Rachel Hawkins - Grim

The very idea that I might have eaten someone...someone from one of those missing-persons flyers. Does it make me a cannibal if I didn’t know?

I can’t afford to think about that right now. I need to get my brother, and get us the hell out of here before we’re the ones being served for dinner.

From the moment I came into the room, I realized Hansen had already given me the perfect weapon. It was the same thing I always noticed about him first, long before I ever saw him. His cologne...his stupid AXE body spray.

My hand is inside his backpack and pulling out the black can with the fire-red logo at the same time Hansen’s eyes go wide for an entirely different reason. He’s spotted me standing by the door.

I lift my fingers to my lips while I reach for my lighter.

My heart feels like it’s about to pound out of my chest as I take three hesitant steps closer to the man whose back is still to me. My mind is reeling, and I wonder if I’m making a mistake, or if I’m even capable of doing what I’m considering.

In front of me, Ranger Dude reaches for one of his long serrated knives. He poises it above my little brother’s bare chest and my heart seizes. All my doubts go up in a puff of smoke.

All that matters is saving Hansen.

I hold the lighter in front of the body spray and press the trigger on the can, releasing its pressurized contents.

When it works, I blink in surprise.

Just like that I’m holding a makeshift flamethrower. And just like that fire is shooting at the back of Ranger Dude’s head.

Everything happens so much faster than I imagined it would. I expected to surprise him, maybe to steal a knife while he was distracted by the flames. I’d been terrified that he’d only be stunned for a minute, and then he’d come after me, too, and I’d have to fight him off with my completely unskilled bare hands.

What I didn’t expect was how quickly his hair would catch fire. That and the plastic he’s wearing, as if it was doused in gasoline. Or the way it would flash hot, and then scorch and shrink, clinging to him like a second skin and making it impossible to shed...to escape.

And then he’s the one screaming. He shrieks and runs, bumping into walls and knocking things over—the tray with the knives, the gurney Hansen is strapped to, candles that were casting light around the room. I just stand there for a minute, watching him writhe, until I hear Hansen.

“G-Greta...” It’s Hansen, and only then do I realize how stiff and numb I am. “Greta, help m-me!”

I look and see that he’s pinned beneath the overturned gurney. I rush to him, kneeling low. Beside us, Ranger Dude rolls on the ground, trying to extinguish the fire. But he’s too late to stop it. He continues to scream and screech. The smell of charred flesh and burned plastic fills the air.

“Are you okay?” I ask above the fading wails. My hands are shaking as I fumble with the straps, and it takes me far too long to unfasten them, but when I do, I wrap my arms around my little brother. “It’s okay. I’m here now. Everything’ll be better now.”

At last, the thrashing ranger goes still.

I breathe my brother in, the smell of his cologne suddenly comforting, reassuring. “C’mon, let’s get out of here.” It’s dark now without the candles and without the flames from the burning ranger filling the room. I haul Hansen to his feet, letting him lean on me all he needs as we stagger around the crispy remains in the center of the floor. The barbecue, or incinerator or whatever it is, still blazes behind its closed doors on the far side of the room, and reminds me of what Ranger Dude was planning to do with Hansen, and probably me, too. I wonder how many of those people from the flyers they’ll find when they come back to this place and scour the freezers. I wonder, too, how many of them are already...gone.

We find the keys to the Forest Service truck in a drawer in the kitchen. I assume if we follow the road out of here, eventually, my cell phone will have service and we’ll be able to call for help.

Hansen stops leaning on me as we make our way outside, but he doesn’t let go of my hand until we get in the truck. We both sigh when it starts, and I sigh again when I tap the fuel gauge, indicating the tank is full.

Out of habit, I reach for my cigarettes, the crushed pack in my pocket.

“H-how’d you do it?” Hansen asks just as I’m about to light up.

I’m holding the gold lighter in front of my face, and a half smile finds my lips. Instead of lighting the butt, I unroll the window and toss it outside. But still, I light the lighter, holding it up so Hansen can admire it. “I guess some gifts are better’n others.”

He might not understand exactly what I’m trying to say—that the step-bitch did this to us, but that she also gave us exactly what we needed to save ourselves. He smiles all the same. “I can’t wait to see her face,” he says without a single stutter. And I nod while I jam the truck in Reverse so we can hightail it outta there.

Because I couldn’t agree with him more. I can’t wait to get home and set things straight.

* * * * *

“Clara! Dina! Whatchoo you doing back there? It’s gettin’ on five o’clock!” Their mother’s voice screeched down the hall, rough with cigarette smoke and slurred with whiskey.

The fact that it hadn’t yet gotten to five o’clock was no reason for their mother to ignore her bottle of Jameson.

Clara looked up from the battered desk, where she had a trigonometry book open in front of her. “It’s time to go over to Mrs. Swanson’s,” she said. “Do you think you could go today?” she asked Dina. “I’m right in the middle of this.”

Dina plucked an earbud out of her ear, and raised her bare foot off the bed, wiggling her black-painted toenails. “Can’t. These are still wet,” she said, raising an I-dare-you-to-contradict-me eyebrow.

Clara sighed. “Okay. I guess I could use a break from this, anyway.” She pushed back her chair, stood up and stretched. The late-afternoon sunlight streamed in, diffused by the dirty window. The light tangled in Clara’s blond hair, making her look like the perfect, shining angel that everyone said she was. Teachers, neighbors, the people at school—everyone praised Clara for being a sweet, optimistic good girl, capable of rising above her upbringing.

When her back was turned and they thought she couldn’t hear, they all whispered that Dina was just like her mother. It wasn’t a compliment, since her mother was a drunk bitch who’d been born to fail.

Clara looked over at her sister. “I’ll be back in a little bit. Keep an eye on Mama, okay?”

Dina closed one eye and reached for her sketch pad. “An eye. Of course. Yep.”

Clara let out a long-suffering sigh and headed for the front door. Her mother was sprawled on the sagging couch. The bottle of whiskey that sat on the floor next to her was almost empty, but Clara could see the neck of a fresh bottle poking out of a paper sack on the coffee table.

Clara wondered how her mom had paid for the liquor, but she didn’t dare ask. She just needed to go across the street—Mrs. Swanson would pay her enough that they’d at least be able to buy a few groceries.

Outside, the sun was thick and hot against her shoulders, and she turned her face toward it, welcoming the glow against her skin. The tangle of bushes that pressed up against Mrs. Swanson’s windows and shadowed her tiny front porch seemed to lean away from the sun, and the sight of it made Clara sad without exactly knowing why. With pity weighing her down, she darted across the street and up to the peeling front door.