Blaze of Glory

CHAPTER 15

"Dinner’s ready."

Gert brought a plate of food which she placed on the floor at MacHenry’s feet. She handed him a fork. When he took it, they exchanged a brief but warm smile, then she spun on her heel and headed back into the kitchen. A towel hanging over her shoulder and her hair up in a scrunch seemed perfect casting for middle-aged housewife. No one would ever have known that she'd plied her trade on the corner of Main and Sixth. And no one needed to know. She'd remade herself. The world where she'd been a whore no longer existed. For all intents and purposes she was a middle-aged housewife. At least, if given the chance, it seemed the most practical conclusion to the relationship she had with MacHenry. She returned with a glass of water and a Ziploc bag filled with salt. She laid these beside the plate, offered Buckley a sad soulful smile, then once again left the room.

MacHenry pulled out a pocket knife and snapped it open. He moved the blade to the twine securing Buckley's hands. "On your honor?"

Buckley nodded, then added "I ain’t going nowhere."

Once he sliced through a few strands of the twine, MacHenry stood and waited for Buckley to untie the rest. When he finished, Buckley glanced up, rubbing the patterns dug into his wrists.

"We'd appreciate it if you didn't move out of the circle."

Buckley nodded. "Don't worry; I'll stay here with the dead."

"Sounds pitiful."

"Didn't mean it that way. Or maybe I did. I don't know. But don't worry about me. I'm not gonna put you folks in any more danger."

"On your honor?"

"On my honor."

MacHenry nodded to himself as if he'd satisfied some interior concern, then turned and shambled into the kitchen. As he passed Gert setting food on the large table, he let his hand drift across her ass, then linger on her hip. He leaned over, whispered something in her ear that made her blush and giggle, then took a seat. He cast one look back at Buckley, then began to heap his plate with the canned cuisine.

Buckley grasped the fork and his plate. He pushed the peaches around, but the heavy syrup stuck to them like motor oil. The Vienna sausages looked like baby's fingers. And the peas, well, he'd never liked peas. He should be hungry. A part of him understood that he needed energy, but he couldn't bring himself to be hungry. Perhaps the prospect of death was too much for him.

Finally he picked up the bag full of salt. With the plate balanced in his knees, he began to sprinkle the salt atop the food. A crazy thought pinged in his brain. If he ate enough salt, he could kill the maggies in his body. The sprinkle turned to a thin pour, then finally an avalanche as he let the entire contents of the bag cover his food. He tossed the empty bag aside and stared at the white-capped plate.

Fuck it. It was only salt. He scooped up a forkful of food and shoved it into his mouth. As he began to chew, his gag reflex tripped and it was all he could do to keep from retching. When he finally swallowed, he took a sip of water. Then he took another bite of food. By his fourth bite he'd learned the trick to keeping down the salt. By the sixth bite, his bile had risen so that it was all he tasted. Each mouthful was a battle to keep down, and he barely survived the meal.