The Vegetarian

         It had been a while since his last feeding and it had started to affect him. The wind whipped fine grains of sand into the sores on his face, making his eyes water. He used a makeshift shield consisting of his forearm and jacket but on a scale of one to ten the protection it provided was in the negative digits. His face, once so full and masculine was morphing into something that would make Hollywood’s best make-up artists stand up and take notice. The sores appeared two days ago and while he couldn’t see them, he could sense them. Then, when he went to scratch his chin, little pieces of flesh caught in his fingernails. He picked the skin out and placed it in his mouth, sucking on it before swallowing hoping for nourishment but there was nothing. When the wind stopped and he tried to brush the sand away, morsels of his face went with it. He winced, knowing it was getting worse as the hours went by.

         His strength was different altogether. As his outward appearance began to deteriorate, it didn’t seem to be depleting in the least and he still felt as if he cold beat down a thousand soldiers. He didn’t know how long that would last but for the time being he felt as if he could walk forever. Or at least until he found something to eat.

         A boulder up ahead provided rest and he welcomed the sit down. He reached into his pocket and withdrew a fresh pack of smokes. A gust of wind stopped him from striking a match, but only for a moment. He closed his eyes and drew the smoke into his lungs, savoring it for as long as he could until it seeped out his nostrils. The sun was harassing so he pulled his jacket up over his head, trying to get as much shade as possible.

         He stared at his surroundings. Nothing but sand three hundred and sixty degrees around. The sight depressed him but deep down inside he knew he would make it out alive. He always did. That’s how he sensed that his strength would not give out anytime soon. Even here in the most barren of wastelands, with no food and no water, he could survive. No ordinary man could-but then again, he was no ordinary man.

         He shrugged his shoulders, releasing the jacket from his head and stood up. He took one last haul off his smoke before flicking it to the ground where the sand could swallow it. A bug of some sort crawled out from under the boulder and he stared down at it. Wonder what you’re having for dinner? he though before crunching it underfoot. Well if I can’t feed, neither will you. He let out a laugh mixed with a dry cough and pointed his finger north. He then proceeded to turn ninety degrees in each direction, smiling and pointing.

         “Eenie, meenie, minee, mo. Where she stops is where I’ll go.”

         His small-time ritual was interrupted by another gust of wind but this time it was carrying something with it. He sniffed and sniffed and eventually breathed in a long breath through his nose. He arched his eyebrows (what was left of them) and snapped his head from side to side. Something was out there. Something to eat. His survival senses heightened and the beating in his chest picked up its pace. He closed his eyes, listening and smelling. He could hear it growing but where? He stood silent, eyes closed, fists clenched and nostrils wide open. Where? Where? Where? His eyes snapped open and he knew. East. I have to go east.

* * * * *

         Behind him, footsteps left an endless train in the sand. Perhaps an airplane or helicopter might have been able to guess where they started but anyone else, including himself, would have been as lost as a grain of salt on the ground. He could barely remember where the journey began let alone where his footsteps started. All he did know and was focused on was that two hours ago he had smelled something in the air, something he needed now more than ever, and it was nowhere to be found. Had his senses failed him? Could he be wrong? In the four years since the experiment ended he had never been wrong. Not once and not now, he determined.

         He lost his footing and tripped over his shoes. He stumbled to the sand and the impact sent tiny droplets of blood spattering in front of him. Contrasted against the almost-white substance, the bright red spots looked like a piece of abstract art. He could think of a few people that would pay to see him like this and the thought brought a smile to his face because those people were now dead.

         He blinked once, twice, before daring to touch his face where he suspected there was now a cesspool of sores. When he brought his fingers back into focus he not only saw the blood and flesh that had clinged like wet spaghetti noodles, but he saw a green, thick substance as well. Infected, he though. What a surprise. The only thing that worried him was that the green gobs meant he was losing precious nourishment, something he hoped could be put off until he found what he was looking for. Life was a bitch that way.

         He stood and lit another smoke. Admittedly, he could’ve done without the filthy lungs but a habit’s a habit right? No matter what kind of man you are. He dusted the sand off his khakis (not that it made much difference) and took stock of his surroundings just to be sure he hadn’t fallen off the beaten path. Right. I was barred from that path a long time ago, Jack. They got a nice big electric fence around the beaten path just for dear ol’ me. Bastards.

