tattoo. He hadn’t noticed the man’s tattoos, and with his luck, it was probably ass. He couldn’t help but chuckle at the thought. Here he was, in the middle of a cavern packed with cannibals, and he could possibly be about to tear into the ass cheeks of a man who’d died in the Game.
“Salt would be good. Maybe some Tony’s,” he said, referring to the classic Cajun spice in the green bottle. He stirred the soup with his finger, sipped the broth and let the warm liquid flow down his throat. “But I can dig this just like it is. Man that’s good.”
John looked up at him, eyebrows furrowed. “Well, I don’t know if I’d say that or not, but it’s definitely better than the hunger.”
Darius wasn’t surprised by the ease with which John had fallen into cannibalism, despite his urgent protests against it. He knew hunger and he knew what hunger did to a man. There was no more base instinct, no more purer form of survival instinct than the urge to beat the demon hunger. Darius had been hungry before, in his days before prison, and he knew from experience that if he went a long time without eating that he’d start losing muscle mass. He couldn’t have that. Muscle mass, he figured, along with general street skills, were what were going to keep him alive during the Game.
“Anything is better than hunger,” Darius agreed.
“Are you going to tell the others?”
“Why would I care?”
“I don’t know,” John answered. “I was thinking it might be awkward, but eventually, they’ll be in the line as well. I don’t guess it really matters.”
“No,” Darius said, taking a careful bite of the boiled flesh. It didn’t particularly taste like anything he could think of, though the texture was somewhat like pork. It hadn’t been boiled enough, though, and was chewy. He chewed on it for a few minutes until it was finally soft enough to swallow. The watery soup he downed in one shot and though his hunger was temporarily abated, he knew he could eat a lot more.
“Well, I don’t feel any different,” he told John.
“What do you mean?”
“I thought once I ate people I’d feel different.”
“Evil or something?”
“At least guilty,” he said, wishing he had another bowl. “Like in that movie where the soccer team has to eat its teammates to survive. I thought I’d feel like that.”
“I think they felt guilty because they were caught. Or, not so much caught as exposed. At the time I’m sure they were just like us—doing what they had to in order to survive. I’m not going to feel guilty about surviving this place. And if this is the worst of what I’ll have to do in order to make it,” he said, holding up the empty bowl, “then I’m already most of the way there.”
“This is cake,” Darius told him. “All you have to do is swallow your pride and eat. There’s got to be much more to this place.”
“It doesn’t have to be everything,” John said, quieter and leaning forward. “We could have everything Block has.”
Darius smiled internally. He knew this conversation was coming, he could feel it in the Arab’s demeanor. John Hussein was a man used to getting what he wanted from a family of men who were used to getting what they wanted. He suspected that he, like Darius, would do whatever it took to get what he wanted. If in a place like this that meant half-spoiled fruits and vegetables, then so be it.
“I don’t know what you mean,” he lied.
“Sure you do. It’s like prison, or what I assume prison must be like. There are ‘haves’ and ‘have nots’. How do people in the second group get what the people in the first group have?”
“They take it,” he said easily. That was the only way you got anything in life.
“Exactly. We don’t belong here, with this rabble. We belong over there, on the throne. I suspect there is probably more to your life than running a grocery store. And I tend to doubt
“Salt would be good. Maybe some Tony’s,” he said, referring to the classic Cajun spice in the green bottle. He stirred the soup with his finger, sipped the broth and let the warm liquid flow down his throat. “But I can dig this just like it is. Man that’s good.”
John looked up at him, eyebrows furrowed. “Well, I don’t know if I’d say that or not, but it’s definitely better than the hunger.”
Darius wasn’t surprised by the ease with which John had fallen into cannibalism, despite his urgent protests against it. He knew hunger and he knew what hunger did to a man. There was no more base instinct, no more purer form of survival instinct than the urge to beat the demon hunger. Darius had been hungry before, in his days before prison, and he knew from experience that if he went a long time without eating that he’d start losing muscle mass. He couldn’t have that. Muscle mass, he figured, along with general street skills, were what were going to keep him alive during the Game.
“Anything is better than hunger,” Darius agreed.
“Are you going to tell the others?”
“Why would I care?”
“I don’t know,” John answered. “I was thinking it might be awkward, but eventually, they’ll be in the line as well. I don’t guess it really matters.”
“No,” Darius said, taking a careful bite of the boiled flesh. It didn’t particularly taste like anything he could think of, though the texture was somewhat like pork. It hadn’t been boiled enough, though, and was chewy. He chewed on it for a few minutes until it was finally soft enough to swallow. The watery soup he downed in one shot and though his hunger was temporarily abated, he knew he could eat a lot more.
“Well, I don’t feel any different,” he told John.
“What do you mean?”
“I thought once I ate people I’d feel different.”
“Evil or something?”
“At least guilty,” he said, wishing he had another bowl. “Like in that movie where the soccer team has to eat its teammates to survive. I thought I’d feel like that.”
“I think they felt guilty because they were caught. Or, not so much caught as exposed. At the time I’m sure they were just like us—doing what they had to in order to survive. I’m not going to feel guilty about surviving this place. And if this is the worst of what I’ll have to do in order to make it,” he said, holding up the empty bowl, “then I’m already most of the way there.”
“This is cake,” Darius told him. “All you have to do is swallow your pride and eat. There’s got to be much more to this place.”
“It doesn’t have to be everything,” John said, quieter and leaning forward. “We could have everything Block has.”
Darius smiled internally. He knew this conversation was coming, he could feel it in the Arab’s demeanor. John Hussein was a man used to getting what he wanted from a family of men who were used to getting what they wanted. He suspected that he, like Darius, would do whatever it took to get what he wanted. If in a place like this that meant half-spoiled fruits and vegetables, then so be it.
“I don’t know what you mean,” he lied.
“Sure you do. It’s like prison, or what I assume prison must be like. There are ‘haves’ and ‘have nots’. How do people in the second group get what the people in the first group have?”
“They take it,” he said easily. That was the only way you got anything in life.
“Exactly. We don’t belong here, with this rabble. We belong over there, on the throne. I suspect there is probably more to your life than running a grocery store. And I tend to doubt
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