A Growing Boy Needs His Lunch
by Bill Robertson
Genre: Horror/Supernatural
Swearwords: None.
Description: After an environmental catastrophe, a man wanders through a world scoured by raging dust storms.
_____________________________________________________________________
The man’s feet kicked up dry splashes of dust as he walked past the skeletons of wrecked cars sitting silently on the blacktop. The swirling dust had eaten away their once shining paintwork.
He looked at the darkening sky. He would need to take shelter soon. The storms in the badlands could last for days, making travel impossible. The creased and stained road atlas said there was a town a few miles ahead. He looked at the sky again. If he picked up his pace he might make it before the storm hit.
He entered the town an hour later. The rising wind moaned as it swept around the buildings. Dust collected in deep piles against kerbstones and coated everything it touched and the coarse grains had worked their way into the folds of his clothes. Pieces of paper whirled and skittered along the ground, occasionally spiralling into the air for a moment before plummeting back down to earth.
The man stopped and stared.
There was a boy sitting on the edge of a smashed fountain. He was idly scratching himself with one hand while flicking a red yo-yo with the other. The man stood mesmerised by the scene, watching the little red disc as it rose and fell. Now and again the boy would make the yo-yo spin, letting it dangle just off the cracked pavement for a moment or two before sending it spiralling upwards again with a deft flick of his wrist.
The man pulled the scarf away from his nose and mouth. ‘Hey,’ he said. His voice bounced off the buildings.
The yo-yo stopped. The boy looked at him, head cocked at a slight angle. It made him look like a curious bird. The man raised a hand in greeting. The world was emptier these days and the old man he had met in Bridgeton was at least several weeks in the past. He could see the boy’s muscles tense, ready to spring from the fountain and once again the man thought of a skittish bird.
‘It’s ok,’ the man said. He spread his arms wide. The two of them looked at each other across the rubble strewn street: like old time gunslingers facing off at high noon. Suddenly the boy sprang onto the rim of the fountain and made a noise. He waved at the man, gesturing around him. The man watched, not really understanding the words but getting the meaning.
‘No, there’s just me,’ he said. He pointed at his chest and repeated it. He looked around pantomime fashion and shook his head for added emphasis. ‘Foster,’ he said, pointing to himself again.
The boy gave him a crooked grin, exposing his yellowing teeth. He stretched out a hand and beckoned Foster to follow him.
The boy took him through a warren of back alleys and side streets until they reached a house. Faint chinks of light peeped out from the shuttered windows. Although it was still early afternoon, the sky had gone ominously dark and the wind had increased in power to the point where walking against it was difficult. The boy yanked the door open and gestured inside.
‘Thank you,’ Foster said.
‘Is that you Seth?’ a woman’s voice called as he stepped inside.
His eyes adjusted to the dim light of the room. The woman sat in a rocking chair. A dog lay curled in her lap. It sprang to its feet when it noticed Foster.
‘And who might you be, stranger?’
She was small with her hair scraped back into a neat bun. The dog was a dirty white colour with little short legs and a sharp pointy nose. It stood in the woman’s lap, ears and tail erect. The woman stroked it with one of her hands. Foster found himself wondering how old she was.
‘The name’s Foster, your boy brought me here. He never told me his name though.’
‘He can’t talk - just makes noises mostly. Been like that since he was born. We don’t get many visitors these days. Most folks upped and left a long time ago, looking to find some greener pastures, I guess.’ The woman looked at Foster and laughed. They both knew that green pastures were ancient history. ‘Mostly it’s just me, him and Buster here.’ The dog licked her hand and resumed staring at Foster.
‘Well it’s always good to find a friendly face on days like these. You folks are the first I’ve come across in weeks. I would appreciate it if I could stop a while until the storm blows over.’
She nodded. ‘Outside is no place to be once a black roller gets going. We can’t offer you much but you’re welcome to share a little food.’
‘That’s mighty decent of you.’
