Pantry
By
Scott Urban
Norton glanced up from the time-wasting game on his cellphone to the clock mounted above the food pantry’s door.
Fifteen more minutes to go, he noted. I can probably start shutting things down. Haven’t had a client in the past thirty minutes.
He stood up slowly, his knees protesting after having been in a seated position for so long. His throat produced an involuntary little grunt, and he hated hearing it. The sound of old age creeping up the bones, he thought. No way to flush it out, and no true way to slow it down.
He crossed the few feet to the tall front windows which, in earlier, more prosperous times, had allowed pedestrians to look inside when the building had housed a mercantile establishment. Although only late afternoon, dusk was making it already difficult to see across the street. With a flicker, a streetlight came on at the end of the block, and a pool of illumination washed the corner.
Heading into winter, he mused. It’s not that cold, but I can feel that underlying nip on the wind. Just about ready to frost the grass and ice up the river.
He hoped Everett and his wife were all right. Everett was a personal friend and his fellow volunteer this afternoon. But he’d received a call from his wife an hour into their shift. She was experiencing sudden heart palpitations and a shooting pain down her left arm.
“You want me to stay?” Ev had asked Norton, holding the phone away from his mouth. “I can just tell her to go with the squad and meet her later at the hospital.”
Norton had almost smacked his friend across his scalp. “Jesus God, no! Get out of here! I can handle this gig on my own! You need to take care of your wife! Don’t let her know you even asked me that!”
Everett’s face had reddened at Norton’s sharp tone; he’d run out of the food pantry without another word. Norton fumed at his friend’s hesitation: As if I need another pair of hands to load up a box of cereal, two cans of vegetables, and some frozen chicken breasts!
He was just about to flip over the sign hanging in the front door’s glass pane so that it would read CLOSED rather than OPEN. But then he saw a figure, passing through that small circle of light from the streetlamp, treading slowly but with determination in his direction. As it drew nearer, Norton could see it was a man, probably a few years older than himself. He was wearing a shirt so old that the camouflage might have been due to stains, rather than dye. His frayed jeans were held up by a rope knotted at his waist. At first Norton couldn’t determine what the other had on his feet, but then he realized the sandals had been fashioned from the rubber of automobile tires.
Norton turned the doorknob and held the door open for the newcomer. “Come on in, sir.” He tried to make his voice sound warm and welcoming. He was well-aware of how many individuals looked down on themselves for having to utilize the benefits of the food pantry. Pervasive food insecurity in this portion of the state wreaked havoc with the souls of countless unfortunates. Many experienced shame because they couldn’t put meals on their tables themselves.
The man nodded to Norton, then licked his lips. Norton caught the smell of the client’s body odor and thought, Damn, that’s worse than a high school boys’ locker room! He vowed not to inhale too deeply while his guest was indoors.
“Is this . . . is this the pantry I heard about? Where they give away food?” The man’s voice was raspy and halting, as if he hadn’t conversed with anyone else for a considerable length of time.
“It sure is.” Norton forced a broad smile. “You’re just in the nick of time. I was about to close up for the day, but I’m happy to make time for you.” Norton stepped back behind the registration desk. “If you’ll just come this way, we can get you signed in and get you some goods.”
The newcomer’s eyes darted back and forth across the pantry’s narrow width, taking in the table, the metal shelving, and the industrial refrigerator.
“Now, have you been here before, Mr. . . . ” Norton allowed his voice to trail off, hoping his new client would fill the void. The man’s lower lip quivered, as if he were having to build up the strength to reply.
“Seth Longyear. You can call me Seth.” His eyes dropped to the floor, now scuffed by the passage of many clients during the afternoon. “No, I haven’t been here before.”
“Mr. Longyear, I’m glad you stopped by. If you’ll just let me see some identification, I can get you registered.”
Seth blinked, hard, several times in rapid succession. “What—what do you mean, ‘identification’? I told you my name. I don’t have another.”
Oh, Everett, why did your wife have to pick today to have a heart attack?
“Well, Seth, usually it’s a driver’s license, but if you don’t have one, that’s all right. I can take a state ID card. I can accept a utility bill, like rent, water, or waste removal, as long as it’s got your name on it.”
