Boys in the Valley by Philip Fracassi

Author:Philip Fracassi [Fracassi, Philip]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Tor Publishing Group
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

29

THERE ARE NO VOICES AT DINNER.

For the second time in as many days, David sits at my table. Right now, he’s across from me, and I’m glad. He and I need to be unified if we’re going to get through this and, more importantly, help the others get through this.

I look down at my plate and nearly weep as my stomach wheezes in despair.

Two pieces of watery cabbage. A potato so small and knotted it takes all my willpower not to put the whole thing in my mouth at once for the fulfillment of having, temporarily, the wonderful feeling of being full. That, and so I won’t have to look at the ugly, misshapen thing another second.

“Did you hear about Michael?” David asks.

Oh no.

“Tell me.”

David takes a moment to see who is within earshot, and it strikes me again how paranoid all the kids are acting now. As if everyone is wary of everyone else.

“James went to the outhouse after Poole’s big speech, saw Michael wandering around outside, along the fence by the road. He called out to him but got no answer. When he went close to check on him . . .”

“What?”

David swallows hard, takes a moment, then continues. “He was all bloody. James said his hands were like raw meat.” David shakes his head. “He’d chewed off his own fingers.”

“David . . .”

“It’s true, Pete.”

I’m disgusted, and more than a little skeptical. This must be exaggeration. The rumors now will be far worse than any truth, but this seems a step too far. “Sorry, I don’t believe it.”

David shrugs. “I checked his bed before dinner. It’s soaked in blood. One of the staff was up there with an armful of sheets just as I was leaving.”

“Then it was an accident. Got his hand caught in something.”

David stabs at a leaf of soggy cabbage with his fork. “Maybe. But James says his mouth was dripping blood, and that he was laughing like a fool.” David drops his fork on the table, rubs his face. “God, I can’t eat this shit anymore.” He looks at me, almost accusatory. “I thought you brought back supplies.”

“We did. A wagonful,” I say, as if it serves as an explanation for being forced to eat scraps. “There are many of us,” I add lamely.

David grumbles and sighs, picks up the fork and stabs again, lifts the dull green cabbage into his mouth, chewing slowly. He takes a small sip of milk, most likely wanting to make it last. “Anyway, he’s in the infirmary.”

I nod, decide not to pursue it. It’s both too bizarre and too awful to think about, so I change the subject. “John Hill says a few weeks of hard winter are coming.”

David smiles coyly, and I know what’s next. Despite everything, David will always find a way to tease me mercilessly about certain things.

I’m an idiot for bringing up John Hill.

“And how is young Grace?” he says.

Feeling myself reddening, I pour all my focus into the cutting of my potato. “Fine,” I say.

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