day, scavenging as we go. We don’t stop to rest, and by midday the Meat says his feet hurt and his legs are cramping. But he keeps going. We position him in the middle of the group, with scouts in front and behind, and let him slow the pace. But Brady is firm about not stopping. He remembers a lake down the road. He hopes it’s still there.
And it is. It’s turning to mud, with a sheen of debris and ash across the surface. But the rain has replenished it a little. Once we strain out as much crap as we can and add the purifiers, the water isn’t so bad. We all drink. And rest. Brady allows extra food for everyone.
Meats always get a bigger portion of food, and if there’s any extra, they eat it all so it doesn’t spoil. When I give him the extra, the Meat thanks me. He seems less shell-shocked today. Not ready to talk much yet, but that’s okay. I don’t like to talk to them too much, even though we have to sometimes to make them feel more comfortable.
Dawson seems nervous. He has sent two scouts out on reconnaissance. “The marauders could be following,” he tells Brady.
Brady looks unsure. “If they’re still around, they would’ve found the Meat before we did.”
“Unless they left him as bait.”
That makes Brady thoughtful for the rest of the afternoon.
***
Hard rain all day.
We try to scavenge, but the rain is cold and biting, so we hole up in a ruined lake cottage—basically a hut with three walls and a partial roof. Dawson finds a pile of rat bones, someone’s old cache probably, and we crush them up for soup.
The kids find what look like shriveled dandelion leaves. I don’t know, maybe it’s crabgrass. But we throw those into the soup. “Vegetables,” the kids say, and the adults laugh. The younger kids have never seen vegetables. Anyway, it’s pretty good soup. We give most to the Meat, of course.
I ask him what he did before.
“I worked in a store,” he says. “I was a stocker. That’s of course worthless now.” He asks what I did before, and I tell him I was a writer. “Oh, did I read you?”
“Only if you didn’t have something better to do,” I answer.
***
Gray. Always gray.
The kids seem to have more energy. They decide to check out the water for fish and frogs and birds. Most everything like that is gone, of course, but it gives them something to do.
We conduct our ceremony for the Meat in mid-afternoon, when it’s a little warmer. This is the fourth ceremony we’ve done; Brady started them as a way to make the Meats feel welcome and significant. We all give the new Meat something of ours—something precious. We eventually get it back anyway, but that’s not the point.
I give him a silver belt buckle with a bucking bronco etched on it. I found it while scavenging. We ate the belt leather a while ago, but I kept the buckle. I like to trace the outline of the bucking horse with my fingers. It reminds me of the old days.
That night, Dawson lies down next to me and puts his hands on my breasts and pulls me against him. He’s warm. We have enough energy to kiss a little. I remember in the first months, when people weren’t sure if they’d survive, everyone hooked up. When I found this group, Dawson and I hit it off right away and had sex a lot. We tried to forget, tried to feel alive in each other’s arms. But that was back when we still had food and energy to spare.
***
Gray. As usual.
Dawson is already up when I wake. Brady’s letting the Meat sleep in. The kids are pouting because they want to see a fish and there aren’t any, not even dead ones, not even bones. Nobody’s in a good mood.
Later, when I wander down to the lake, just to touch a body of water again, no matter how small or polluted, Dawson and Brady are arguing.
“The marauders could be right behind us,” Dawson says.
“But we have water here,” Brady answers. “It’s a good place to stay for a while.”
“There’s no food.”
“There will be. Life is attracted to water.”
Dawson loses it. “What life?” he screams, waving his arms. “What life?”
And he stomps away.
We leave later that day. I think Dawson must have convinced Brady that if we know the location of the lake, the marauders might know, too. So we fill as many containers with water as we can, and we head off.
***
Overcast. But a hint of sun.
Brady thinks it must be June or July. I lost track of the months a long time ago. But the last few days do feel warmer. And today I swear the sun’s stronger through the gray sky. Brady and I talk about the weather so excitedly, that Dawson snorts and rolls his eyes at us.
“It’ll be at least a few more years like this,” Dawson says. “Cold as hell. And then it’ll all disperse and we’ll roast to death from the sun. Pick your poison.”
Leave it to Dawson to brighten your day.
On our scavenge today, we find a tin can. It’s bulging at the top and bottom—not a good sign. The label’s gone, so we don’t know what it contains. But everybody is given one guess, and whoever picks the right food gets the contents. Brady opens it while we all watch. From what we figure, it’s Dinty Moore stew. One of the mothers, Molly, guesses it right.
But the smell hits us right away. Something’s off. Whoever eats it—well, it won’t end well. We bury the can like we would a loved one. Molly tries to stay good-humored.
“I would have shared with everyone,” she says. “I really would have.”
***
Gray.
A very sad day. Justin, the oldest of the kids, snuck back last night and dug up the stew and ate it. A skinny little guy, and a good scavenger. But not very strong. We bury his vomit deep so the other kids won’t be tempted. We know they’re hungry, but this can’t happen again. Molly can’t stop crying. She blames herself.
Justin’s hanging on, but it won’t be long.