Seth slowly shook his head. “I—I don’t have any of those. I’ve got my daddy’s place out in the woods, and I don’t have anything like you do here in town. No wires, no plumbing. I just do like my daddy taught me and like how I tried to show my family. But they all done left me, run off to the city. Said they couldn’t stand it out there anymore. . . . ”
Norton felt a sympathetic pang in his heart. “I understand, Seth. My own wife, Rochelle, she . . . she took the girls and left me a long time ago, when I told her I wasn’t leaving the state, even though I knew I wasn’t going to be able to get ahead in the world like she wanted me to. So I get where you’re coming from.
“But . . . ”—and here Norton spread his arms out to either side—“the state requires me to register all folks receiving assistance from us. It’s just one of the rules. Now, what I can do is give you one of these flyers that contain information abouts the days and times we’re open. Then you can set about collecting something we can accept for ID. All that’s on the flyer, too.”
Seth’s shoulders began to tremble. “Mister . . . I’m not sure you understand how far I’ve traveled today, just to be standing here in front of you, begging for a bite to eat. It don’t matter how long you give me; there’s no way I can come up with any of those . . . papers you want, because I simply don’t live that way.”
Norton turned his head right, then left, as if the walls themselves would aid in coming up with a different response. “I’m really sorry, but that’s just the way this is set up. . . . ”
Seth cocked an eyebrow. “Are you the only one here?”
Norton shrugged. “There’s usually another volunteer, but he had a family emergency and had to leave. So I’m afraid it’s just me.”
The other nodded in manic fashion. “So—if you were to let me have just a little bit to eat, no one else would have to know about it, right?”
Norton heaved a deep sigh. “You’re asking me to break the rules. I could get in big trouble. I don’t—”
Seth’s body suddenly arched over the table. Only now did Norton realize how much taller the other man was, and only now did he notice how wiry and steely his limbs appeared to be. “Mister, I’ve got to have some food. Hunting’s been terrible this year. My family’s deserted me, and I just don’t have the strength I used to. If you let me have a little something, I’ll go away, and I won’t come back. I won’t tell no one about it, and you don’t have to, neither.”
Norton realized he had pushed himself against the chair back. “Dammit . . . you’re right; no one else is here.” Norton, you’re too much of a soft touch. “No one’ll ever know whether or not I gave you some goods; they just don’t keep that close an eye on records. I can make sure you get a little something for your trip here today.”
He stood up and moved away from the registration table. Over at the grey metal shelves, he picked up the two varieties of cereal from which clients were able to choose. “Seth, which of these flavors would you like?”
Seth’s nose wrinkled as if he’d caught a whiff of something off. “Don’t want none of that, thanks.”
Norton nodded and returned the boxes to the shelves. “Okay. I’ve got canned green beans, corn, peas, even some beets. You can have two of those.”
Seth’s hands were balled up into fists. He beat them against the outside of his thighs, striking them hard enough that Norton believed Seth might be bruising himself. “Good God, man! I’ve got to have something with substance! Something I can sink my teeth into!”
Norton held his arms out, palms forward in a placating gesture. “Sure, sure, I get you.” He moved over to the fridge and opened the silver door of the freezer. “A man’s got to have something substantial.” Reaching inside, he pulled out a package of chicken breasts with his right hand and a pound-and-a-half of ground beef with his left.
He extended the meat toward Seth. “I’ve got chicken and beef. Which would you prefer?”
Seth brought his hands up to the sides of his head. He was clearly pushing inward on his skull, as if his brain were swelling beyond its normal volume. “I . . . I can’t eat that!” His voice was now pitched much higher, his larynx clearly strained. “I’m starved! I can’t tell you the last time I ate!”
Norton couldn’t help himself: he shrugged and let his smile fall away. “Well, of course, you’ve got to let it thaw. You can’t cook it until you’ve let it—”
And his voice dwindled away to a whisper as he watched Seth reach behind his back and grasp something. When the hand came forward, Norton saw the other man holding a knife with a long, thin, silvery blade. It was the one thing on Seth’s body that was clean and well taken care of.
