Summary: By Ferrett Steinmetz Read by Dave Thompson Discuss on our forums. An Escape Pod Original! All stories by Ferrett Steinmetz All stories read by Dave Thompson Rated 15 and up for language, brief sexual imagery, brief violent imagery Devour By Ferrett Steinmetz “I want some water,” Sergio says. The bicycle chains clank as he strains to put his feet on the floor. Sergio designed his own restraints. He had at least fifteen plumbers on his payroll who could have installed the chains – but Sergio’s never trusted anything he didn’t build with his own hands. So he deep-drilled gear mounts into our guest room’s floral wallpaper, leaving me to string greased roller chains through the cast-iron curlicues of the canopy bed. “You’re doing well, Bruce,” he lied, trying to smile – but his lips were already desiccated, pulled too tight at the edges. Not his lips at all. I slowed him down; I had soft lawyer’s hands, more used to keyboards than Allen wrenches. Yet we both knew it would be the last time we could touch each other. So I asked for help I didn’t need, and he took my hands in his to guide the chains through what he referred to as “the marionette mounts.” Then he sat on the bed and held out his wrists while I snapped the manacles on – the chamois lining was my idea – and we kissed. It was a long, slow kiss that needed to summarize thirty-two years of marriage. And it should have been comforting, but his mouth was a betrayal. His lips had resorbed from their lush plumpness. His tongue had withdrawn to a stub. His kiss still sent flutters down my spine. I pressed my hands against his back, moving towards making love, but Sergio pushed me away. ”We don’t know how transmissible this is,” he said. Then he tugged on the chains to verify he could lie down and sit up, but not leave the bed. I pressed the keys into his palm, trying to burn the feeling of his skin into mine forever. He snipped the keys in half with a bolt-cutter, then flung it all into the corner. “That’s that,” he said, and rolled away from me to cry. My arms ached - still ache – from not being able to hold him. Six days later, I’m still here. And Sergio is still leaving. “I want some water,” he repeats now. Louder, more insistent. Too angry to be really Sergio. “You never wanted water before,” I say, keeping a careful distance from the bed. ”You like orange juice.” Sergio tries to put his head in his hands. The chains pull him short. “For Christ’s sake, Bruce,” he says. ”I’m dying. There are going to be changes.” “Yes,” I say guardedly. ”There are.” “And it’s apple cider I like. In a chilled glass. From the local guao yan, no, orchard – and not that sugared crap you like. Don’t try to trick me, okay? It’s just insulting to.” He almost says to us, but then shudders. “I’m not going to do anything crazy with water,” he begs. ”I can’t turn it into. what’s the word? Flamethrowers. It’s water. I’m just. thirsty. I’ll fight with you about the things that matter, but. “Just get me some damn water!” he barks. I stare at him, knowing the old Sergio never yelled, wondering how much is left. Because I can see the traces of a young Sergio within the thing trapped in the four-poster right now. Sergio always had that perfect, youthful mix of good cheekbones and lean muscle. Now, his thighs and biceps are swollen like a hormone-stuffed steer – but aside from that, Sergio would be the envy of any plastic surgeon. His crow’s feet have been pulled from his skin, his collagen replenished. His hair, once a brilliant mane of salt-and-pepper curls, has turned a lank black at the roots. It looks like some horrid[...]
