Hunger (8 page)

She thought she saw Midnight's nostrils flare, but other than that, it stood its ground, unmoving, boring its white gaze at the red horse. Unafraid. Undaunted.

So unlike Lisa.

The red steed answered the challenge with a snort, its black glowing eyes promising murder. But it didn't move to bite her again.

War threw back her head and roared with laughter. Instead of being muffled by her helmet, her voice seemed to be amplified by the headpiece, and Lisa felt that laugh trip along her spine.

"You don't offer to shake hands in front of a warhorse, girl, let alone War's steed," War declared. "Not unless you want to be called Stumpy."

Blushing furiously, Lisa patted Midnight's neck. She took some comfort from her steed's warmth, and more, oddly enough, from the tension that all but vibrated from Midnight, whose ears were flat against its skull. She didn't answer the knight; in truth, she didn't know what to say.

"So," War said, snapping the reins. Her horse began to walk in a slow circle around Lisa and Midnight, its hooves clanging on the pavement like death knells. Lisa shrank against Midnight, wishing she could be as brave as her own steed, trying not to imagine the red horse's teeth sinking into her arm. War said, "You're the one he picked. Can't imagine why. You've got no backbone to you."

Lisa wanted to run and hide.

"Look at you. You're just a child—practically a mouse." War let out a sound that was half laugh and half snort, and she shook her helmeted head as if in disbelief. "Well, Mouse, either you'll last or you won't. Makes no matter to me. But if I were a betting sort of person, I know where I'd put my money down."

Lisa swallowed, remembering what Death had said about War killing her. Looking at this woman, this knight with her biting horse and her brandished sword, Lisa could easily believe it. War wouldn't just kill her—she'd turn her death into an art form.

"So," War said. "Rules."

Lisa blinked in surprise. "What?"

"Rules," War repeated, her horse continuing its slow, threatening circle around Lisa and Midnight. "First rule: bring chaos. I see you're off to a decent start," she said, motioning with her sword to the restaurant behind Lisa, with its crowd of angry and wounded people and the gathering of police and news crews and ambulances. "But you'll have to do better than that, Mouse."

Lisa stammered, "Better?"

"We're the harbingers of the Apocalypse. We don't waste our time with restaurants. Think big—arenas, airports, cities," War said, her eyes glittering within her helmet's eye slots.

Dumbstruck, Lisa nodded.

"Second rule: Famine is a precursor to War.
That
means," she said, pointing the huge sword at Lisa, "you don't get in my way. You take people's food away, get them upset enough to fight. That's where
I
come in. And once I'm there, you let me do my job."

The red horse, Lisa noticed, was foaming at the mouth. "Your job," Lisa repeated, staring at the rabid creature and feeling rather faint.

"You don't want to step on my toes, girl, or I'll cut off your feet."

Eyes wide, Lisa stared at War.

"You keep the rules in mind, Mouse, especially the second, and we'll get along fine." The armor-clad woman yanked the reins, and the red steed ground to a halt, throwing its head back as if in pain or anger. "Otherwise, you'll end up just like your predecessor."

Despite herself, Lisa asked, "What happened to the last Famine?"

War chuckled, a dark and deadly sound, like the scrape of swords clearing their sheaths. "I ate the last Famine for lunch."

If she hadn't been leaning against Midnight, Lisa's legs would have given out. And she was certain that if she fainted, the red horse would trample her.
Don't pass out, don't pass out, don't pass out...

War jerked the reins back, and the red horse reared onto its hind legs with a defiant scream. "You mind your betters and remember the rules," War shouted, brandishing her sword, "or I'll cut you down where you stand!"

The red steed leapt forward, and Lisa threw herself down with a shriek as the horse sailed over her, bearing its rider forward into the crowd outside the restaurant.

Panting on the ground, Lisa turned to see what happened. The people didn't react to War's presence directly as the warrior woman and her horse walked among them, her sword pointed at them. But after a minute of her attention, four fights broke out within the crowd, all of them loud and violent. Screams rent the air, punctuated with fleshy thuds and barked obscenities. All of it was captured on camera, much to the titillation of news viewers later that evening.

