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NOTE: These stories are
intended for a mature audience.

Communion
A "Vorare" Story
By
Ivan Ewert
Start at the beginning of the Vorare series

Gordon woke slowly, the deep rot-root of hunger prodding him from the release of dreams. Peeling his gaunt cheek from the paste of night-drool in which he woke every morning, sitting up from the concrete floor which served as mattress and as pillow, he ran his forearm across his lips with an appalling slowness and took in the Pen.

George lay still, unmolested and caught up in the net of sleep. Every night on retiring, Gordon's prayer was the same: "May we both persevere." That, and no more, served as mantra, dream, and hope. It had been ten days since another face had come to the Pen, ten days since food arrived, ten days of wrenching and terrible hunger for Gordon. George was going on day twenty-six, and barely fluttered his eyelids when spoken to.

Water was sprayed in daily from outside, over the walls and through the tiny airway. What he could catch in a bucket, Gordon drank, lifting George's head from the concrete to pour a small amount down his throat. He had learned to be careful ? the first sip was almost always choked back up, and Gordon maneuvered the bucket to catch that first refusal lest they want for another mouthful before the next day. The summer heat was fierce and terrible, the lights were never dimmed. Darkness and comfort were alien to the Pen, and so what he could not catch in the bucket he wallowed in like the swine without, desperate to cool his body and wash the stink from his frame.

The washtub in the corner he used for his own reduced eliminations ? George was too weak to walk, and pissed himself where he lay. He had been too weak to resist the day Gordon stripped him, tying the pants-leg and shirtsleeve together to form a rope. Adding his own clothes, he had been able to pull himself up to the rafters, looking out over the Farm and moaning softly at the sight of green grass, blue water, the sun in the eastern sky.

"I could hide. Up, George. I could hide up in the rafters, drop on them when they come."

"If you knew when they were coming." George's voice was a terrible thin shell.

"I could watch for them."

"You're not strong enough to stay up there and keep watch."

Gordon had lowered himself shakily with a nod. "You want your clothes?"

"No. Stink." His cheeks blew out with the effort of drawing breath. "Keep them for when you're too tired to go on."

"George. We'll persevere."

"Keep them. Tie them up."

Heated anger rose up in Gordon, burning back the hunger. "If I'm too weak to stay up and keep watch, I'm too weak too hang myself. I won't give them that satisfaction."

"I'll be gone first, Gordon. You've been good to me. You do what we're both thinking."

"Don't, George."

"No. You've been good to me, and if it's you, then I'll rest peaceably. As long as it's not their table. Just wait until I'm dead, please. Please, just wait. Just a little longer. So hungry."

"They'll be coming back. When they do we'll burn them together, George. Burn it all." The heat continued to rise in Gordon's chest, spitting his words like hot grease into the air, carried on the foam of spittle. "They'll come back to see how long we lasted and how strong we are after all these days, they'll come back and get a surprise to see we're still here. See we're both still here. You've got to get up, George. Got to be standing to show them."

"Wish I'd kept eating," said George. "Sixteen days I fasted. No idea you were coming. Food wasted, washed away and carried out to the hogs, sixteen meals gone to the swine and the devil. Legion. Legion in the swine. Walking among them, Gordon, famine and death, visions and revelations. You see it? I see it, Gordon."

Gordon moved to his side. "You're hallucinating, George. I had it, too, back in the winter, talking to roadkill."

"I know. I know it's not real, that's the revelation. No walls, Gordon. No swine. No sin. No legion and no sky. It's above and around and it's blood-famine hungry. God is red, Gordon. Tumpa tumpa tumpa ... slow and steady, God is red."

"Shh." Gordon sat tailor-fashion, one hand on either side of George's head. His hair had begun to thin and fall days ago, his body shedding whatever it could to keep nutrients within. "Shh."

"No, no. Talk. Keeps sleep away, little sleep to deeper. Gordon, I'm hungry. I'm so hungry. Are you hungry?"

"Yeah, George."

"I'm so hungry. I can feel it, crows in my navel, buzzards in my craw. Scavengers. That's what we become. Wise and hungry and ever so hated, Gordon, hated ever so. Hate them so."

"Stay clear, George. Stay clear."

"I'm so hungry, Gordon. I don't want to die and leave them breathing."

Gordon kept both hands on George's head. "You want to live, George?"

"I want to live."

"No matter what comes after?"

"Nothing coming after worse ... I understand, Gordon, you do too ... just wait till I'm dead, please, please ..."

"I can't, George."

