Page 11 of Famine

By the time I get to The Painted Angel, nestled between a tavern and a gambling hall, I’m still alive. Alive and alone. I haven’t seen another living soul.

I pass under the wooden sign depicting a naked angel whose wings barely cover her tits and pussy, and I slip inside the only home I’ve known for half a decade. The door slams shut behind me, the sound echoing throughout the space.

I come to a standstill inside the main parlor.

Normally at this time of day, the girls are lounging about on the jewel-toned couches that fill the space. Sometimes there’s a midday caller, but usually this is the time when—if we’re not sleeping off the night’s work—we’re sprawled across these couches, coffee or tea in hand, playingTrucoor gossiping or singing or doing each other’s hair—or a million other things.

Today, the bordello is as still as the grave. And for good reason. Three giant, thorny bushes grow in the middle of the room, and caught in their clutches are—

Luciana, Bianca, and Cláudia.

All of them had decided to stay behind, unwilling to leave this life they’d built for themselves. But now they’re gone anyway, and all their hopes and dreams are gone with them.

My throat is working. I’m trying desperately to not fall apart. I just hope to God that the women who fled before the horseman’s arrival are still alive and safe.

I shuffle past the bodies of my former housemates.

“Hello?” I call out, but I already know no one is left. Famine doesn’t leave anyone alive.

I drag myself towards the kitchen. All I want to do is sleep, but my lips are cracked and my throat is scratchy from dehydration. Rummaging around, I find a few pieces of fruit that are past their prime, some stale bread, and a hard rind of cheese. That’s all that remains of the normally well-stocked kitchen. The icebox hangs open, its shelves bare, and the pantry, with its links of hanging sausages and bags of grain, has been cleaned out.

I grab a partially empty pitcher of water that sits on the countertop, and bring it directly to my lips, draining it dry. I tear into the bread, only pausing to take large bites from the cheese and the shriveled fruit.

I feel nauseous again, like maybe my stomach isn’t really fit to hold food. That thought nearly has me retching up my meal.

God, I really hope this isn’t going to be some long, lingering death that takes a fucking month.

I almost lay back down on one of those couches, my body is that ready to give out. But I can’t bear the sight of any more dead, so I stumble up the stairs and to my room, and thankfully, I see no more unnatural plants.

I fall into bed, dirt and blood getting all over my sheets. Elvita isn’t alive to yell at me, and frankly, if there stillisanyone left to yell at me, I gladly welcome it.

Because I’m pretty sure that I’m well and truly alone.

Chapter 5

I don’t die. Not that day or the next or the one after that.

I don’t know why, out of all the many people in Laguna—people who had good, enviable lives—it’s my miserable one that gets spared.

Those first several days are a fever-filled blur. I am certain I dragged myself outside to the well to refill the pitcher at some point, and I managed to hoist myself out of bed to go to the bathroom, but the memories are fuzzy. I only remember eating once or twice.

It has to be roughly a week before my fever subsides. My head finally clears and my stomach is cramping with hunger, despite the awful, rotting smell that fills the room.

Ugh. I want to die.

Pretty sure deathwouldbe easier than bearing this horrible pain, but for whatever cursed reason, I’m forced to live through it.

A memory tugs at the back of my mind, of a hand on my shoulder and something whispered into my ear—

But then the memory is gone, and it’s not coming back.

I push myself up to a sitting position.

For the first time in nearly a week, I see my surroundings clearly. There’s the trunk at the foot of my bed with some of my more interesting toys and costumes, there’s the closet that’s crammed with soft, skimpy outfits that tease and reveal all the most tantalizing parts of flesh. On the windowsill are my collection of plants, most now wilted. And then there’s the vanity, lined with glass bottles of perfume and makeup. It’s as though my room didn’t get the memo.

The world has ended. Get with the program.

Pushing off the bed, I force my achy muscles to move, wincing at the agonizing pull of my wounds. Even now, the pain is terrible, but I can bear it enough to focus on other things.

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