Plague, Chapter One

 

Chapter One

CHARLIE MORGAN STARED attentively at his brother’s corpse, contemplating if he could honestly resort to cannibalism. The thought had more than just crossed his mind; it was stabbing into his skull, throbbing his hunger sensation to the maximum, pushing his sanity farther and farther over the edge, all the way down to the boundaries of disorientation. Could he actually eat his brother? He was seriously considering it.

    Charlie bent his legs and raised the knees towards the ceiling, giving a nice rough pillow for his head. He wrapped his arms around his legs and rocked back and forth, never taking his weary eyes off his potential meal. He had never eaten another human being before -- he doubted most people had -- and he wondered if it was even healthy. Well, this wasn’t really a matter of staying healthy, now was it? No, this was a matter of life and death. Charlie knew his brother’s flesh would probably cause him to get sick, probably really sick, but if he didn’t eat something soon he was going to die. That was a fact; an ugly fact that was laughing right in his dehydrated face.

    You’re gonna die, it taunted. You’re gonna join your brother before long, Charlie-boy, it growled. You’re gonna diiiiiiiieee! it laughed again, this time a bit more maniacally.

    “Shut up, shut up, shut up!” Charlie screamed to the vacant room. “I’m not gonna die, and I’m not gonna eat Tyler. So you can just forget about that s**t. I’m gonna make it, I’m gonna make it. Just you wait and see. I’m gonna be just fine. …”

    His rhythm of rocking was growing at a furious rate, causing his dirty overgrown black hair to fall down in front of his face, connecting with his equally long beard. He didn’t bother brushing the hair out of his eyes. His vision was beginning to grow hazy as it was; therefore, he saw no point in moving a blockade to something that didn’t matter in the first place. Sure, his pupils were staring at his brother, but his thoughts had already trailed off.

    How long has it been? he began to ask himself. Just how long had it been since he’d eaten something? How long has it been since he’d been abandoned in this cell? A week? Maybe two?

    “No,” he croaked, licking the stiff, moldy crust off his sore dried up lips. He couldn’t bring himself to say it aloud, but he couldn’t stop the thought from hammering itself into his brain.

    At least a month, it confessed. Maybe more. But at least a month.

    Charlie slowed his rocking to a stop, and leaned back up against the brick wall of his jail cell, closing his eyes. His fatigue had already drained him for the day. It was absurd: he had only been awake for a little over an hour, and he already desperately needed rest.

    He licked his lips again.

    He could practically taste the meat inside his mouth. It was right there; all he needed to do was reach out and grab it.
    
    His brother looked, sounded, and smelled tastier as each second ticked by. Soon he wouldn’t be able to control himself, and his primitive nature would take over completely. His body needed food, and one way or another, it was going to get it.

    “I’m not gonna die,” Charlie moaned. “I’m gonna make it. I’m not gonna die. I’m gonna make it. I’m not gonna die. I’m gonna be just fine. …”

    He repeated those lines several times until he passed out.

*********

CHARLIE AWOKE TO the heavenly sound of falling rain. His eyelids popped open and he slowly crawled up the brick wall to his feet. He carefully bent down and grasped his boot (the boot that was already missing from his foot, awaiting against the wall for this exact occasion) with both hands, and then as fast as he could, made his way toward the small barred window residing at the top of the back wall of his cell. He already knew the drill; he had performed this act at least five times already.

    There was not a minute to waste.

    He conveyed the boot through the bars and stretched his tired arms out as far as he could manage. It took a little over a minute for it to become completely full of water. Charlie returned it back into his cell, raising the lining towards his eager lips and letting the beautiful liquid incline its way down his throat. Seconds later the entire boot was empty. Therefore, he filled it back up again. But this time instead of drinking its contents, Charlie lowered it to the ground, placing it against the wall. He waited a good half minute before letting go of his grip; the unappealing thought of spilling the boot once again took a bite straight out of his heart, and he knew he couldn’t make that careless mistake again. No, that wouldn’t do at all. He couldn’t risk any more encounters with the dreaded breath of death.

    Charlie approached the wall on the left of the cell and retrieved the three remaining boots, (one being his, the other two being his brother Tyler’s).  Juggling them back to the window, he carefully filled each one up to the brim with the water. Afterwards, since it was still raining quite heavily, he poured an entire boot over his dirty and desiccated face, taking in each and every drop like they were droplets of liquefied gold. He then filled it back up and placed it amongst the other ones.

    There, he thought. That’s done with.

    He stood there for a while, staring through the bars and into the desert landscape. There was nothing remotely interesting to see, but at least it wasn’t the same old dark, spider web invested jail cell. Charlie watched the rainfall from the cloudy sky, sinking its way into the desirable sand. The usual flock of birds hovering above him was nowhere to be found. Probably unable to fly in this sort of whether, he thought to himself. Wonder where they sleep at.
    
    He watched as the sky brightened up and a bolt of lightning shot down into the Earth, maybe two or three thousand feet away from the jailhouse in which Charlie was rotting away in El Paso, Texas. He soon came to the conclusion that the rain was not going to let up for awhile, which meant that he might actually have the chance to drink another boot and refill it maybe a few more times. That would help him out dearly.

    This was the way of life, he realized. Sometimes it rained, and sometimes it didn’t.

*********

THE PILE OF s**t on the far side of the cell was beginning to grow unbearable. No, it already was unbearable. Now it was unlivable.

    Charlie watched it with a form of disgust planted across his face. It appeared so vile, smelled so foul, that he couldn’t help but looking at it. How much longer until the excrement outgrew its tiny home? How long ‘till it started slithering across the room, smothering Charlie in his sleep? It couldn’t be much longer, he knew that. He also knew that there was no way he could prevent this. When a man had to s**t, a man had to s**t. Sure, you could hold it in for a while. But not forever. He was doomed.

    However, despite the rancid feces and the disturbing hallucinations of it killing him off, his stomach still growled in hunger.

    He needed to eat.

    “I need to eat,” he mumbled.

    He fell asleep.