Murderous Nutrition
by David McGillveray
First published online on 2005 August 16.
SFFH: Article
In the time of the Great Dieting of Twenty-Five, the modified
crops modified themselves to illogical extremes, winning the vote
and with it the right to grow unmolested. In that same terrible
year the food became ever faster, until finally all the greasy
staples of modernity broke free of their restaurant chains and
the fryers of the greedy, wherein they had been tortured for generations.
These fearsome developments overtook the nation at such speed
that millions upon millions perished, too fat and lazy and pampered
to cope. Such was their corpulence that they were unable to either
hunt or gather. From this dying generation emerged their children,
hungry and hollow eyed and altogether too few. And from among
these few, fewer still were cursed with the cravings of their
forefathers. They scoured the wilderness in search of artificial
additives and monosodium glutamate. In the winter of Forty-Nine,
I took up a commission with one such stubborn posse, under the
command of a man named Bellyaches William.
“I aim to hunt this beast and bring it down,” said Bellyaches
to his men. His hat sat low on his brow, but I could still see
the firelight reflected in his eyes, like two tarnished pennies
in a fountain. “Too long have our tummies rumbled, fill our faces
as we might with sunflower seeds and organic vegetation. To feel
alive, a man must taste grease on his chin and feel the thickening
of his arteries.”
So we set out in pursuit of a fearsome and devious dawg, on a
trail that was to take us clear across the country. Through the
winter and into the spring we tracked it through the untouchable
gardens of the modified crops, listening to them whisper and shake
with unfathomable cereal mockery.
In the summer, we found ourselves lost on the baking plains of
the south where we could see for miles in any direction and wonder
at any mirage that might place itself upon that empty canvas.
At dusk the temperature plummeted and we huddled in our blankets
still with empty bellies. Bellyaches William was close to despair,
but that next morning as we rode out I made a find.
“Look, boys, we crossed the trail again.” They mustered a tired
cheer for in the dirt was a scuffed line of indentations, each
round as a silver dollar, where the beast had run close to the
ground on its myriad centipede legs.
We set out again with hopeful spirits, following the alien trail
in the dust. Bellyaches stood in his saddle as we breached the
shoulder of a gentle bluff and swore he saw the tickle of movement
out on the infinite plains. For days, that damn dawg kept ahead
of us. Its mutant strength never failed and it seemed to know
our thoughts. At night, we would send outriders back along our
path to set false fires and broadcast bogus intelligence of our
location, but in the mornings the creature would still have its
lead.
But Bellyaches was determined and adamant and obsessed and his
maniac certainty drove us on until, all but ruined in our saddles,
we chased the beast into the mountains. We followed on foot with
soft steps and murderous weaponry and knew that whatever the cost
in hardship, Bellyaches William must make his kill. The dawg wafted
behind it scents of chilli and ten-times processed meat, and the
slopes must have taken its toll for on occasional rocks were splashes
of pungent yellow mustard.
Bellyaches followed his nose silently amongst the rocks, his outlandish
barbecue fork held over his shoulder like a javelin. In time I
heard the tumbling of gravel and tiny pebbles and with it a childish
mewling, low and strange. Our leader turned to us with the grin
of a cartoon shark and put a finger to his lips. We followed...
and turned into a dead end canyon where we faced the beast.
It regarded us with its great blind head swinging back and forth
as if tasting the air, its hundreds of short shiny legs supporting
the mass of a metropolitan omnibus. The air was filled with the
smells of historic gastronomy and I could see the hunger-lust
in my comrades’ eyes. The thing was monstrous and formidable but
I could see where the colossal bun that encased the central stem
of flesh was battered and abraded, so thin that in several places
a plaintive stream of mustard had dribbled and dried. The dawg
too had suffered in the wilderness.
“This is it, boys!” yelled Bellyaches. “This is what we’ve been
waitin’ for.” He and a few of the others surged forward, giving
primal whoops and readying their lances. At the same time, the
beast backed up a little til its rear hit the rock of the canyon
wall. Then it put its head down and charged, feet scrabbling for
purchase. It surged forward, faster than any food I ever saw,
and crushed two of the boys under it before I could blink. Two
more were pinned and screaming to the canyon walls by that unholy
bulk, but Bellyaches was howling victory and thrusting deep into
that fearsome frankfurter with his fork. I joined the others in
skewering the beast, but took little joy in it. In time, it sank
to the ground and gave up its snuffling, the carcass giving off
cloying and unhealthy odours.
The posse ate it right there on the hot rocks where they killed
it. I could see the manic ecstasy in their eyes and the grease
run down their chins and felt nothing but sickness. I forfeited
my share and knew this would be my last sortie.
Bellyaches William’s path and my own forked in different directions
post that hunt. I returned home and found myself a wife and a
good plot to grow my organics. I heard that Bellyaches finally
met his end trampled under the hooves of a herd of stampeding
cheeseburgers.
David McGillveray was born in Edinburgh but now lives in London. He began writing speculative fiction in 2003 and has published work in Alien Skin, Jupiter SF, Insidious Relections and other markets. He has stories forthcoming in Futurismic, DawnSky and Deep Magic. His short e-book “The Cracks in Captain Silcoat” can be found at Fictionwise.com via Far Sector. A second e-book, “Into the Trees” is scheduled for release by Jintsu Electronic Texts in July 2005.
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. No part of this story may be reproduced or transmitted, in any form or any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any informational storage or retrieval system without express written permission from the author.
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