Four months since they’d buried an empty coffin in a graveyard not two miles from his front door. Infamous or famous he wasn’t sure but making the nationals meant limited choices and limited choices, as any student of demand knows, cost big.
He’d managed to withdraw some money, but not enough and since even begging wasn’t safe, tonight his belly would, with all its pernicious zeal, stick him good.
Of course he missed his family and dogs and warm routines but unfortunately (or fortunately) that old cliché – if you love someone, still rang true.
Anyway, the bunker was dry and safe. In the corner, a sleeping bag, empty cans, a small fire smouldering down and scattered across the floor, a jigsaw, shards of flint, gravy cubes and balls of wire. He turned and kneeled, shuffling the objects – plague rat and clever cat – fucking useless – he kicked them over and began again.
…. septacon, octapog, shitsagram and pistagram – a devilish tretzaplek….
Hearing voices, he peered out the bunker’s mossy embrasure just as Miss Evanton stepped into the car. He fell to his knees, holding his nose above a battered tin loaded with boneseed and goatflower, feverwheat and flartch. He closed his eyes and inhaled hard.
Arching away as the floor dissolved, beneath him, new shapes, better shapes – spider eye and venus moon: decent curves.
He floated to the loophole as the car pulled clear.
Too late, he sneered, always too late.
Bio: GJ Hart currently lives and works in London and has had stories published in The Molotov Cocktail, Jersey Devil Press and others. He can be found arguing with himself over @gj_hart.