He must have a sheath strapped to the small of his back, Norton thought. Norton had been fishing with his father many times when he was much younger, and he knew the sight of a gutting knife. He also remembered how easily one of those blades could slice, going through flesh, bone, and gristle as if merely passing through water.
“Now hold on, Mr. Longyear—” Norton sputtered, wondering how what should have been a genial transaction had taken such a nightmarish turn.
“No, goddammit! You hold on!” Spittle was now dropping to the floor from Seth’s loose lips. “I thought there’d be more people here today, so I’d have more of a selection to choose from! I know you’re trying to help me, and I don’t want to hurt you, but I’ve got to have some fresh meat, and you’re just going to have to do!”
Norton’s brain deliberately refused to interpret what he was hearing.
“Look, I can tell I’m annoying you, and I don’t want to do that. I can get someone else here to help you if you’ll let me step over there and pick up my cellphone—”
Norton raised his left arm toward the registration table, but Seth thrust his knife-hand forward in a threatening motion.
“Mister, I don’t want to hurt you anymore than necessary, but you’ve got flesh you won’t even miss.” Seth’s eyes were rolling in his sockets in a manner Norton had never seen before. “I know how to do it so you won’t bleed out. I can’t tote all of you home with me anyway, so I just need a small portion. A forearm or a shinbone. Hell, I’ll even let you choose. But I’ve got to have something in my stomach, now!”
Norton’s mind raced as it never had before, even when he’d learned about his impending divorce. I could scream for help, but who’s gonna hear me? No one else is in the community center, and no one’s passed by on the sidewalk since I started talking to this madman. He had to force himself to breathe; it seemed like his lungs had forgotten how. And my cellphone might as well be a mile away!
Norton realized he had no feeling in his fingers, and the lack of sensation was creeping up his hand. He was still holding the two packages of frozen meat, the frigid temperature deadening his nerves. He glanced down--chicken and beef.
And what does that make me? a deranged portion of his brain asked.
Long pig, I guess.
He didn’t stop to think about what he was about to do. Without consciously processing it, he realized his salvation was up to him. There would be no divine intervention; the ceiling wasn’t about to collapse on Seth; a cop wasn’t going to show up to put him in cuffs. Right hand first, quickly followed by the left, he hurled the hefty packages at his client. Seth wasn’t expecting such a direct assault. The chicken breasts clipped his temple and forced his head back; the beef rammed into his collar bone.
Seth gave voice to an outraged cry. Norton had never heard such a vocalization before; it was far more animal than human.
Norton lunged forward, stretching his right arm out for his cellphone.
A split second later, he realized that was a serious error in judgment.
Seth’s right arm pinwheeled around the back of his head, then the edge of the blade came down just as Norton’s hand landed flat on the tabletop. Seth couldn’t have been aiming very well. It was likely he intended to remove Norton’s hand at the wrist, but, blinded by pain as he was, the knife cut through the knuckle connecting Norton’s little finger to the hand.
Norton had been holding the frozen package long enough that he’d numbed his fingers, so, at first, he only felt incredible pressure in his hand that almost immediately dissipated. But he looked down to see a garishly red gout of blood spurt from the small stump where his little finger had been. The pain had yet to hit, but Norton knew it was on its way . . . and he might not be able to handle the sensation when it hit his receptors.
He looked up at his opponent and noticed Seth’s eyes were drawn, as if magnetically, to the severed digit. Norton was now howling too; his voice and Seth’s rising in a throat-shredding duet must have been able to be heard on the far side of town. Seth brought his knife arm back in order to gain momentum for another strike. Norton swung on his heel and allowed his right arm to swing behind the vertical strut of the shelf behind him. The stump of his little finger pumped arterial blood across the table, the wall, and the floor, as if it were an organic container of spray paint.
Norton yanked as hard as he could with the crook of his elbow--
And the heavy shelf, along with dozens of brightly-colored cereal boxes, toppled onto Seth, who collapsed underneath, screaming obscenities Norton couldn’t even make out. The knife skittered out of Seth’s hand and went spinning across the floor like the toy of a psychotic child.
