Through The Valley by Yates, B.D. (the best motivational books TXT) 📗

teeth. Longing for some salt and pepper so that he might make it taste even better. Gnawing on strings of chewy fat that popped and sprang his jaws apart like little wads of rubber. Drinking the leftover mixture from his bowl.

  His stomach lurched and heaved, and his throat clicked like he had just swallowed a pocket watch. That had been someone's thigh. Their bicep. Their calf. Roy had been cleaving human meat from a dead body he kept in his secret shed, hacking flesh from a person he had met and spoken to and lived with, survived with.  Then he had cooked and fed that person to the rest of them.  He gagged, his eyes streaming tears as he fought to keep what precious little meat he had eaten in his stomach.

"I know, I know how it sounds, but if we don’t, we'll starve to death, Emmit. There are no animals here to hunt. There's nothing here but us and them," Tim pleaded, trying to justify the act of cannibalism to himself as well as Emmit.

"Uhh, guys?" Came Pup's youthful voice, rising and cracking slightly on the word "guys".

Emmit and Tim turned to where he knelt in the snow, both hands full of dripping brown wads of old clothes. He tilted his head towards the woods behind him.

They turned, and the veiled shapes of Roy and Poke were beginning to materialize through the gently swaying branches.

"Better wrap it up," Pup said, then slapped his palm against the cabin with a saturated plop.

He was right. If Roy saw them talking again, who knew what he might think. Who knew what he might do? 

"Quick," Emmit whispered, keeping his eyes on the two approaching men as he picked up his axe again. "Tell me everything you can as fast as you can."

Tim was already stooping to pick up the hefty bucket again. He would want to be in motion, carrying it somewhere when they arrived. When he spoke, his hushed words came out like bullets from a silenced machine gun.

"He doesn't tell new people because it makes them run away. We use nicknames because he doesn't want us to get to know each other. He doesn't want factions. He doesn't want you to feel any guilt if someone has to be killed for food. When it's time to pick the next Provider..."

He cut off abruptly, then hefted the bucket and began to carry it towards the cabin. He didn't turn around, ignoring Emmit's harsh rasps for him to return.

"Fuck", Emmit snarled, slamming the axe down so hard that both wrists cracked, and his right hand went numb. He shook it in the air, allowing himself small glances over his shoulder to monitor Roy and Poke's progress. He could hear their footfalls now, heavy boots crushing through the snow and whipping through patches of tall, dead grass. He could also hear the low murmur of their voices.

How?! he thought, the voice inside his head roaring like a caged lion. How does he choose?!

He set up another log, balancing it on one lopsided end, and sent the axe careening down into it.  His aim was off. The shabby blade barely nicked the crumbling bark on the outside, throwing a shower of black dust and flakes down into the dirty snow around him.

A familiar, wholly unpleasant voice from behind him:

"Too bad it's not a club, I know you're good with one of those," said Poke.

Emmit was very aware of the axe he still held; he could feel the heavy head trembling in his grip.

"Poke. Enough," Roy sighed, sounding annoyed as he slapped one frying-pan hand into the middle of Poke's back and shoved him to one side. Poke made a startled choking sound and stumbled away, cursing under his breath. It was always startling to see Roy's brute strength in action. The man really could have been a professional wrestler, if he hadn't already found work as a professional killer.

"Head inside," he said quietly, looking tiredly down into Emmit's sweaty, upturned face. "Important announcement."

Emmit flattened his mouth and nodded, scratching at his beard nervously as he let the axe thud to the ground. A sick sensation in his gut was telling him that he already knew what that announcement would be.

The horizon line was deepening to golden purple by the time Roy had brought them all inside, given them a chance to clean themselves up with cold water from the bucket, and let them rest by a fresh fire for a while.  Nobody seemed to have anything to say. The cabin felt like a funeral parlor, the smoky air thick with tension and unease.  Emmit supposed they had all been through this before, the selection of the next Provider, and it was weighing on them. He fed off their anxiety, and his own began to gnaw at him like a tiny, hungry rat in his midsection.

  He kept shooting glances over to the Rev, where he sat on a pile of clothes intently studying his hands. He would flip them palms down, study the knuckles and fingernails, then flip them back over and study his tough palms. Emmit knew that tactic well; trying to stay quiet, occupied, out of the way. If you did that, maybe no one would notice you. Maybe they would just leave you alone.

  There was a light tap on his shoulder. Roy was standing above him, holding what looked like a bindle that had been stitched together from an old pair of blue jeans. He reached inside the pack and removed a hunk of brownish red meat. It looked like a giant raisin, dried and gristly. Emmit swallowed hard.

  "It's jerky," Roy said easily. He was chewing as he spoke, and Emmit was acutely aware of the wet squishing sound Roy's teeth made as they ripped someone's corpse apart. He took the "jerky" and held it in his hand, smiling awkwardly.

  "Thanks."

  Roy stared down expectantly, his eyebrows raising and