Horror logo

Last Meal

A Short Journey to Hell

By Riss RykerPublished 3 years ago 5 min read
Like

Damn, he was cold. So cold, in fact, it crept into the very marrow of his bones. His thin, wool blanket did nothing but make him itch, along with the lice. His 6' x 8' cell was so damp that the walls oozed with a fine sheen of water, glistening in the dull, yellow light coming from the catwalk.

"Guard!" his voice, hoarse from yelling, was just a parody of what it used to sound like. "Goddammit, someone answer me!"

He'd been screaming for days for someone to come. The first three days, Old Marco, the prisoner in cell 10, three cells down, answered him weakly. But now only his own echo filled the corridor.

"Puh-leeease, is anyone there? We're hungry! Thirsty! Where the fuck is our damn food! Where the hell is everyone?".

His screams were met by an eerie silence.

Two days ago, he managed to catch a rat by peeling off one of his fingernails and placing the bloody nail inside of a snare he'd made out of a piece of filthy, yellow sheet. As the rat investigated the nail, he yanked the makeshift noose around its neck, breaking it. With nothing to start a fire with, desperation made him tear open the gut with his fingers, eating the steaming entrails in disgust. He almost lost it as he gagged it down, but at least he had something in his stomach. He had a dull razor but was so famished, his fingers did the job just as good. Roaches, too, made a fine meal if he managed to catch the swift little bastards.

His last visit was about a month ago. At 68, his mother was the last person he wanted to see in this hell hole. The dirty judge blasted him with fifty years. Fifty damn years for a drug deal and they weren't even his drugs! His bastard brother was carrying meth without his knowledge. After the cops searched the vehicle, they'd found the meth stash under his seat. Thrown under the bus by his own brother, he took the fall, and now he was starving to death. He'd heard rumors of what was going on outside of the joint. The newscast said that it was terrorists, but no one knew for sure what caused all of the animals to die, except, of course, the rats and roaches. Nothing could kill those fucking things.

But then people started dropping like flies for no apparent reason. Just keeling over and dying. Marco had been the last of the prisoners who actually spoke back to him, but that stopped three days ago. At least he still had running water, Thank God, even if it was just the toilet. He daydreamed a lot, especially of women. He'd forgotten what it felt like to touch a soft, sweet-smelling woman. To feel the weight of her breasts in his hands and the hot, moist tightening of her around him. He drifted off to sleep with his back against the wall, weak with hunger.

A smell reached deep within the recesses of his dream world. It smelled so good, it jarred him awake. Looking around, he noticed where the smell was coming from. His little table was set for two and the odor of roast beef, almost raw, the way he liked it, sent his stomach rumbling in anticipation. He crawled over to the table, pulling himself up. He couldn't walk, for some reason. Must be getting too weak, he thought to himself. Now who in the hell left this, and why didn't they wake me to help me out? As he finally got into the small, metal chair which was attached to the wall, he noticed whoever served the meal was sloppy as hell. The blood from the roast beef was everywhere. He didn't care, it looked delicious. And the smell, oh god it smelled good. With his fingers, he lifted a piece up to his mouth and ate. Saliva filled his mouth as he chewed the meat in ecstasy. Still warm. Nice change from the cold, congealed meals he'd gotten in the past from this dump.

Eating his fill, he heard footsteps coming down the corridor. "Help!" he yelled weakly. "I'm here! Over here!"

A man in a white contamination suit peered into his cell and gasped in shock. Doubling over, he vomited onto the floor.

"Hey! Bart! You're not gonna believe this one, come here! Quick!" he yelled weakly.

Bart came over to where his co-worker, Ben, was standing and looked in.

"Jesus! What the fuck?" he said softly. turning away in disgust, "The poor bastard. Oh my God."

"I know, I know. How do we explain this one?" asked Ben. "Jesus, Bart, look at the mess. Look under the table, it looks like his feet are gone, too."

"He must have started on the fingers of his left hand, see how the wounds are gangrenous? Holy fuck. I can't believe the son of a bitch is still alive," he said in awe. "Looks like the other leg is the same way. I wonder how far he would have gone. Damn."

"Well, are you gonna do it or shall I?" Bart asked. "I did the last three, you can do this one."

"Yeah, yeah, ok. Just give me a minute. I think I'm gonna hurl." Ben said, his face white under his mask.

Bart nodded and moved on to the next row of cells down below. He heard a shot ring out and knew that Ben had taken care of him. One more row of cells left, and back to Legion Laboratories where they both worked. Four more prisons left. It was going to be a long week.

psychological
Like

About the Creator

Riss Ryker

Riss (Lisa Doesburg) is a painter, writer, and gardener who lives alone with her shadow, a long-haired Chihuahua named Taco.. For those of you looking for more of her writing. You can go here https://www.booksie.com/posting/riss-ryker/

Reader insights

Be the first to share your insights about this piece.

How does it work?

Add your insights

Comments

There are no comments for this story

Be the first to respond and start the conversation.

Sign in to comment

    Find us on social media

    Miscellaneous links

    • Explore
    • Contact
    • Privacy Policy
    • Terms of Use
    • Support

    © 2024 Creatd, Inc. All Rights Reserved.