Pick it up! the reptile portion of Norton’s brain ordered him. Use it! Stab him—in his neck, in his eyes! Kill him before he kills you!
“Fuck this,” Norton muttered. He jammed his damaged right hand against his chest, doing his best to press the stump into his shirt and mitigate the blood loss. “And fuck you!” he spat at his client, who even now was scrabbling to free himself from the chaotic pile of donated food items.
Cellphone? No, he didn’t need it; he could get a new one. What you have to do is survive. He stumbled toward the door, nearly tripping over his own feet. No! Not now! Don’t let me fall! The pain had hit now: it felt as if a red-hot wire had passed through his flesh and the heat was radiating out to every nerve in his body. He could feel a faint coming on, but he knew that would be fatal: Seth would be on him, and the man wouldn’t be satisfied with merely his fingers.
Norton fumbled at the doorknob with his left hand. It seemed to take minutes for him to unlatch it and open the door. He thought he could make it to the police station, two blocks down the same street, before he lost consciousness. He didn’t really want to look back, but his eyes returned to the interior of the pantry one last time before he reeled onto the sidewalk.
Seth had managed to extricate himself from the tumbled food items. He was on his knees behind the registration table, and he had snatched up Norton’s little finger. He held it in front of his face as if he’d recovered a treasured prize he’d lost long ago. He was crying, the trail of his tears cleaning the grime from his cheeks.
“‘Food pantry’!” Seth was shrieking. “What good is it? If it isn’t fresh and bleeding . . . what good is it?”
And then Norton’s little finger was gone.
SCOTT H. URBAN has been a voice in dark fantasy for several decades, with prose, poetry, and reviews appearing in numerous print and electronic outlets. New stories have recently been published in MIDNIGHT TALES!, THE HORROR ZINE, and CHILDREN OF THE DEAD. This year, his stories are included in the anthologies BLACK CAT TALES (Black Cat Publishing) and DOLLS IN THE ATTIC (TerrorCore Publishing). His novella THE KNOWING (Night Walk Publishing) is available through Amazon's Kindle store. A former public-school teacher and administrator, he now writes full-time in southeastern Ohio.
By
Scott Urban
Norton glanced up from the time-wasting game on his cellphone to the clock mounted above the food pantry’s door.
Fifteen more minutes to go, he noted. I can probably start shutting things down. Haven’t had a client in the past thirty minutes.
He stood up slowly, his knees protesting after having been in a seated position for so long. His throat produced an involuntary little grunt, and he hated hearing it. The sound of old age creeping up the bones, he thought. No way to flush it out, and no true way to slow it down.
He crossed the few feet to the tall front windows which, in earlier, more prosperous times, had allowed pedestrians to look inside when the building had housed a mercantile establishment. Although only late afternoon, dusk was making it already difficult to see across the street. With a flicker, a streetlight came on at the end of the block, and a pool of illumination washed the corner.
Heading into winter, he mused. It’s not that cold, but I can feel that underlying nip on the wind. Just about ready to frost the grass and ice up the river.
He hoped Everett and his wife were all right. Everett was a personal friend and his fellow volunteer this afternoon. But he’d received a call from his wife an hour into their shift. She was experiencing sudden heart palpitations and a shooting pain down her left arm.
“You want me to stay?” Ev had asked Norton, holding the phone away from his mouth. “I can just tell her to go with the squad and meet her later at the hospital.”
Norton had almost smacked his friend across his scalp. “Jesus God, no! Get out of here! I can handle this gig on my own! You need to take care of your wife! Don’t let her know you even asked me that!”
Everett’s face had reddened at Norton’s sharp tone; he’d run out of the food pantry without another word. Norton fumed at his friend’s hesitation: As if I need another pair of hands to load up a box of cereal, two cans of vegetables, and some frozen chicken breasts!
He was just about to flip over the sign hanging in the front door’s glass pane so that it would read CLOSED rather than OPEN. But then he saw a figure, passing through that small circle of light from the streetlamp, treading slowly but with determination in his direction. As it drew nearer, Norton could see it was a man, probably a few years older than himself. He was wearing a shirt so old that the camouflage might have been due to stains, rather than dye. His frayed jeans were held up by a rope knotted at his waist. At first Norton couldn’t determine what the other had on his feet, but then he realized the sandals had been fashioned from the rubber of automobile tires.
