This article is part of the The Great Authors Series series.
I told him not to look. Not to see. There was nothing more I could do. We pretended the man wasn't there with his black brains on the wall. We threw open cabinets and pulled open drawers. Someone else had been here first. There were old batteries and pieces of wire. Dented cans that would make us sick.
What about this? asked the boy.
He held a red and green box with a melon man on the cover.
I remember these, I said to the boy.
Can we eat them?
No, I said. It's better to go hungry.
And then he stopped his kicking. The knife dragged against the stone as I pulled it out. There was not very much blood. My hands shook. When I could see and think we went through the preacher's pockets. There were chicken bones and strings. A retractable knife that I gave to the boy. I felt something soft beneath my fingers. I took out my hand and looked at it. I remember seeing orange before I threw it into a basin of dried excrement.
What was that? asked the boy.
A turd, I said. A gross turd from before. We don't eat turds.
Give me the knife, I said.
We began to saw apart the dead man.
|Zack is the author of the new short story collection Wages: Future Tales of a Hired Gun, a blood-soaked satire of private military contracting. He is also the author of the genre-hopping novel Liminal States, which is now available as an audiobook. You can find out more about Zack's latest projects and special offers on his Facebook page.|
No one seems to like the new Doom box art. But it's still the same old Doom Guy under that space marine helmet. Right?
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