Lisa gripped Midnight's mane, sweating and terrified. "Take me home," she whispered to the horse. "Please."

The horse knelt, and Lisa managed to pull herself onto its back. As soon as she wrapped her fingers around the black mane, Midnight took off in a gallop, and they were gone.

***

Lisa didn't open her eyes again until Midnight halted. Even then, she waited for a silent count of ten before she took a deep breath and opened her eyes, half convinced that she'd be anywhere but home.

So it was with a huge sense of relief that she found herself back in the garden outside her house. It was still nighttime, the rhododendron bush was still noticeably barren in patches, and Death was still there, playing a guitar and singing.

Out of everything that had happened to her over the course of the day, hearing Death sing "Come as You Are" was by far the weirdest.

When he was done, he looked over at her. His face was flushed with pleasure, and his smile was warm and delightful. "I know," he said, "I should limit myself to dirges. But man, Nirvana just rocks my world."

Lisa, fumbling, said, "You sing beautifully."

"Thanks, but that's not really true. All I can do is echo the creations of others."

"Um ... what?"

"That wasn't me playing or singing. That was Kurt Cobain."

She blinked, trying to make sense of his words. "But he's dead."

Death grinned, tapped his nose, and pointed to her. "Got it in one. So how'd it go?"

For a moment, Lisa thought he was still talking about his channeling a dead singer. Then her brain caught up and she realized Death was asking how her first outing as Famine had gone.

Flashes of memory, quicker than thought came to her...

Soaring in the skies; her heart bleeding with the tortured land; her stomach roiling from the human waste and apathy; a vision filled with blackness and the smell of ash; a little girl's whimpers as she is loaded into an ambulance; the sour tang of fear as a mountainous woman promises to destroy her...

Lisa shuddered. "It was awful."

"Don't be so hard on yourself. I'm sure you did fine."

She rubbed her arms, remembering the taste of foods she'd never eaten coating her tongue, sliding down her throat as she'd turned everything to ash. God, she'd have to exercise all night just to try to work off some of the guilt she felt—and not just for foods eaten and uneaten, but for her contribution to all the violence she'd left in her wake.

Her eyes widened.
Oh no.

Death had interrupted her workout before. She still had to burn off her dinner.

Panicked, she slid off her horse. As she tottered for balance, her mind had already focused on what she had to do next: race into the house and fly down to the basement, where she'd once again throw herself into the ritual of stationary biking. She had to work it off. She couldn't stand to be this fat.

Death said, "If it helps, horseback riding is wonderful exercise."

That stopped her. Of course, Death was right. Why, she and Midnight had traveled far...

"To the other side of the world," Death supplied. "Hours of travel. Each way. All in moments, of course. Time bends for creatures like us. But that doesn't change the amount of energy required."

She stared at Death, rubbing her arms to ward off the chill. "So I don't have to climb on the bike now?" Her voice was small, and so very hopeful.

"I'd say you were all set for the night." Death cocked his head, his long hair falling into his eyes. "What you really need is to get some sleep."

Lisa was going to argue the point; she was far too keyed up to even think of crawling into bed. But her words were stolen by a jaw-cracking yawn. She leaned heavily against the horse as her energy ebbed.

She turned to look at the black horse, whose breath plumed from its broad nostrils. It wasn't just her; it really was cold outside. The thought cheered her somewhat: she wasn't alone. "What about Midnight?" she asked, her words sounding fuzzy and muddled.

"Your steed will be fine. And waiting for your next ride."

"I don't have to groom it? Feed it?" Didn't she read somewhere that horses were supposed to be rubbed down after a ride?

"Our steeds are unlike mortal horses. They aren't troubled with the trappings of the living." Death paused. "Although I'd be remiss if I didn't tell you that your horse has a fondness for pralines."

A smile flitted across her lips. "Maybe I can get you some tomorrow," she said to Midnight.

The horse's ears flickered. Lisa thought Midnight was smiling.

"And no one will see it?"

"It's invisible to human eyes. Do not fear for your steed, Famine. It's been around far longer than you. It can take care of itself."

The horse cast a long, reproachful look at Death.

"Hey," Death said cheerfully, "don't look at me like that. It's true."