Norton turned the doorknob and held the door open for the newcomer. “Come on in, sir.” He tried to make his voice sound warm and welcoming. He was well-aware of how many individuals looked down on themselves for having to utilize the benefits of the food pantry. Pervasive food insecurity in this portion of the state wreaked havoc with the souls of countless unfortunates. Many experienced shame because they couldn’t put meals on their tables themselves.
The man nodded to Norton, then licked his lips. Norton caught the smell of the client’s body odor and thought, Damn, that’s worse than a high school boys’ locker room! He vowed not to inhale too deeply while his guest was indoors.
“Is this . . . is this the pantry I heard about? Where they give away food?” The man’s voice was raspy and halting, as if he hadn’t conversed with anyone else for a considerable length of time.
“It sure is.” Norton forced a broad smile. “You’re just in the nick of time. I was about to close up for the day, but I’m happy to make time for you.” Norton stepped back behind the registration desk. “If you’ll just come this way, we can get you signed in and get you some goods.”
The newcomer’s eyes darted back and forth across the pantry’s narrow width, taking in the table, the metal shelving, and the industrial refrigerator.
“Now, have you been here before, Mr. . . . ” Norton allowed his voice to trail off, hoping his new client would fill the void. The man’s lower lip quivered, as if he were having to build up the strength to reply.
“Seth Longyear. You can call me Seth.” His eyes dropped to the floor, now scuffed by the passage of many clients during the afternoon. “No, I haven’t been here before.”
“Mr. Longyear, I’m glad you stopped by. If you’ll just let me see some identification, I can get you registered.”
Seth blinked, hard, several times in rapid succession. “What—what do you mean, ‘identification’? I told you my name. I don’t have another.”
Oh, Everett, why did your wife have to pick today to have a heart attack?
“Well, Seth, usually it’s a driver’s license, but if you don’t have one, that’s all right. I can take a state ID card. I can accept a utility bill, like rent, water, or waste removal, as long as it’s got your name on it.”
Seth slowly shook his head. “I—I don’t have any of those. I’ve got my daddy’s place out in the woods, and I don’t have anything like you do here in town. No wires, no plumbing. I just do like my daddy taught me and like how I tried to show my family. But they all done left me, run off to the city. Said they couldn’t stand it out there anymore. . . . ”
Norton felt a sympathetic pang in his heart. “I understand, Seth. My own wife, Rochelle, she . . . she took the girls and left me a long time ago, when I told her I wasn’t leaving the state, even though I knew I wasn’t going to be able to get ahead in the world like she wanted me to. So I get where you’re coming from.
“But . . . ”—and here Norton spread his arms out to either side—“the state requires me to register all folks receiving assistance from us. It’s just one of the rules. Now, what I can do is give you one of these flyers that contain information abouts the days and times we’re open. Then you can set about collecting something we can accept for ID. All that’s on the flyer, too.”
Seth’s shoulders began to tremble. “Mister . . . I’m not sure you understand how far I’ve traveled today, just to be standing here in front of you, begging for a bite to eat. It don’t matter how long you give me; there’s no way I can come up with any of those . . . papers you want, because I simply don’t live that way.”
Norton turned his head right, then left, as if the walls themselves would aid in coming up with a different response. “I’m really sorry, but that’s just the way this is set up. . . . ”
Seth cocked an eyebrow. “Are you the only one here?”
Norton shrugged. “There’s usually another volunteer, but he had a family emergency and had to leave. So I’m afraid it’s just me.”
The other nodded in manic fashion. “So—if you were to let me have just a little bit to eat, no one else would have to know about it, right?”
Norton heaved a deep sigh. “You’re asking me to break the rules. I could get in big trouble. I don’t—”
Seth’s body suddenly arched over the table. Only now did Norton realize how much taller the other man was, and only now did he notice how wiry and steely his limbs appeared to be. “Mister, I’ve got to have some food. Hunting’s been terrible this year. My family’s deserted me, and I just don’t have the strength I used to. If you let me have a little something, I’ll go away, and I won’t come back. I won’t tell no one about it, and you don’t have to, neither.”
