benefits had diminished; his obsessive
inspections had tapered, and now without the heat of food calories, he stayed
in his bed at all times.
Ryker
climbed their makeshift scaffolding and screwed the yellowed bulb into the
rusted threads in the fixture. The effect on their emaciated colleague was
drastic: his body curled and rocked—bombarded as though by a solar
flare—and he pulled all three wool layers around his face. Although the
cold made the twins slower, it was not uncomfortable. Their companion, however,
lost calories whenever he shivered, which was most of the time, and they’d
tried to mitigate his loss of heat by adding their own bedding to his.
He needed food as often as their creator
needed food, or possibly even more often.
Initially,
the last piles of food had seemed a bounty.
It was time to move the bed and open the
door.
With
the key from their dead not-god’s pocket, they would access everything and
everywhere else, and find heat-providing food for their ward. Continuing to rock, The One Who Was
Different suffered a greater than normal turmoil. It worsened as they pushed
the cot from the door with a loud grating sound.
The not-quite-boys moved the cot and turned the handle and
stepped inside. The tapping of thousands of tiny keratinous feet filled the
room. Each insect scurried to squeeze back through the small hole in the wall,
yet the portal would only accommodate one beetle-like body at a time. Ryker
leapt to block their exit with his thumb and the toast-colored bodies dodged this
way and that, vulnerable in their collective indecision. The twins took turns,
stuffing their cheeks like arboreal monkeys. Some of the insects took flight
and were caught midair; those in molt sought safe
harbor around the edges of the tumefied corpse. Their no-longer-captor was bloated in places and hollow in others. His tongue was thin and black.
There was movement beneath the ashen skin around his eyes, but it was not life.
It was more cockroaches.
Ryker
pulled the ring of keys from their not-god’s pocket. Systematically, they
explored the rest of the man. A stack of neatly folded colorful paper was
clamped flat with a metal clip. Rickard held up what must be a writing utensil.
The rest was carrion .
They
took the keys and the money and the pen and stepped outside, their mouths full
of insect-mulch: wings and legs, heads and abdomens and antennae.
“There
are insects … should we get you some?”
The
One Who Was Different remained curled—a cachectic fetus. He did not, or couldn’t
answer. Breaths shallow, he wormed a leg to one side. Ryker, wondering if the
movement was voluntary, locked eyes with Rickard, who had identified the
correct key, then padded toward the door. Rickard turned the tool in the lock
of the door that obscured everything and everywhere else. Ryker trailed him
down a hallway. They turned left, then right, pausing at each corner for two
heartbeats—perhaps eight seconds—to listen, four ears rotating.
Reaching metal stairs, they paused once more, in admiration. They were a
brilliant adaptation to deal with elevations.
The tunnel felt colder .
Ryker’s
eyes and ears felt more sluggish, like bearings in super-cooled grease. Heat
seeped in from the top of the stairs. Climbing, his brother placed his palm on
the warm panel separating them from horses and people, beds and surgeons and
cars, mailboxes, trees, the Moon and oceans—and from someone named Josef
Mengele.
G lowing by the light
filtering through cracks, Rickard saw the white string dangling brightly from a
fixture, wondered at its purpose, and pulled it. A small light clicked on.
After a study of the panel, he slid it sideways. The lights outside bloomed to
a slash the width of Wolfgang’s finger. They pressed their faces to the crack
and peered out.
Voices.
The
heat beyond the panel felt delicious.
They were behind … bookshelves?
As
his brother inched the panel open a bit more, his face began to warm.
inspections had tapered, and now without the heat of food calories, he stayed
in his bed at all times.
Ryker
climbed their makeshift scaffolding and screwed the yellowed bulb into the
rusted threads in the fixture. The effect on their emaciated colleague was
drastic: his body curled and rocked—bombarded as though by a solar
flare—and he pulled all three wool layers around his face. Although the
cold made the twins slower, it was not uncomfortable. Their companion, however,
lost calories whenever he shivered, which was most of the time, and they’d
tried to mitigate his loss of heat by adding their own bedding to his.
He needed food as often as their creator
needed food, or possibly even more often.
Initially,
the last piles of food had seemed a bounty.
It was time to move the bed and open the
door.
With
the key from their dead not-god’s pocket, they would access everything and
everywhere else, and find heat-providing food for their ward. Continuing to rock, The One Who Was
Different suffered a greater than normal turmoil. It worsened as they pushed
the cot from the door with a loud grating sound.
The not-quite-boys moved the cot and turned the handle and
stepped inside. The tapping of thousands of tiny keratinous feet filled the
room. Each insect scurried to squeeze back through the small hole in the wall,
yet the portal would only accommodate one beetle-like body at a time. Ryker
leapt to block their exit with his thumb and the toast-colored bodies dodged this
way and that, vulnerable in their collective indecision. The twins took turns,
stuffing their cheeks like arboreal monkeys. Some of the insects took flight
and were caught midair; those in molt sought safe
harbor around the edges of the tumefied corpse. Their no-longer-captor was bloated in places and hollow in others. His tongue was thin and black.
There was movement beneath the ashen skin around his eyes, but it was not life.
It was more cockroaches.
Ryker
pulled the ring of keys from their not-god’s pocket. Systematically, they
explored the rest of the man. A stack of neatly folded colorful paper was
clamped flat with a metal clip. Rickard held up what must be a writing utensil.
The rest was carrion .
They
took the keys and the money and the pen and stepped outside, their mouths full
of insect-mulch: wings and legs, heads and abdomens and antennae.
“There
are insects … should we get you some?”
The
One Who Was Different remained curled—a cachectic fetus. He did not, or couldn’t
answer. Breaths shallow, he wormed a leg to one side. Ryker, wondering if the
movement was voluntary, locked eyes with Rickard, who had identified the
correct key, then padded toward the door. Rickard turned the tool in the lock
of the door that obscured everything and everywhere else. Ryker trailed him
down a hallway. They turned left, then right, pausing at each corner for two
heartbeats—perhaps eight seconds—to listen, four ears rotating.
Reaching metal stairs, they paused once more, in admiration. They were a
brilliant adaptation to deal with elevations.
The tunnel felt colder .
Ryker’s
eyes and ears felt more sluggish, like bearings in super-cooled grease. Heat
seeped in from the top of the stairs. Climbing, his brother placed his palm on
the warm panel separating them from horses and people, beds and surgeons and
cars, mailboxes, trees, the Moon and oceans—and from someone named Josef
Mengele.
G lowing by the light
filtering through cracks, Rickard saw the white string dangling brightly from a
fixture, wondered at its purpose, and pulled it. A small light clicked on.
After a study of the panel, he slid it sideways. The lights outside bloomed to
a slash the width of Wolfgang’s finger. They pressed their faces to the crack
and peered out.
Voices.
The
heat beyond the panel felt delicious.
They were behind … bookshelves?
As
his brother inched the panel open a bit more, his face began to warm.
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