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Guns were rumbling on the horizon and a cloud of dark smoke rose hazily over the city but in the crowded square the atmosphere was peaceful; in fact, almost celebratory. Music fizzed from an ancient speaker system and a young woman was singing, the individual words of her song hard to make out over the general hubbub. Children were dancing and a group of older people sat smoking upon the dried up remains of a fountain. A man led a bleating, recently purchased goat through the market; its hooves skidded reluctant against the ground as if it knew it was for the chopping block.
Nearby was a stall selling electronic parts and assorted junk, the proprietor dozing under the sun. Sara was nosing through a bin of oddments. Personally, he wasn’t interested; it was time for lunch.
Steam rose up from the grill, where fat chops of meat were cooking. He watched the sizzle, the clear fat rendering and oozing down onto the coals, the meat greying and withering. The smell was thick and smoky.
Beside the grill, laid out upon a tray, were the wares for sale. The raw pieces of meat, red and glistening. He eyed them, the thick muscle clinging to the bone. The slick opaque fat forming perfect arcs. The drops of blood clinging here and there. Fresh, and perfect.
His stomach growled.
Steven stood next to him, arms folded, considering the meat. “What do you suppose it is?” he said, dropping his voice.
His eyes were still on the raw meat. “Hm?”
“I always worry when there’s a war on,” said Steven. “You know? People get desperate. You worry what they might have resorted to –”
Catching the boys meaning, he said, “No – no, definitely not.” Steven shot him a questioning look, and he explained, “The smell’s all wrong.”
That got him a very funny look and he kicked himself mentally. Fortunately it was there turn and ducking under the awning Steven spoke to the stallholder. The movement exposed the line of his neck. That long pale stretch of skin, concealing his jugular.
Distracted, he didn’t notice Steven had finished ordering till over his shoulder he said, “What’ll it be?”
For a moment, he contemplated it. If he were to ask for what he wanted – take away one of those raw chunks of meat and tear into it. It had been so long since he’d satiated that particular craving.
But they would be repulsed.
He said, “The same, if you please.”
At the edge of the market, Steven dug into his meat on bread. A soft, unconscious grunt of enjoyment came from his throat; a trace of clear grease ran down his chin.
It was a strange thing to witness, meat eating meat. Flesh, devouring flesh. Humans were omnivores by nature, so of course it was all perfectly reasonable. But unlike his own people, they weren’t true carnivores. They could eat meat only if it was cleaned and heated to remove pathogens and to soften its texture for their blunt teeth.
There was something of the prey animal about them, their soft flesh and small teeth. The meat of whatever animals they slaughtered so like their own. He wondered if the similarity troubled them.
Sara appeared beside them, startling him out of his thoughts. “There you are.”
“We got hungry,” said Steven, his mouth full.
“Nothing for me?” she said, and Steven produced another paper-wrapped meal. “Thank you.”
Taking that as his cue, he unwrapped his own parcel and bit into his greasy and disappointing lunch.
*
The boom of an explosion, loud and close by. A flash on the darkened sky, momentarily lighting up the window of the medical station bright white.
They had found the place empty – deserted – ransacked. He sorted frantically through what remained of the medicine on offer, checking labels, finding nothing of any use. Most of the bottles were empty.
It had been four days since they had landed upon that war-torn planet and their fortunes had turned from bad to worse and behind him Steven lay bleeding upon the table and there was nothing, nothing he could do to ease the pain.
He stood for a moment, frozen, studying the label on an empty vial of morphine. There was no doctor here. He would have to behave as if he knew what he was doing. Snapping into action, he began to gather up what he needed. He slid a half empty bottle of rubbing alcohol into his pocket and raked through a tray of medical implements, selecting a scalpel – forceps – suture needle.
Then he turned to face them.
Steven lay stretched out upon the table, face grey, eyes squeezed shut. Sara’s hands pressed a wad of bloodied bandages to the wound. She looked over at him, a question in his eyes. He shook his head.
Hurrying over to the table, he touched Steven’s shoulder. “Steven,” he said. “Steven, my boy, are you with us?”
Steven’s eyes fluttered open. The boy was, he judged, a bit hazy from blood loss, but mostly clear-headed. “Just about,” Steven said weakly; then his eyes went to the scalpel in his hand and a glimmer of terror passed across his face.
He braced himself for what he had to do. “Steven, there’s no drugs here,” he said. “There’s no anaesthetic.”
With a weak groan, Steven’s head fell back against the table.
“But it has to come out,” he said, squeezing the boy’s shoulder. “Do you understand?”
Steven’s eyes opened, flicking once again to the scalpel.
“It has to come out,” he repeated.
And understanding dawned, and with it came the panic.
“No –” Half rolling over, Steven made as if to launch himself off the table, Sara’s firm grip on his shoulders forcing him back down even as he struggled. “No,” he gasped out, bucking, fighting. “Christ, no, you can’t –”
“Steven, you have to lie still,” he pleaded, adding his own weight to the fray. “Please – you mustn’t move –”
“Lie still,” Sara was saying. “Hold still –”
But Steven’s eyes were wide with panic, holding the quality of a frightened animal. He bucked in their group like a wounded deer, in that moment only able to perceive the scalpel, the terrible threat it posed to his body. If only they could sedate him. If only –
“Steven, it’s alright,” Sara said. “We’re taking care of you. You have to hold still – it’s alright.”
Her words seemed to have some effect; that or the boy tired himself out. Between them they managed to get him settled back down.