Norton realized he had pushed himself against the chair back. “Dammit . . . you’re right; no one else is here.” Norton, you’re too much of a soft touch. “No one’ll ever know whether or not I gave you some goods; they just don’t keep that close an eye on records. I can make sure you get a little something for your trip here today.”
He stood up and moved away from the registration table. Over at the grey metal shelves, he picked up the two varieties of cereal from which clients were able to choose. “Seth, which of these flavors would you like?”
Seth’s nose wrinkled as if he’d caught a whiff of something off. “Don’t want none of that, thanks.”
Norton nodded and returned the boxes to the shelves. “Okay. I’ve got canned green beans, corn, peas, even some beets. You can have two of those.”
Seth’s hands were balled up into fists. He beat them against the outside of his thighs, striking them hard enough that Norton believed Seth might be bruising himself. “Good God, man! I’ve got to have something with substance! Something I can sink my teeth into!”
Norton held his arms out, palms forward in a placating gesture. “Sure, sure, I get you.” He moved over to the fridge and opened the silver door of the freezer. “A man’s got to have something substantial.” Reaching inside, he pulled out a package of chicken breasts with his right hand and a pound-and-a-half of ground beef with his left.
He extended the meat toward Seth. “I’ve got chicken and beef. Which would you prefer?”
Seth brought his hands up to the sides of his head. He was clearly pushing inward on his skull, as if his brain were swelling beyond its normal volume. “I . . . I can’t eat that!” His voice was now pitched much higher, his larynx clearly strained. “I’m starved! I can’t tell you the last time I ate!”
Norton couldn’t help himself: he shrugged and let his smile fall away. “Well, of course, you’ve got to let it thaw. You can’t cook it until you’ve let it—”
And his voice dwindled away to a whisper as he watched Seth reach behind his back and grasp something. When the hand came forward, Norton saw the other man holding a knife with a long, thin, silvery blade. It was the one thing on Seth’s body that was clean and well taken care of.
He must have a sheath strapped to the small of his back, Norton thought. Norton had been fishing with his father many times when he was much younger, and he knew the sight of a gutting knife. He also remembered how easily one of those blades could slice, going through flesh, bone, and gristle as if merely passing through water.
“Now hold on, Mr. Longyear—” Norton sputtered, wondering how what should have been a genial transaction had taken such a nightmarish turn.
“No, goddammit! You hold on!” Spittle was now dropping to the floor from Seth’s loose lips. “I thought there’d be more people here today, so I’d have more of a selection to choose from! I know you’re trying to help me, and I don’t want to hurt you, but I’ve got to have some fresh meat, and you’re just going to have to do!”
Norton’s brain deliberately refused to interpret what he was hearing.
“Look, I can tell I’m annoying you, and I don’t want to do that. I can get someone else here to help you if you’ll let me step over there and pick up my cellphone—”
Norton raised his left arm toward the registration table, but Seth thrust his knife-hand forward in a threatening motion.
“Mister, I don’t want to hurt you anymore than necessary, but you’ve got flesh you won’t even miss.” Seth’s eyes were rolling in his sockets in a manner Norton had never seen before. “I know how to do it so you won’t bleed out. I can’t tote all of you home with me anyway, so I just need a small portion. A forearm or a shinbone. Hell, I’ll even let you choose. But I’ve got to have something in my stomach, now!”
Norton’s mind raced as it never had before, even when he’d learned about his impending divorce. I could scream for help, but who’s gonna hear me? No one else is in the community center, and no one’s passed by on the sidewalk since I started talking to this madman. He had to force himself to breathe; it seemed like his lungs had forgotten how. And my cellphone might as well be a mile away!
Norton realized he had no feeling in his fingers, and the lack of sensation was creeping up his hand. He was still holding the two packages of frozen meat, the frigid temperature deadening his nerves. He glanced down--chicken and beef.
And what does that make me? a deranged portion of his brain asked.
Long pig, I guess.
