Joel Arnold - Fetal Bait Apocalypse - 3 Collections in 1

“She misses you, but otherwise, she’s fine. How are you?”

“I’m good. I can’t talk long. I just — I just wanted to know how she’s doing. Can I talk to her?”

“She’s at school. Remember? School?”

“Oh yeah. What about you? Holding up?”

The way she breathed over the phone, just one breath; I visualized her. Shoulders slumped, eyes closed, nose pinched slightly as she tried to control her breathing .

“I’m okay,” she said. “You’re still coming home Thursday?”

“Yes.” I rested my head against the payphone. “I think I’ll be alright now. I had lots of time to think.”

“You get some writing done?”

“Yes.”

“Good. John? I miss you.”

I sighed. “Miss you, too. Give Peanut a hug.”

We said goodbye and hung up.

I packed my suitcase for the flight home, then took the short stroll to the bar. Tecate, tequila, and tortillas. I began to panic. Three weeks of soul searching, and I hadn’t found a goddamn thing. It was the first time I’d been alone — really alone — in the ten years of our marriage.

I knew I missed Jane. Who was I kidding? Maybe things weren’t perfect, but they weren’t all that bad, either. And I certainly missed Shelly. Peanut . Missed her smile, her voice, her laugh. So what was there to think about? What else did I need?

On the way back to the motel, the sound of moaning stopped me. I looked down the nearest alley. A man stumbled over the cobblestones, apparently drunk. Every few feet he stopped and propped himself up against rough stucco walls. He reached into the pocket of his leather jacket and pulled out a fistful of -- something. He stopped. Leaned against the wall. Stared at the contents of his hand.

Blood dripped from his mouth and spattered on the stones like raindrops.

He shook his head. Frowned at what he held. Slowly turned his hand over, letting the contents scatter over the ground.

Tiny white things. Chiclets? Bright-eyed children sold them to tourists in the zocalo. The man gathered himself and continued along the alley. More white things fell from his pockets, hitting the street like dice.

I followed. They weren’t Chiclets. They were hard as pebbles beneath my shoes.

I bent down. Picked one up.

It was a tooth. A speck of blood still glistened on the root.

His mouth…

The girl’s mouth…

Not much further.

I followed him to La Parroquia. He paused at the foot of the steps that led to its entrance. He put his head in his hands. I stood at the edge of the zocalo watching, listening to his sobs. He abruptly turned and walked away.

But I didn’t.

I stayed.

“Jesus, John — what is it you’re looking for? Are you tired of this? Tired of being a husband? A father? What are you looking for?”

“I don’t know. I—”

Through the large front doors. Down the rough stone steps. Already, the music, that beautiful, saintly voice, pulling me down those steps like a soft velvet rope strung around my waist. I didn’t understand what she sang, but the words weren’t important — it was the way she sang — the melody, the timbre of her voice.

At the bottom of the steps, this is what I saw—

Slabs carved into the stone floor, the coverings of graves etched with the names of dead clergymen. Standing on these tombs were twenty people in a circle — men, women, children — their backs bare and golden in the light of torches, eyes alight with ecstasy, chins dripping blood. And all of their teeth intact . The singing came from within the circle.

Why didn’t I turn and run?

The singing pulled me closer. A sweet melancholic sound full of love. Hope. There was nothing to be afraid of here. I nudged my way into the circle.

She stood over a rough wooden table. As she sang, she smiled. In each of her hands was a long, sharp knife.

She was as beautiful as her voice. Jet-black hair. Skin the color of melting caramel. I couldn’t tell you how old she was. Thirty? Sixteen? I leaned in through the crowd of people to see what was on the table.

The man she worked her knives through wore the robes of a priest. The robes were spread apart to expose his body.

There wasn’t much left.

She sang. Looked at me. Continued singing as she smiled, then carved out a piece of the man’s thigh. She scooped it up with one of her knives and handed it to the person closest to her. It was passed from hand to hand until it reached me. I held it, the hunk the size of a coin purse, and felt it throb against my palm. I looked at the woman. She nodded. Beautiful words flowed from her lips. Beautiful intoxication.

I lifted the flesh to my lips and ate.

The circle closed around me. Hands slapped and patted me on the back. Teeth. So many teeth. Lips pulled back in crimson smiles of rapture. Why wasn’t I revolted? Why didn’t I run screaming at what I had done?

The singing continued. The knives kept moving within the robes of the dead priest. The circle reformed and resumed their bloody communion. The drumming started.

The drumming of the dead.

It was the same pounding I’d heard the last time in the church when I thought my bones would shatter. It came from within the stone tombs, the former bishops and priests of the church playing a tribal rhythm of unholy joy. What had aroused them? What caused them to celebrate along with the living?

And this time…

The drumming…

The beat coursed through my bones, my blood, took over the beating of my heart. I felt myself as one with everyone in the catacombs, living and dead alike.

I’d never felt such pure joy.

I stayed until there was nothing left of the desecrated priest. I stayed, hoping someone else would be brought fresh to the table. When the singing stopped, when the percussion of the dead stopped, the circle broke.

I found myself alone in an alley.

Hungry and alone.

My stomach growled. I wondered if the old man with the darting eye had passed out on the gazebo. I stumbled toward the zocalo. If anyone saw me, they would’ve judged me drunk.

The old man lay on his side on the gazebo steps, groaning in his sleep, his snores wet and throaty. I hovered over him. Reached down to touch him. Ran my fingers over his cheek. His eyes opened slowly. Bloodshot eyes. Eyes that held no fear. He smiled.

Tiny silver crosses were jammed haphazardly into his gums. When he laughed, blood trickled out. He babbled incoherently, the words crucified on the bramble of metal in his mouth.

I turned and ran as fast as I could, trying to outrun the hunger, the anticipation of flesh squishing warmly in my mouth. I flew blindly into the hotel, burst into my room and collapsed on the bed.

Time passed. Two hours? Three? My hands became numb from gripping the sheets. I sat up. Looked across the room in the mirror. Dried blood decorated my chin. I looked at my hands. Had I run across town with these gore-soaked claws? Oh God, oh God…

How dare I cry to God? Why should He help me?

I crept to the bathroom. Looked in the mirror. Grabbed my bottom lip between thumb and forefinger and yanked down. I stared at my teeth. My stomach growled. I wanted more.

More.

I wanted to sink my teeth into flesh, wanted to tear skin from bone, savor the flavor, the texture on my pulsing tongue.

- god oh god oh god please god just one more taste, one more bite, one more one more one more—

I stood there panting like a starving dog.

Tomorrow. I had to leave tomorrow. I had to fly home. What would I do when I saw my family again? Pink drool rained from my lips. I thought of my daughter, my Peanut.

How good she would taste. The feel…

Oh god oh god