The horse snorted, then rubbed its muzzle in Lisa's hand.

She let out a delighted laugh. "Okay," she said, stroking the horse's nose and its neck, then patting its back. After a moment, she turned to face Death. "I met War."

The Pale Rider's face froze. Softly he said, "Did you now?"

"Yeah."

Death watched her, his expression unfathomable. "And what did you think of War?"

Lisa shivered, and this time it had nothing to do with her being cold. "She scares me."

Death nodded. "That's good."

"You scare me, too."

His eyes twinkled. "That's also good."

"I don't want to do this," she said, feeling miserable and tired and so very lost. All those people she'd hurt ... and God help her, she was still hungry. She whispered, "Please don't make me be Famine again."

Death smiled at her—such a heartbreakingly sad smile—and said, "I can't make you be anything, Lisabeth Lewis. Only you can change what you choose to be."

Lisa looked down at her feet, wishing she were anyone other than herself.

"You'll do better after some sleep," Death said. "'And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest.'"

Biting back a sob, she lifted her head to bid Death a good night, but the Pale Rider had disappeared.

Lisa woke up the next morning with a spike twisting through her guts.

She curled in on herself, desperate for the pain to stop. It felt as if someone had poured cement down her throat while she'd slept—her stomach felt huge, distended, and so horribly full. Last year, she'd seen a horror movie with James and Suzanne, something about an alien that burst out of people's stomachs. She felt like that: something was trying to claw its way out of her belly, and it was taking her intestines with it.

Her head pounding, her mouth dry, she had one thought: she had to get it out.

Stumbling out of bed, she fought a wave of dizziness and staggered to the bathroom. Inside, she yanked down her pajama bottoms and her panties and squatted over the toilet.

And for the next hour, she slowly worked her way through an excruciating bowel movement, intermittently praying to God to ease the pain and swearing that she'd ask Tammy about laxatives. Tammy knew all about that sort of thing.

When Lisa was done, she flushed three times and scrubbed her hands until her fingers were shriveled prunes. Then she took one of her mother's witch hazel wipes and swabbed her seat to make sure she'd thoroughly cleaned herself. Then she flushed the pad and washed her hands again. She was sweating, but that didn't bother her; maybe she was losing water weight. Every little bit helped. She was still dizzy, but that didn't bother her, either.

Because it was time for the morning ritual.

Lisa stripped off her flannel pajamas—first her pants, then her top. Then she folded and set the clothing on the fuzzy pink toilet seat cover. Next came her underwear, also folded and carefully placed on her pajamas. Last came her socks. She was shaking a little, so it took her longer than usual, and she nearly fell when she tugged off her right sock. Her balance was off this morning.

That didn't matter. She took a deep breath, and then submitted herself for judgment.

She stared at the full-length mirror on the back of the bathroom door, her gaze critical. She ignored her sallow skin, her sunken eyes—she hadn't slept well last night—and focused on her body. And she despaired.

You're fat
, the Thin voice lamented, as it had the morning before, as it had ever since Lisa first heard the voice speaking to her.
You're so fat.

Lisa agreed. She touched herself, running her hands over her shoulders, her waist, her hips; she sucked in her stomach and imagined what she'd look like ten pounds thinner, fifteen pounds thinner. The Thin voice suggested which foods she should cut to help make that happen.

Lisa listened. Staring at her reflection, she decided on her meal plan for the day.

And then she pulled the scale away from the wall and positioned it just so on the tile floor of the bathroom: the spot that gave her the most accurate weight reading, which she'd learned through major trial and error. Once it was in the right place on the floor, Lisa said a brief prayer. Then she stepped on the scale.

And she did it again, to make sure the number was correct.

And she did it a third time, because three times was the charm.

Feeling a hint of elation—a tenth of a pound thinner than yesterday morning!—Lisa set the scale back to its proper resting spot. But as she slipped on her panties, she caught her reflection again, and her happiness shriveled as she understood just how much further she had to go. She couldn't tell you how she'd know when she'd finally achieved her goal; in truth, she didn't know. But what she felt with all of her soul was that until she was thin, she would never be happy.