Do or Die by Josh Reynolds

Author:Josh Reynolds [Reynolds, Josh]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction, Media Tie-In, Horror, Science Fiction, Apocalyptic & Post-Apocalyptic
ISBN: 9781839082627
Publisher: Aconyte
Published: 2023-12-05T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twenty-One

Bargaining

Ramirez sat on an extremely uncomfortable chair made out of bones – alligator bones, she hoped. But she didn’t think so. At least not all of them. She was inside the big house, the dining room to be exact. She’d expected décor straight out of Ed Gein, but it was normal. Almost disturbingly so. Except for the chairs.

She sat back, trying not to think of Coop’s head, or the expression on his face. Over the past few years, she’d become good at pushing that sort of thing down where it couldn’t get at her. Maybe one day it would all come back up and hit her when she least expected it, but as long as it wasn’t today, she’d be fine.

Coop had deserved better. And she intended to settle up on his behalf at the first available opportunity. She glanced to her left, where Wilbur sat at a window, peeling a moldy looking apple with a penknife. He met Ramirez’s gaze, but said nothing.

She turned away from him and took in the rest of the room. There were portraits on the walls; old-fashioned oils, rendered into imperceptibility by humidity and neglect. Framed pictures crowded the rest of the space, depicting several generations’ worth of Watkins family outings, including the occasional mugshot.

Keziah, sitting across the table from her, smiled and said, “We’ve always been photogenic types. Never a bad picture.”

“So I see,” Ramirez said. The house smelled of damp and cat litter, but not a single cat in sight. No dogs either. No animals at all, although there were signs there had been some at one point. Given what she knew about the family’s dietary preferences, she figured any pets had been first in the stewpot.

Keziah set a silver cigarette case on the table and opened it. Inside were rolling papers and a flat pouch made out of what looked like leather. She began to roll a cigarette, her eyes on Ramirez. “You’re wondering about our eyes, aren’t you?”

“I’m curious about a lot of things.”

“The yellow tinge, the eczema, that’s all on account of the dead, I figure.”

“You… ate them,” Ramirez said hesitantly.

“Not at first. But… well. Things change, don’t they?” She paused. “I am sorry about your friend, believe it or not. But we did him a favor. That leg of his would have been the death of him. Infection was already setting in. And, well, waste not, want not.” She rolled a cigarette. “My daddy taught me the key to survival in hard times is a well-stocked larder. We never had much, but we had enough to get through them first few months without even a flicker of worry.” She looked at her hands, and despite herself, Ramirez couldn’t help but follow her gaze. They were strong looking hands, despite being knotted with arthritis. They reminded her of her own grandmother’s hands.

“We’d gotten by in better times being poachers or weed farmers,” Keziah went on. “Then we made meth and sold poison when times were worse. Acted as guards for them fellows from down south whenever they’d come flying in to that little runway.

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