The bullet that had caught him in the abdomen was a hideous expanding round. He’d been lucky; the detonation hadn’t completed. It was a miracle that the jostling it had taken en route to the medical station hadn’t triggered it already. The bullet was now too large to come out the way it had gone in, but hadn’t yet delivered its awful cargo. If it detonated, shrapnel would tear through his body. It would rip apart his intestines; some of it would likely find its way to his lungs, perhaps even his heart. Death would be certain and if he was lucky it would be immediate.
“Do you know what you’re doing?” said Sara, pressing the bandages once again over the entry wound.
“Naturally,” he said, laying out his chosen instruments upon a tray. “I’ll have you know I studied under Joseph Lister – eighteen, what was it – 1888.”
“Oh my god,” Steven groaned weakly.
“That’s ancient medicine,” said Sara.
“Yes, and ideally suited for our current primitive conditions,” he pointed out, and gave Steven another pat on the shoulder. “You’re going to be fine, my boy. Just hold still and try to stay calm.” He nodded to Sara. “See if you can find some gloves, will you, my dear?”
There was no water at the sink. He doused his hands in the alcohol and then eased up the bandages and doused the wound, provoking a grunt of shock from Steven. “Hey –”
“It’ll be over soon,” he said in a futile attempt at reassurance. “You just hold still and try not to faint.”
Sara was coming back over with a box. “Here, Doctor.”
“Splendid,” he said, accepting a pair. “Glove up and see if you can wipe away some of the blood.”
“Oh, god,” said Steven weakly as Sara wiped the entry wound clean. He repeated it, his voice descending into a low, mumbled prayer of abject terror at what was about to be done to his body. “Oh god – oh god – oh god –”
Sara worked a makeshift gag into his mouth, silencing him. “Bite on this.”
Steven shot them the bleakest of looks.
“Keep him still,” he said.
She nodded. Whatever resistance she may have had to the operation had passed. She had accepted his authority over the situation and with her usual soldier’s discipline she put her hands on Steven’s shoulders and pinned him to the table.
Steven’s hand came up, shakily, to grip her arm.
There was no more time. He lifted the scalpel, told himself he knew what he was doing, and made the first cut.
Steven yelled into the gag. Blood oozed out of him thick and hot as he was sliced open. His skin parted so easily beneath the scalpel, exposing the red muscle below; and below that, as he cut deeper, a glisten of entrails.
And the scent of it, bloody and visceral, hit his nose, and his mouth flooded.
He hadn’t eaten in almost twenty-four hours. At the delectable sight before him, his nostrils twitched. He swallowed a mouthful of thick saliva and tried to focus.
There was the bullet, the mutable metal grotesquely swollen, but intact. There pressed against it was a stretch of Steven’s liver, dark, smooth and rich.
Blood bubbled up around the scalpel and Steven’s body twitched, still trying to fight.
“Hold still, now,” he said in a further attempt at comfort. “You’re doing very well.”
Steven slurred something around the gag, gripping Sara’s arm with a white-knuckled fist.
“Hold very, very still for this next part,” he said.
The boy’s eyes were shut, tears beading on his lashes. Sara’s gaze remained fixed on his face, studiously not watching as he was opened up.
He pressed in with the forceps and Steven whimpered high in agony; and it struck him that the boy might make that same noise were he to sink his teeth into his neck and tear at his fat jugular vein.
The forceps closed around the bullet. He held his breath, for a count of three – it didn’t detonate. Slowly, slowly he eased it out. It came out into the open air shining and bloody, a thick droplet dangling from its tip. He bore it through the air – and lowered it into the waiting bucket with a final clink.
Aloud, he said, “It’s out.”
Steven spat out the gag, and said, “It’s over?”
“It’s over,” he echoed.
Head lolling back, Steven said, “Oh my god.” He stretched out against the table, body loosening, breathing hard. “Oh my god, it’s out,” he said faintly.
Sara’s hand stroked his hair; turning his head, Steven gazed up at her in fascinated affection.
He averted his eyes form the no doubt intimate moment and returned his attention to the matter at hand. Steven’s liver was smooth and perfect. Unperforated. Miraculously, the bullet didn’t puncture it. If they could get him to a real hospital soon he would probably live.
Running his thumb over the slick surface of the liver to check it was undamaged, he thought of what it would be like to put his face into the wound and gorge himself. That perfect plump organ ripped apart between his teeth, sliding smooth and easy down his throat. Tangy, metallic, absolutely exquisite. Steven was young – and fit – an excellent specimen of a healthy human being – the quivering flesh beneath his hand would be so rich and savoury. Muscle, and fat, and skin.
“Doctor?” Steven was staring up at him, muzzy, oblivious. It would never cross his mind for a moment, of course, what his friend was contemplating. Why would it?
“Almost done, my boy,” he said, reaching for the needle. “Lie still while we stitch you up.”
Steven was quieter – braver – for the suturing and by the time he pulled the last stitch his hands were unsteady, his mouth once again watering.
He gazed at his gloved hands, sticky with blood. Bright red, vibrant and so unlike his own. Thick and glossy as syrup. His clothing was splattered with it. There was no way to wash. He’d be wearing Steven for days.
Sara was holding the boy’s hand. Voice slurring, he said, “Are you alright?”
He realised he was being addressed. “Good gracious, am I alright?” he said. “Worry about yourself, young man.” He got Sara’s attention. “Bandage him up, would you? I’m going to, ah.” He looked again at his sticky hands. “Clean up.”
He stumbled away across the room, shouldering open the door into the corridor. It was dark out there and he stood with the scent of human blood in his nostrils, frighting to catch his breath. Another explosion rumbled nearby and by its white light for a moment he saw his scarlet hands, illuminated.
The light faded. Alone in the dark, irresistibly, he brought a bloodied finger to his mouth.