Page 60 of Long Pig
He watched her intently. Her expression didn’t change.
“My imagination will be worse,” she finally said. “I need to know.”
Something stirred in him. Admiration or curiosity, he couldn’t tell. His pulse quickened. She didn’t sound like a victim. She sounded like someone trying to understand.
He crossed to a dented filing cabinet in the corner and slid open the bottom drawer. Metal grated against metal. Inside were stacks of weathered notebooks, their covers worn soft at the edges. He took one, feeling the familiar weight in his hand, and sat beside her on the narrow camp bed. The mattress dipped, and the faint scent of her shampoo, or maybe just clean skin, cut through the basement’s sterility. She didn’t move away.
“These are my last five hunts,” he said calmly. “You could say it’s the reason I was put on this earth.”
He turned a few pages, letting her see the sketches and notes. “We eat animals of all kinds. Outside the U.S., it’s a larger variety: dogs, cats, things most Americans would never touch. People like to believe they’re clean, but their food is compromised. One day, this research will help a select few survive.”
Willow reached over and flipped a page. Her finger traced the handwritten name at the top. “These are people,” she whispered.
“Yes,” he said simply. “Documented by first name.”
Her fingertip lingered over a woman’s name. “You butchered her?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I prepare, preserve, and package the meat.”
She blinked, her expression unreadable. “You… eat them?”
He inclined his head slightly. “I eat them.”
The air between them thickened.
“You plan to eat me?” she asked finally, her tone calm again, almost clinical.
“That’s up to you,” he said. “When we met, your taste didn’t cross my mind. I saw the deputy following you. I didn’t like it. He was dangerous.” He nodded toward the corpse. “Now he’s not.”
Her mouth opened slightly. “You’ll eat him, though?”
“Yes.”
She stood abruptly, the metal frame of the bed screeching against the concrete. She stumbled toward the corner and bent over the toilet. The sound of retching filled the room. Butch stepped aside, watching dispassionately.
“You had oatmeal this morning,” he said evenly. “Not one of my kills.”
When she lifted her head, her hair clung damply to her face. “What do you want from me?” she asked.
It was a fair question. He hesitated. “I have no idea.”
He turned and left, the door shut with a muted click after he turned off the light.
Upstairs, he sank into the armchair in his living room. He stared at the wall, thinking. She still hadn’t cried. Why? Most people broke quickly, but not her. The thought unsettled him, tugged at some part of him he didn’t recognize. Loneliness, maybe. It was a new feeling. He crossed the room to a mirror and stared at his reflection. His eyes looked pale and empty. Willow’s had the same dead calm.
He shook off the thought and went to the kitchen. A stew simmered on the stove. Vegetables only. Steam clouded the air, carrying the scent of onions and broth. He stirred slowly, watching the thickened liquid bubble. Would she eat it if he offered it kindly? Without threat? He wasn’t sure why that mattered.
His phone screen lit up. The feed showed Willow curled on her side, her body shivering. When he zoomed in, he saw her shoulders shaking and heard quiet sobs when he turned up the volume. Relief spread through him. Finally, he thought. She was human after all.
He turned back to the pot, his mind drifting. His parents’ voices rose faintly from memory, stern warnings about sexual sin, about punishment. They’d lied about impurity being the biggest sin. He’d read their Bible front to back, searching for truth, and found only contradictions: violence, judgment, and sexual hypocrisy.
His beliefs came from years of extensive research into human nature. God was a big part of his universe because God revered him.
The wooden spoon stilled in his hand. For the first time in years, he felt something stir beneath the surface, something he hadn’t expected. He pressed a hand against the counter, breathing slowly, until the erection faded.