Authors: Patricia Anthony

Eating Memories (40 page)

Shit, he thought in wild, helpless panic. Oh, oh, oh shit. He dropped the penknife and clutched his wrist with the doomed, mesmerized horror of a man who sees water rising in a clogged toilet. There was no way to stop the gush, no simple overflow valve. Incredulous, he limped on, holding his hemorrhaging thumb to his chest. Thick, hot liquid drenched the front of his shirt, his trousers.

Jesus. Jesus. He’d hit a goddamned artery.

His face still wore its astonishment when he fell to the ground a few yards later. He floundered in the dirt, too weak to rise. Indolence settled in like the first achy stages of the flu. A large part of him, the majority shareholder part, voted to close his heavy eyelids and catch a few Zs
.
Oh, yeah, he told himself wryly, forcing his eyes wide open. Death. That’s going to be a nice breather.

The time for the Great Closing Argument had come, and Gary knew he was going to die. No more Beamer, no more condo. Simple things would go as well: the morning feel of his sixty dollar aftershave against his face; the taste of poached salmon at his favorite high-end restaurant. For the first time in his gently-lived thirty five years, Gary came face-to-face with the featureless visage of oblivion.

It dismayed the crap out of him.

Control, though. He still had that. So what if he were dying.

He could handle that, he thought. Gary Morrow was one of the big boys, the earth-shakers. And a big boy could handle anything, even the ultimate game of hardball. What was important was that he’d chosen how and when to go. The thing to remember was that She’d won the battle but not the war. There were worse ways to die than bleeding to death. If he had to check out of life’s luxury hotel, then he’d go courageously and in style, not blubbering like some spineless wuss.

He wouldn’t give Her the satisfaction.

He lay in the moss and leaves, eyes to the lightless sky, feeling the hot life pump out of him. Teetering there on the narrow wall between existence and the Void, he heard Her approach. She snuffled questioningly as though She had again seen Her lover-son die at own Her hand, and again didn’t understand why. She was so close that he could smell the lush, fecund scent of Her, an odor of fruiting life and sweated, sated bodies. He even thought he could see Her, a darker lump in the shadows.

Watch, bitch, he thought. Watch and take notes. This is the way a real man dies.

Something tugged gently on his belt. He tried to bat it away, and discovered that he didn’t have the strength. He babbled a faint but sincere plea for mercy as he felt something touch his lower belly, and the caress of a cool, scaly hand moving possessively and inexorably down.