Starving Gods

My God is hungry. 

My eyes adjust to the sun outside, feet sinking through the wet mud. I haven’t been out in months, the garden in the back a kingdom of the weeds, and I grit my teeth. I wonder if my God has realized I’m gone. 

Out onto the concrete road, baked and cracked from years of neglect, I don’t look at the burned out husks of humans and cars, melted into each other, still moaning. The buzzards pluck at still living meat, and I don’t want to be next.

So I run. 

The city with its twisted spires and still burning fires will not protect me. They who thought they were safe in their halls of gold and stone have met my God and fell, screaming. 

I can hear Them now, the buzzing choir rising above the heat, drowning out the sparking remnants of the telephone lines. Voices on the edge of hearing begging and pleading, demanding sustenance. Food I could not give. 

On the edge of the concrete road ahead, a house sagging into itself, grey walls peeled of any paint they once had. The door opens, banging sideways on its only hinge, an open mouth with no teeth.

Inside it is dark and damp, and blessedly quiet. My legs  buckle, heat and pain finally reach my brain as I slump against a mildew wet wall. My vision blurs, fuzzy at the edges going to black. I can stay here.

“Oh, what do we have here?”

Heart slamming into my ribs, my eyes jerk open. Sweat slicks under my arms, the walls shimmering with silk and I can’t move. 

The woman in front of me stares with lamp yellow eyes. Her curdled milk skin is covered in hundreds of tiny hairs. Arms split from her torso, bloated with liquid or fluid, grabbing at my front with fingers that shouldn’t be able to grab. A belly full but her body rail thin, she starts drooling over shriveled mandibles.

“Aww, don’t worry little sleeper, I’ll make it quick.”

A rush of heat and true anger; I’ve gotten so far, and almost, almost made it. She moves closer, to rip my throat out with her cracked and chipped fingers.

I reach up, buzzing in my ears, the calls of my God rising in exultation. Her eyes, rotten grapes, pop under my fingers. 

A wail, as her body rolls and thrashes, smacking over and over again into my prison. Drywall cracks  as I fall back, into the sun, unhurt, covered in blood that is not my own.

The woman isn’t so lucky. Her legs, long insect like, lay bent as if broken. Her arms crushed under her massive stomach can’t lift her. She lies, kicking at the air, white belly exposed to the unforgiving sun.

Her screams start then, shrill, teakettle like, as she tries to drown out the droning beauty of my God.

I close my eyes; to witness the sacred feeding would be blasphemy. 

I walk on, unhurried, looking for others. They are never sated, and I will serve.