‘Well, the more the merrier, that’s what I say.’
‘So what brings you to these parts?’ she asked as she poured out some hot soup. She had watered it down to make it go round the three of them but the smell still made Foster’s stomach growl. He had given her some Ritz crackers from his pack that still tasted ok despite being a couple of years past their sell-by date.
Foster slurped back a spoonful of soup and shrugged. ‘After my wife and boy died there didn’t seem to be much point sticking around our place no more.’
‘Dust pneumonia?’
Foster nodded. ‘We wore masks and all, like they told us to, but it got them anyway. I figured I’d try for the ocean. People say that there’s still some clean air left there. I’ve been on the road for months, hopping from town to town, trying to stay ahead of the next black roller.’
A loose window shutter slammed against the frame with a series of stuttering bangs. The sudden noise made Foster almost jump out of his seat.
‘Been meaning to get that fixed,’ the woman said.
Foster swallowed a deep breath and let his heart rate climb back down a few notches. The table was set with rough greasy looking candles that gave the room a cosy glow. The soup had warmed him and he felt full for the first time in days. Yet there was still a nagging feeling prickling at the back of his mind.
He put his hand inside his coat as if he was scratching at his ribs and felt for his gun. Most of the people he had met out on the road were peaceable enough, just trying to get by mostly - but desperate times brought out the worst in some people, like the bands of scavengers roaming the highways like locusts preying on the unwary.
He finished the soup, washing the last few dregs down with some water from his canteen. It had been a long day and his eyelids felt as if there were lead weights hanging from them. There was just the two of them now. Seth had left the table and was busy bouncing a ball in another room. Foster could hear the steady thunk-thunk of the ball. The rhythm of it was hypnotic.
He shook his head to try and wake himself up. The room was too warm. He tugged at his collar, trying to let in some air.
‘Something the matter?’ the woman said, raising one thin eyebrow. Her voice sounded far away.
He stumbled to his feet, scraping his chair back from the table. He pulled the pistol from his coat and pointed it at the woman. ‘I think it’s time for me to leave,’ he said, thumbing off the safety. ‘Just stay where you are and nobody needs to get hurt.’ It was taking a real effort to keep the gun steady. He blinked a bead of sweat from his eyes and started to back away.
There was a loud yelp as Buster leapt at him from under the table, scampering between his legs. His feet tangled with each other throwing him off balance. He dropped the gun and watched helpless as it skidded out of reach. The little dog was a howling dervish of sharp claws and snapping teeth. It’s hot, sour breath filled his nostrils. Foster grabbed it with both hands and hurled it across the room before dragging himself back to his feet.
He sensed somebody behind him and started to turn but it was too late. He saw Seth swing a baseball bat and then his vision filled with an exploding universe of stars. Foster fell to the floor in a heap. He tried to lift his head but the messages from his outraged brain didn’t appear to be getting through to his muscles no matter how many times he sent them. Strong hands grabbed his ankles and started to drag him across the floor. His eyes narrowed to slits as unconsciousness claimed him.
Foster awoke with blood rushing to his head. It took a moment for him to realise he was hanging upside down from the ceiling. The inside of his skull felt like a water balloon filled to the point of bursting. A metal bucket stood under him.
He shifted his weight, testing his bonds. After some flexing he was able to turn himself a little. He noticed the array of pots, pans and various other cooking utensils. His eyes fixed on the stained wooden chopping block with a dull looking cleaver lying on it. He wriggled some more, feeling like a caterpillar fighting to escape its chrysalis. He could see a pile of cracked and splintered bones over in one corner. The crackling of a fire came from behind him. He sensed other people coming into the room and stopped his struggling.
A hand wrapped around his arm and pinched him hard.
‘Oww!’
‘Not much meat on him,’ the woman’s voice said. ‘Still, beggars can’t be choosers.’ She pinched him again. ‘Might get a few candles out of him as well if we’re lucky.’ The woman spun Foster around until he was facing her. ‘It’s Seth you see. A growing boy needs his lunch, that’s what my old mother used to say. Canned food is all very well but fresh meat is what he needs. I was starting to think we might have to throw Buster in the pot until you came along.’
