The Gravity Myth

Sacrifices

The tight flesh pitted under Evan's touch, the way only blood-pooled edema feels. Slowly, methodically, he shimmied the jeans off Boyd. He would have preferred not to humiliate the dead man by de-pantsing him, but he couldn't roll the cuff up past Boyd's knee. Besides, this unseen dishonor was the least profane step of Evan's plan. Gently, he took the makeshift carving tool and placed it just to his side. Evan was glad the room was dark, saving him from looking at the crude blade. He gathered himself up, in a hunched over position, and extended the corpse's leg as far as the knee would allow.

"Callie, could you sing for me again?"

"My throat really hurts. I don't know if I can."

"Please, Callie? As a favor, for me?"

"Alright. Any requests? Hopefully something that doesn't burn my voice out?"

"Anything you want. Dealer's choice. Just keep singing for me, okay? No matter what you hear, just keep singing."

"Evan, you're scaring me."

"I know. But it's not that bad, I promise. Just keep singing and we'll both be alright. I promise."

Evan closed his eyes. The world around him swam with fuzziness. A white noise invaded his ears, spiraling through synapses and penetrating his bones. He worked his foot up Boyd's stretched leg until the sole of his shoe ran against the bulge of kneecap. He couldn't tell what song Callie was singing, but he knew she was, the static surrounding him altered in amplitudes.

He took a deep breath.

The foot came down with as much force as he could muster. Bones broke and tendons snapped, thunderclaps within the echo chamber of his prison. Callie yelped with the first sound, but continued her muted music through cries of diminishing returns. Evan stomped until the cracking noises were replaced by wet, squelching ones. The muscles of his stomach contracted with a violence matching his actions. He pushed the sickness aside, grabbed Boyd's leg and rotated it a full three hundred and sixty degrees about the knee.

Evan kneeled and reached out for the vulgar knife. At first, he tried steady breathing techniques, but sawing through the bloated skin and muscle proved an arduous task. Thick, oozing blood made it hard for the dull bone to find purchase in the rotting meat. After only four or five minutes, sweaty saline began to sting the corner of his eyes. He noticed Callie's song had stopped, and he had substituted the cadence of his own labored breathing. When the femur stopped making any cutting progress, Evan scraped it across the floor, bloody lubricant creating a rudimentary whetstone. Turning back to task, his exhalations became full-on grunts of exertion. Finally, Boyd's foot and calf came away from the rest of him.

Evan scooted back and laid against the wall. "All done. See? That wasn't too bad. We're okay." He wanted to nap. Sleep the sleep of fairy tale characters until this was all over with. Or at least until he had enough strength to attempt a proper escape. He had time, but Callie might not. She sounded worse with every passing hour. As if in response to his thoughts, she growled with hunger pangs from the next cell.

Instead of succumbing to the fatigue, Evan opened his eyes and pushed himself up. He grabbed Boyd's severed leg, wielding it like a club. He hefted it, making sure that it didn't flop around too much at the ankle. There was some bending, as the body was old enough to have passed through the stage of rigor mortis, but it was stable enough to suit his purpose. Gripping the gruesome prop by the foot, he raised it above his head and jumped. The overhead grate popped up, much higher than he was able to achieve with his fingertips. Still, it wasn't able to complete its arc, and fell shut with an ear-splitting slam.