         The smoke traveled up and wrapped itself around his arm like a mystical python. The sun beat down on his oozing face making it feel warm and pasty. He knew what he had smelled and even though he could not yet see it, it was out there waiting for him. Sores were now appearing on his hands and he had to get moving—fast. What was that line the witch had spoken? I’m melting? Yes, he was melting and if he didn’t feed soon he would be nothing but a pile of jelly flesh for others to feed on. He looked back to make sure he was traveling in the same position as his footprints in the sand and though of the poem. The only difference was that he was carrying himself. No God would want anything to do with a creature like him.

         He took a step forward and heard his bones crack. Not a good sign. Not only were there more sores coming but his muscles were getting stiff also. Much more of that and he wouldn’t be able to move. The idea of being planted in the sand as a makeshift scarecrow did not amuse him. He crushed out his cigarette and continued forward with the suspicion that there was quite the amount of ground to cover before reaching his goal.

* * * * *

         The sun dipped below the horizon like a child playing hide and seek. He welcomed the night as an escape from the torture of heat and sweat. Desert nights were cooler than he had expected, darker as well. It was a relief that when he rubbed his face he no longer had to look at the amount of rotting carnage that attached itself to his hand. The scent he had picked up so many hours ago was stronger now and that quenched any feelings of being nowhere near his destination.

         He peeled off his jacket, allowing the cool air to molest his arms. After a few paces he decided to go all out and remove his t-shirt as well. What was the difference anyway? Not like anyone would see his gruesome figure out here. They wouldn’t see the large sore that was taking up residence on his kidney area or the one that was attacking his left nipple, making it almost obsolete. Nor would they see the one that had eaten through his shoulder blade almost exposing the bone. That one was a beauty. When he reached around to scratch himself he could place a finger in it if he really wanted to, but he was not into sadomasochism. As used to the sores as he had become, they still hurt from time to time.

* * * * *

         An hour later he tripped over something and fell to the sand—hard. Probably a carcass of some kind but it was enough to sink despair into his heart. He had come so far, had traveled all this way and for what? There was no sign of his journey coming to an end; he was rotting away like a piece of meat left out in the sun too long and his feet were now stiff to the point where he had begun to walk like a cowboy in a black and white western. What’s the use? It’d be easier to just curl up and die out here. Another hour of this and I’ll be someone’s protein shake. Son of a bitch.

         He rolled back and stared up at the night sky. The stars, so beautiful and plentiful in the desert, seemed to be winking at him to keep going, as if to say he was closer than he thought. Even out here Mother Nature could not help but mock him in all Her wonder. Just another whore.

         He sat up for what he thought would be his last cigarette. The energy it took to breathe in was tiring and he suspected that all willpower would be blown into the air like the smoke from his lungs. He struck a match and brought it to the tip of the butt. Son of a bitch. There, at the end of his feet was just what he had been searching for. He had reached his destination and tripped over it like a fool.

         The flame traveled down the matchstick and singed his fingers, making him jump before it went dark. His heart beat with the intensity of a thousand drums as newfound adrenaline pumped through his veins. There, in front of him, was what he needed to survive and he couldn’t even see it. Lighting another match was out of the question. After the process was complete he wasn’t sure how long it would take him to get back and he needed them for his smokes. Instead he got to his knees and began feeling around. The sand made its way into the sores and the pain was great but he did his best to ignore it. Then, unexpectedly, a vine or a root or something punched through the bottom of his foot and tried to bury itself in the ground. He screamed like never before. A scream that went up to the heavens unheard. Now was the time to seize the moment. Now was the time to take hold of what was his.

         His hand came upon the tiny cactus and its needles made him recoil for nothing more than a second. Now he knew its position and with one swift motion he brought his arm up and slammed his palm down on the life giving plant. He held back another scream as the defense system of the cactus pierced through his hand and the sores. Blood, pus and the green substance gushed its way down the plant and immediately he could feel himself regenerating. He began to laugh as nourishment from the cactus seeped into his body. The little flesh that was left on his face began to fill in. The cells worked overtime to re-grow new skin and heal the sores. The hole on his shoulder blade disappeared and the root protruding from his foot lashed back inside him like a tape measure being whipped back into place. This was what it was all about. This was what he had become. A monster that got its life and strength from living things growing in the dirt. A vegetarian or a vegan some might call him. He preferred they call him by his birth name, William—but whatever.

         When the regeneration was complete, William stood and cracked his stiff neck. The entire process took less than two minutes and now he was whole again. He turned and walked into the darkness already thinking of where his next meal would come from. A hundred miles up ahead a band of bushes and plants gave way to a small forest. Enough to keep him alive and to feed on, until there was nothing left.