Foster saw a quick flash of silver and felt something hot and bright draw across his exposed throat. He choked and spluttered as blood gushed out over his face and into his eyes turning his world pink. He blinked hard, trying to clear his view. He could hear the blood drip into the bucket in a series of hollow plips. He tried to call out but found he could only produce a wet croak. He heard the pad of tiny feet on the floor and felt something tickle his face. Buster was licking the blood. The corners of his eyes began to darken and the hideous kitchen started to fade from view as the remainder of his life pulsed into the filthy bucket.
‘Come on then Seth my boy,’ the woman said after Foster had stopped moving. ‘We need to get him down and gut him before he starts to go off. Waste not want not, I always say. You did a good job bringing him here. We’ll have full bellies tonight.’
Seth smiled his yellow smile and reached for his knife. Outside the wind howled.
Swearwords: None.
Description: After an environmental catastrophe, a man wanders through a world scoured by raging dust storms.
_____________________________________________________________________
The man’s feet kicked up dry splashes of dust as he walked past the skeletons of wrecked cars sitting silently on the blacktop. The swirling dust had eaten away their once shining paintwork.
He looked at the darkening sky. He would need to take shelter soon. The storms in the badlands could last for days, making travel impossible. The creased and stained road atlas said there was a town a few miles ahead. He looked at the sky again. If he picked up his pace he might make it before the storm hit.
He entered the town an hour later. The rising wind moaned as it swept around the buildings. Dust collected in deep piles against kerbstones and coated everything it touched and the coarse grains had worked their way into the folds of his clothes. Pieces of paper whirled and skittered along the ground, occasionally spiralling into the air for a moment before plummeting back down to earth.
The man stopped and stared.
There was a boy sitting on the edge of a smashed fountain. He was idly scratching himself with one hand while flicking a red yo-yo with the other. The man stood mesmerised by the scene, watching the little red disc as it rose and fell. Now and again the boy would make the yo-yo spin, letting it dangle just off the cracked pavement for a moment or two before sending it spiralling upwards again with a deft flick of his wrist.
The man pulled the scarf away from his nose and mouth. ‘Hey,’ he said. His voice bounced off the buildings.
The yo-yo stopped. The boy looked at him, head cocked at a slight angle. It made him look like a curious bird. The man raised a hand in greeting. The world was emptier these days and the old man he had met in Bridgeton was at least several weeks in the past. He could see the boy’s muscles tense, ready to spring from the fountain and once again the man thought of a skittish bird.
‘It’s ok,’ the man said. He spread his arms wide. The two of them looked at each other across the rubble strewn street: like old time gunslingers facing off at high noon. Suddenly the boy sprang onto the rim of the fountain and made a noise. He waved at the man, gesturing around him. The man watched, not really understanding the words but getting the meaning.
‘No, there’s just me,’ he said. He pointed at his chest and repeated it. He looked around pantomime fashion and shook his head for added emphasis. ‘Foster,’ he said, pointing to himself again.
The boy gave him a crooked grin, exposing his yellowing teeth. He stretched out a hand and beckoned Foster to follow him.
The boy took him through a warren of back alleys and side streets until they reached a house. Faint chinks of light peeped out from the shuttered windows. Although it was still early afternoon, the sky had gone ominously dark and the wind had increased in power to the point where walking against it was difficult. The boy yanked the door open and gestured inside.
‘Thank you,’ Foster said.
‘Is that you Seth?’ a woman’s voice called as he stepped inside.
His eyes adjusted to the dim light of the room. The woman sat in a rocking chair. A dog lay curled in her lap. It sprang to its feet when it noticed Foster.
‘And who might you be, stranger?’