***
Later.
Justin has died. We decide to have a ceremony in his honor. Brady thinks Justin’s meat will be okay as long as we stay away from the organs. Dawson mutters something about “Not enough to feed a bird.”
The Meat cries as he eats.
Molly won’t eat at all.
Me, I can’t cry anymore, so I eat in silence.
After that, Dawson takes some of the others scavenging. The rest of us walk on for a while. The Meat has a kind of peaceful look on his face, and I ask him about it.
“I’m thinking of how lucky I am,” he says. He’s serious. “It’s sort of beautiful, don’t you think? The white frost on the ground, the lines of the trees. I like how it’s so quiet. And the way our breath fogs up in the air. That means we’re breathing, right? That means we’re alive.”
I’m not in the mood to talk about beauty, about meaning. I’m sick of the cold, the quiet. I’m dead sick of it all. “Living and being alive are two different things,” I snap.
“Maybe,” the Meat says. “Maybe not. I was worthless before. I was a taker. But everything we do is important now. My life has meaning now. I’m important.”
“We’re protecting our food, you idiot! You’re a big walking bag of fast food! That’s all!”
The Meat just shrugs. He isn’t even upset.
***
Gray. Overcast.
I think sunshine is merely an illusion. Days go by, I don’t know how many, and no sun. No rain, either. Every day we walk, we scavenge, but we don’t find anything. We melt frost for water, we shiver, and we sleep. The food is gone. No one says much. Dawson doesn’t say anything and doesn’t come to me at night.
Brady has a talk with the Meat. I only catch a little, but it sounds like tomorrow will be the day. “There’s nothing to eat,” Brady says, “and we don’t know when we’ll find food.” The Meat takes the news well. “We give the Meats a chance to run,” Brady continues. “We won’t try to stop you. We do it for everyone.”
The Meat says he understands. He says he won’t run away.
I want to apologize to him. I want to give him something... I don’t know what. To show him I’m not completely empty inside.
***
Gray. Dark. Bad.
Marauders arrive when night falls. Six of them. They have guns with actual ammunition. We try to run and hide. Then we fight. Dawson, thank God, was keeping watch. He fights like an animal. Brady overpowers some of them, and Dawson does the rest. But the marauders kill Brady. They kill Gail and the kids. And they kill the Meat.
We’ll have a ceremony later. Right now, we’re eating, gorging, regaining our strength. A lot of it will go bad, but we eat what we want for now. And we’ll keep the guns and ammunition.
Brady was a good man. I’ll miss him.
I dig the silver belt buckle out of the Meat’s backpack and look at it for a long time. I finally put it in my pocket. And then I break down and cry.
***
Gray. Cold.
A long time goes by. Weeks. It’s all gone and there’s nothing to scavenge and everything moves by in a blur.
There are only four of us. It’s hard to get up each day.
***
Maybe brighter. Maybe.
We pick up a small group. They’re pretty bad off, skinnier than we are. Now we’re nine. We find some outbuildings for shelter in the remains of a small town. And we find two cans of soup tucked away in a cupboard. That even gets a smile from Molly.
Dawson comes to me in the night and put his arms around me. He whispers close to my ear. “We’re going to make it,” he says. Then he leaves before I can reply.
***
Gray. No rain.
Dawson has a meeting with everyone. He says we’re designating a new Meat. He looks at me. I’m the least skinny, at a hundred and thirty pounds.
So, I get to have a ceremony tonight. I get more food and water than the others. And everyone gives me a present. Molly gives me her favorite necklace, a gold chain with an amber pendant. She knows I’ve always liked it. Then she gives me a hug.
“Don’t worry, it won’t come to... you know,” she says.
I tell Dawson I want his gun as a present so I can kill him when he falls asleep. He laughs at that, but I’ll do it, I swear. Dawson says he never sleeps anymore, anyway, and he gives me his share of food for the night. He really wants to fatten me up, I guess.
I decide if I start losing weight, I won’t be the Meat for long.
That’s my plan.
***
Gray. No rain.
We find two people while scavenging today. They’re sick and beyond help. At least that’s what Dawson says. I try to give some of my food to Molly, but she only smiles and says she has enough.
I want to throw it away, but I can’t. So much for my plan.
If there’s an abundance of food, Meats eat it so it doesn’t spoil. Otherwise, it goes to waste. It’s like we’re the holders of life in our bodies.
***
Brighter today, I’m sure of it.
Because I’m a Meat, I don’t have to scavenge. I can rest more, which is nice. And Dawson sleeps with me every night he’s not on watch. There seems to be less urgency these days, and I have time to think.
I think a lot about what the Meat told me: everything we do is important now.
So, as I walk, I look at the frost, at the trees. I listen to the quiet. I hold my silver buckle up to the sky and watch the dim, hopeful refraction of light.
And I wonder, when it’s my time, if I’ll run. Or if I’ll choose to find the beauty in the world, the meaning.
Copyright 2023. Dark Peninsula Press.
Published in: Negative Space 2: A Return to Survival Horror (2023)