Gordon lifted his right hand to his mouth, shaking with hunger and the sudden decision to cut away the option of surrender. Putting his pinky finger to his mouth and baring his teeth, he took the delicate skin from the side of the nail and brought his incisors down, a small slice of skin with no flesh beneath, took it like a drying grape between his teeth and bit through the skin.

There was no real pain, just a curious pinching sensation. He did not sever skin from flesh, but began to worry at the little point he had created on his body, taking the base of that extension in his teeth and tugging slightly like a wolf at the body of a fresh deer, like a crow at the belly of a long-dead beast.

In seconds, he had a small strip of flesh torn from his finger. His mouth flooded with saliva at the feel, the sense, the promise of the flesh. He had done it for George, but his hunger was great. He swallowed it down.

"George," he said, "George."

"What?"

"Stay awake, George. Stay with me just a little while longer." He took the other side of the nail, repeating the process, his hand a withered claw pressed against his cheek, the invisible hollows where flesh had been cupped in his palm, fingers spider-splayed across the ridge of his cheek, worrying at the soft flesh beside his nail.

This time he did not swallow, but kept the tiny bit of skin on the tip of his tongue. Reaching his hand around from cheek to lips, he took it between thumb and forefinger. A tiny strand of saliva stretched out with the morsel, and he sucked quickly on his fingers to take that back in. His now-moist fingers came to George's mouth, placing the bit of skin between his own thin lips.

"Stay awake, George. Swallow."

George's chin rose up as he took it in, opening his eyes slightly. "What is it? Where did you get it?"

"Shhh, George. Stay awake."

His eyes closed again as Gordon began on his ring finger. As he pulled his hand away this time, he saw the tiny divots he had made in his fingertips, glistening in the fluorescent light. These were no blood-red, gaping wounds; but delicate scallop-cuts, barely deeper in color than the pale skin which surrounded them. He took it up again, and gently passed it to his fellow prisoner.

"Gordon. Gordon." The voice was still weak. "What are you doing?"

"I'm not waiting, George."

George did not swallow, pressing the bit of alien flesh between his teeth. His chin tightened as he bit down slowly, opening his eyes again.

"You're crazy, Gordon. There won't be enough. There won't ever be enough to make a difference."

"Do you know that? Have you tested and tried?"

"No."

"Then be still and eat. If it's not enough, you die, and then I have another choice to make." He couldn't ignore the possibility any longer, but he wouldn't make that choice until the time had come ? until there was no other choice left to him. Once that moment came, he would know if this had been enough, these shreds of himself, these crumbs of communion between the two men.

George coughed weakly. "It won't be enough."

"Do you want to die, George?" Gordon's speech was softened by the finger in his mouth, on to the middle finger, now. Bite down, take the root, worry the flesh, feed. Strip away the excess, the cosmetic, the wasted and unnecessary skin on flesh on bone. Feed. "Eat. Swallow. Do you want to die?"

"No." His own voice was thick with hunger.

"Tell me what it is you want, George. Tell me what you dream of."

"I want them to burn."

"Then lie still. We're not waiting any longer. That time is over. And then you'll have a choice to make. Do you hear me?"

"I'm awake. Yes. Yes. I hear you."

"We'll give this over to one another. Get you standing again, however much it may take. I don't have to die to give you everything you need. What's mine is yours, George." He had been through all the fingers on his left hand now, turning to the skin alongside his thumb. "Digits first. You hear? It's easy once you start. Soft and solid and at the ends of your frame."

"I don't want to know."

"You're going to have to," said Gordon gently. "It's not so horrible. Children do it without thinking. Neurotics, depressives, they worry at their hands. Feet next if needs must, George, digits all about. It might not fill you but it'll be enough, and it'll regrow."

"Like a garden."

"Like a garden harvest. Take what you need and there will be ever more."

"They'll know."

"Maybe they will. They're sharp and bright and they're hunters. But they're going to see it as weakness, George. I'll tell you what they'll do. When they notice it they'll smile and they'll feed us enough for only one of us to get a meal. They'll see that we've started to gut ourselves and they'll take us for the animals they hunt and raise, but we'll know better. We'll harvest what we must from the growing gardens of our flesh and we'll both eat of one another and we'll live and grow. We'll make the Pen a greenhouse and we'll be filled on one another."

"More," said George, his voice no longer weak. "More. Then help me sit."

Gordon held his right ring finger between his lips. "Have you made your choice?"

"I'll live. You'll eat. And come the end they'll reap the terrible harvest they've sown."

Story and image by Ivan Ewert, Copyright 2006