She was small with her hair scraped back into a neat bun. The dog was a dirty white colour with little short legs and a sharp pointy nose. It stood in the woman’s lap, ears and tail erect. The woman stroked it with one of her hands. Foster found himself wondering how old she was.
‘The name’s Foster, your boy brought me here. He never told me his name though.’
‘He can’t talk - just makes noises mostly. Been like that since he was born. We don’t get many visitors these days. Most folks upped and left a long time ago, looking to find some greener pastures, I guess.’ The woman looked at Foster and laughed. They both knew that green pastures were ancient history. ‘Mostly it’s just me, him and Buster here.’ The dog licked her hand and resumed staring at Foster.
‘Well it’s always good to find a friendly face on days like these. You folks are the first I’ve come across in weeks. I would appreciate it if I could stop a while until the storm blows over.’
She nodded. ‘Outside is no place to be once a black roller gets going. We can’t offer you much but you’re welcome to share a little food.’
‘That’s mighty decent of you.’
‘Well, the more the merrier, that’s what I say.’
‘So what brings you to these parts?’ she asked as she poured out some hot soup. She had watered it down to make it go round the three of them but the smell still made Foster’s stomach growl. He had given her some Ritz crackers from his pack that still tasted ok despite being a couple of years past their sell-by date.
Foster slurped back a spoonful of soup and shrugged. ‘After my wife and boy died there didn’t seem to be much point sticking around our place no more.’
‘Dust pneumonia?’
Foster nodded. ‘We wore masks and all, like they told us to, but it got them anyway. I figured I’d try for the ocean. People say that there’s still some clean air left there. I’ve been on the road for months, hopping from town to town, trying to stay ahead of the next black roller.’
A loose window shutter slammed against the frame with a series of stuttering bangs. The sudden noise made Foster almost jump out of his seat.
‘Been meaning to get that fixed,’ the woman said.
Foster swallowed a deep breath and let his heart rate climb back down a few notches. The table was set with rough greasy looking candles that gave the room a cosy glow. The soup had warmed him and he felt full for the first time in days. Yet there was still a nagging feeling prickling at the back of his mind.
He put his hand inside his coat as if he was scratching at his ribs and felt for his gun. Most of the people he had met out on the road were peaceable enough, just trying to get by mostly - but desperate times brought out the worst in some people, like the bands of scavengers roaming the highways like locusts preying on the unwary.
He finished the soup, washing the last few dregs down with some water from his canteen. It had been a long day and his eyelids felt as if there were lead weights hanging from them. There was just the two of them now. Seth had left the table and was busy bouncing a ball in another room. Foster could hear the steady thunk-thunk of the ball. The rhythm of it was hypnotic.
He shook his head to try and wake himself up. The room was too warm. He tugged at his collar, trying to let in some air.
‘Something the matter?’ the woman said, raising one thin eyebrow. Her voice sounded far away.
He stumbled to his feet, scraping his chair back from the table. He pulled the pistol from his coat and pointed it at the woman. ‘I think it’s time for me to leave,’ he said, thumbing off the safety. ‘Just stay where you are and nobody needs to get hurt.’ It was taking a real effort to keep the gun steady. He blinked a bead of sweat from his eyes and started to back away.
There was a loud yelp as Buster leapt at him from under the table, scampering between his legs. His feet tangled with each other throwing him off balance. He dropped the gun and watched helpless as it skidded out of reach. The little dog was a howling dervish of sharp claws and snapping teeth. It’s hot, sour breath filled his nostrils. Foster grabbed it with both hands and hurled it across the room before dragging himself back to his feet.
He sensed somebody behind him and started to turn but it was too late. He saw Seth swing a baseball bat and then his vision filled with an exploding universe of stars. Foster fell to the floor in a heap. He tried to lift his head but the messages from his outraged brain didn’t appear to be getting through to his muscles no matter how many times he sent them. Strong hands grabbed his ankles and started to drag him across the floor. His eyes narrowed to slits as unconsciousness claimed him.