He didn’t stop to think about what he was about to do. Without consciously processing it, he realized his salvation was up to him. There would be no divine intervention; the ceiling wasn’t about to collapse on Seth; a cop wasn’t going to show up to put him in cuffs. Right hand first, quickly followed by the left, he hurled the hefty packages at his client. Seth wasn’t expecting such a direct assault. The chicken breasts clipped his temple and forced his head back; the beef rammed into his collar bone.
Seth gave voice to an outraged cry. Norton had never heard such a vocalization before; it was far more animal than human.
Norton lunged forward, stretching his right arm out for his cellphone.
A split second later, he realized that was a serious error in judgment.
Seth’s right arm pinwheeled around the back of his head, then the edge of the blade came down just as Norton’s hand landed flat on the tabletop. Seth couldn’t have been aiming very well. It was likely he intended to remove Norton’s hand at the wrist, but, blinded by pain as he was, the knife cut through the knuckle connecting Norton’s little finger to the hand.
Norton had been holding the frozen package long enough that he’d numbed his fingers, so, at first, he only felt incredible pressure in his hand that almost immediately dissipated. But he looked down to see a garishly red gout of blood spurt from the small stump where his little finger had been. The pain had yet to hit, but Norton knew it was on its way . . . and he might not be able to handle the sensation when it hit his receptors.
He looked up at his opponent and noticed Seth’s eyes were drawn, as if magnetically, to the severed digit. Norton was now howling too; his voice and Seth’s rising in a throat-shredding duet must have been able to be heard on the far side of town. Seth brought his knife arm back in order to gain momentum for another strike. Norton swung on his heel and allowed his right arm to swing behind the vertical strut of the shelf behind him. The stump of his little finger pumped arterial blood across the table, the wall, and the floor, as if it were an organic container of spray paint.
Norton yanked as hard as he could with the crook of his elbow--
And the heavy shelf, along with dozens of brightly-colored cereal boxes, toppled onto Seth, who collapsed underneath, screaming obscenities Norton couldn’t even make out. The knife skittered out of Seth’s hand and went spinning across the floor like the toy of a psychotic child.
Pick it up! the reptile portion of Norton’s brain ordered him. Use it! Stab him—in his neck, in his eyes! Kill him before he kills you!
“Fuck this,” Norton muttered. He jammed his damaged right hand against his chest, doing his best to press the stump into his shirt and mitigate the blood loss. “And fuck you!” he spat at his client, who even now was scrabbling to free himself from the chaotic pile of donated food items.
Cellphone? No, he didn’t need it; he could get a new one. What you have to do is survive. He stumbled toward the door, nearly tripping over his own feet. No! Not now! Don’t let me fall! The pain had hit now: it felt as if a red-hot wire had passed through his flesh and the heat was radiating out to every nerve in his body. He could feel a faint coming on, but he knew that would be fatal: Seth would be on him, and the man wouldn’t be satisfied with merely his fingers.
Norton fumbled at the doorknob with his left hand. It seemed to take minutes for him to unlatch it and open the door. He thought he could make it to the police station, two blocks down the same street, before he lost consciousness. He didn’t really want to look back, but his eyes returned to the interior of the pantry one last time before he reeled onto the sidewalk.
Seth had managed to extricate himself from the tumbled food items. He was on his knees behind the registration table, and he had snatched up Norton’s little finger. He held it in front of his face as if he’d recovered a treasured prize he’d lost long ago. He was crying, the trail of his tears cleaning the grime from his cheeks.
“‘Food pantry’!” Seth was shrieking. “What good is it? If it isn’t fresh and bleeding . . . what good is it?”
And then Norton’s little finger was gone.
SCOTT H. URBAN has been a voice in dark fantasy for several decades, with prose, poetry, and reviews appearing in numerous print and electronic outlets. New stories have recently been published in MIDNIGHT TALES!, THE HORROR ZINE, and CHILDREN OF THE DEAD. This year, his stories are included in the anthologies BLACK CAT TALES (Black Cat Publishing) and DOLLS IN THE ATTIC (TerrorCore Publishing). His novella THE KNOWING (Night Walk Publishing) is available through Amazon's Kindle store. A former public-school teacher and administrator, he now writes full-time in southeastern Ohio.
