Landscapes for the Dead

A Treat

It was two in the morning and the air was still and cool. Somewhere a few streets over a dog was barking. The streetlights cast their orange glow over the bitumen road, and a man stood on the corner of Kears Road and Lewiston Road wearing nothing but a nightcap. Dark stains coated his hands and around his mouth. He lurched forward onto the road and stumbled into the centre of the intersection, where he stopped and stared blankly down the street at all the houses lined up next to each other, his arms hanging limply at his sides.

At two thirty Randall Bough was driving on the highway outside of Dennon, heading for home which was at 26 Kears Rd in his dented Falcon ute. He had the radio on, playing some smooth jazz, and the window was rolled down all the way to let the wind ruffle the lanky ropes of hair snaking out under his Harley Davidson cap. He didn't like jazz as a rule, but he figured that if driving home in the dead of night with fifteen Carlton Draughts flowing through your system didn't count as a time for exceptions, then there never would be a time. And jazz music wasn't as bad as people said, Randall mused. You just had to be in the right mood to appreciate it.

"People don't appreciate enough," he told the dashboard. The lights glowed back at him, telling him he was doing 120. The inside of the Falcon smelled of flat beer, stale sweat, and the warm kind of smell that comes from McDonalds food. It didn't smell of cigarette smoke, and never would. One thing that Randall hated more than anything else was smoking. The smell that his Falcon had was something he was proud of, in a private way.

A sign flicked past that Randall didn't read in time, but this was his area and he knew it said to do 60. He dropped down to 80 and continued on.  Houses sat on the sides of the road now, and trees grew up in planted rows. He was in the outskirts of Dennon. It was a very quiet night. Apart from one car heading in the opposite direction, the road was his alone. The pink fence that signalled the street for him to turn down approached, looking pastel orange tonight in his headlight beams. He turned the wheel and was off the highway before he bothered to flick on his blinkers. He sighed and patted a soft beat on the steering wheel.

This was Lewiston Road. The intersection to Kears was getting closer, and Randall could see something standing in the way. It looked pale and slightly bloated. Thin, but bloated all the same, like the time when he was eleven and his father had found a dead possum floating in their water tank. It had been there a while and it's fur was waterlogged and sleek, but when Randall poked it with a stick the fur fell away easily. The skin underneath looked grey and puffy.

The pale man turned its head and looked at him with glittering black eyes. The Falcon wavered slightly across the road and Randall parked it with the front tyre up on the curb. The door swung open and a litter of cans clattered out onto the road and rolled underneath the ute. Jazz music flowed out into the street, and apart from the chugging engine, it was the only sound to be heard.

Randall stepped out. The pale naked man turned slowly on his heel to face him. The white pompom at the end of his cap swayed. His balls and cock were drawn tightly up to his body, Randall noticed. This man didn't shave, either: a curly mess of blonde pubic hair clogged up his groin.

"I want this one," whispered the pale man. Then: "No, leave him."

"Get out of the road, fucknut," said Randall. "And put some clothes on. No one wants to see your pin dick."

The pale man watched him silently. At that moment Randall felt his bladder was swollen, and looked around at the houses. They were all dark, no one up watching late night TV, no one working late. The roads were empty, so he tottered over to a nearby telephone pole with the pale man's eyes following him and pissed on it. He was shaking off the last drops when he saw the pale man at the edge of his vision. He jumped back and almost tripped over his own feet. The pale man had walked up and stood two feet away from him while he pissed. Randall steadied himself against a hedge then tucked away his cock and zipped up his pants.

"Who are you, mate?" he said as he fumbled with his top button. "Did you want to borrow some clothes? I live just down there and you can borrow some if you like."

The pale man was silent. He was standing with his bare feet in Randall's urine, but he didn't seem to care.

"If you like," repeated Randall. "Or not, you wanker. What kind of fucknut are you? Standing alone in the road? Where'd you come from?" He started walking back to the Falcon.

"Please don't," whispered the pale man, then lunged.

Randall grunted when he was slammed to the ground. He gripped the pale man in a bear hug and attempted to roll him over so he could swing a punch at his face. Dark purple bile flooded out of the pale man's mouth and splattered on Randall's face, shoulders and chest. It soaked into his shirt and knocked the Harley Davidson cap off his hair.

The pale man stood up. Purple had splattered onto his stomach and thighs and a purple smear leaked down his chin.

"Why?" he shrieked at Randall. "Oh god, stop it! Let me go!"

Randall himself up on the grass with his arms. He smiled at the pale man.

"This man has a nice soul," the thing that had infested Randall's body whispered. "It feels tasty. Do you think he looks tasty, Wretch?" Randall's hands slid over his body seductively.

"No," sobbed the pale man. "No I don't want to eat him, please."

Randall chuckled softly. "Where's your hunger?"

"No... no."

"This is a meaty man. His muscles are marinated and ready. Soooo juicy..." Randall's tongue poked out from between his teeth and licked around the inside of his lips. "Come on Wretch, the sooner you eat this man the sooner I can eat this man."

The pale man fell to his knees and hung his head. His stomach was aching. He clawed at his temples in misery. The bile made the man smell so good, but he was repulsed by the thought.

"This is your fourth person," whispered Randall. "What's the point of fighting it? You want to, don't you."

The pale man moaned. It was the only thing he thought he would ever want again.

"You've already eaten three. You're already ruined, so what's the harm of another one? Give in, Wretch. It's blissful. And I promise I'll taste better than anything you've had before."

Randall caught his squirming tongue between his teeth. He slowly bit down. With a sound like crunching celery, his tongue severed in two. Randall spat the tip at the pale man's knees.

The pale man's stomach was cramping. It felt like it was trying to digest itself. Greasy piano riffs floated over from the parked ute. He stretched forwards and fell onto his palms.

"Eat me," whispered Randall. "I'm begging you, eat me, Wretch."

"Yes," sobbed the pale man, crawling forward on his hands and knees. "I need to, oh god I need to. Help me..."

Randall grinned, flicking his reduced tongue in and out. He held out a hand and the pale man took it gratefully. He bit down through the flesh and scraped Randall's finger bones clean. He bit into the underside of the wrist and blood spurted out and drew a splotchy line on the footpath. The pale man held the arm up high and put his mouth over the mangled wrist. He gulped the blood down. All the while, Randall was grinning at him.

"My stomach. Eat my biceps, tear at me. Tear at me you bastard!"

The Tears ran down the pale man's face, but the ache in his stomach was growing. He couldn't eat fast enough to satisfy himself. He tore away Randall's shirt and buried his face in his short wiry chest hairs. The sour smell of sweat filled his nostrils, but it only enticed him more. He gnashed with his teeth and blood flowed. He buried his face into Randall's stomach, loosing himself amongst the innards. Breathing became impossible, but the need to eat was more than the need to breathe.

Within a minute, Randall Bough was no more than a bloody skeleton lying in the grass next to a piss-stained telephone pole. The pale man sat in the passenger's seat of the Falcon, his stomach impossibly swollen and his face a purple and red mess. The jazz music was turned off.

"The next one, Wretch," he whispered to himself. "Let's go find the next one."