Foster awoke with blood rushing to his head. It took a moment for him to realise he was hanging upside down from the ceiling. The inside of his skull felt like a water balloon filled to the point of bursting. A metal bucket stood under him.
He shifted his weight, testing his bonds. After some flexing he was able to turn himself a little. He noticed the array of pots, pans and various other cooking utensils. His eyes fixed on the stained wooden chopping block with a dull looking cleaver lying on it. He wriggled some more, feeling like a caterpillar fighting to escape its chrysalis. He could see a pile of cracked and splintered bones over in one corner. The crackling of a fire came from behind him. He sensed other people coming into the room and stopped his struggling.
A hand wrapped around his arm and pinched him hard.
‘Oww!’
‘Not much meat on him,’ the woman’s voice said. ‘Still, beggars can’t be choosers.’ She pinched him again. ‘Might get a few candles out of him as well if we’re lucky.’ The woman spun Foster around until he was facing her. ‘It’s Seth you see. A growing boy needs his lunch, that’s what my old mother used to say. Canned food is all very well but fresh meat is what he needs. I was starting to think we might have to throw Buster in the pot until you came along.’
Foster saw a quick flash of silver and felt something hot and bright draw across his exposed throat. He choked and spluttered as blood gushed out over his face and into his eyes turning his world pink. He blinked hard, trying to clear his view. He could hear the blood drip into the bucket in a series of hollow plips. He tried to call out but found he could only produce a wet croak. He heard the pad of tiny feet on the floor and felt something tickle his face. Buster was licking the blood. The corners of his eyes began to darken and the hideous kitchen started to fade from view as the remainder of his life pulsed into the filthy bucket.
‘Come on then Seth my boy,’ the woman said after Foster had stopped moving. ‘We need to get him down and gut him before he starts to go off. Waste not want not, I always say. You did a good job bringing him here. We’ll have full bellies tonight.’
Seth smiled his yellow smile and reached for his knife. Outside the wind howled.
About the Author
Born in Perth and now living just outside Aberdeen, Bill Robertson has created a large body of work showcasing a tendency towards the darker side of life and stories which leave an indelible impression on the reader long after the final word is read.
An active member of Aberdeen’s Lemon Tree Writer’s Group, Bill’s work has appeared in Journeys, an anthology of work from the group, and most recently in a chapbook, Himself by the Seaside. He has performed some of his stories as part of the Word and New Words festivals and other events around the north-east. He has also self published two e-books: Reindeer Dust, a short Christmas story, and When the Revolution Comes, a collection of linked short stories concerning an uprising in a fictional eastern European country. A number of his stories have featured on the website http://www.shortbreadstories.co.uk, where he has been chosen as the featured Friday story a number of times and has won a number of competitions with his short stories and flash fiction pieces.
If you would like to hear an interview with Bill and listen to him read some of his work, please go to this link to hear Bill’s appearance on Mearns FM's Smith on Sunday show. You can also keep up to date with Bill’s work by visiting http://www.billrobertson55.wordpress.com, where he often shares work in progress as well as finished stories.
An active member of Aberdeen’s Lemon Tree Writer’s Group, Bill’s work has appeared in Journeys, an anthology of work from the group, and most recently in a chapbook, Himself by the Seaside. He has performed some of his stories as part of the Word and New Words festivals and other events around the north-east. He has also self published two e-books: Reindeer Dust, a short Christmas story, and When the Revolution Comes, a collection of linked short stories concerning an uprising in a fictional eastern European country. A number of his stories have featured on the website http://www.shortbreadstories.co.uk, where he has been chosen as the featured Friday story a number of times and has won a number of competitions with his short stories and flash fiction pieces.
If you would like to hear an interview with Bill and listen to him read some of his work, please go to this link to hear Bill’s appearance on Mearns FM's Smith on Sunday show. You can also keep up to date with Bill’s work by visiting http://www.billrobertson55.wordpress.com, where he often shares work in progress as well as finished stories.