Ring Shout(19)
“Why, to fulfill the grand plan, of course.”
“Which is?”
“Bringing the glory of our kind to your world. Putting an end to your strife and bickering. Relieving you of the abomination of your meaningless existence. We strive to give you purpose, which you will come to know once you have been properly joined to our harmonious union.”
“Harmonious union?” I gesture at the Klan posters and whatnot. “That what you call this ode to the great white race?”
“Don’t mind that. We need you to let us in, to merge you to our great collective.” His gaze wanders over the shop’s patrons. “They was just the most willing. So easy to devour from the inside, body and soul. Always have been.”
A spike of anger hits me. “That why you have them go around killing us?”
“Oh, we might point them in a direction we need, but that hate they got in them is their own doing. You see, Maryse, we don’t care about what skin you got or religion. Far as we concerned, you all just meat.”
He rolls his neck, and as I watch sores break out across his skin—on his face, his forearms, his fingers. Not sores. Little mouths, like in the dream. Even his eyes roll back, leaving red gums and jagged teeth behind his spectacles. Every tongue flicks the air hungrily and right then, I see him. Really see him. Now I understand why he keeps saying we and us. This ain’t one thing—it’s dozens! I can see the places where they join together, stitched up in this human suit. They move about under his skin, like maggots in a corpse. A shiver shakes me and I grip my sword, imagining jumping up to slice that thick neck off his shoulders—and a hundred slithering things spilling out.
When he talks again, all those mouths talk too—dozens of shrill voices mashing together that only I can hear. “You haven’t asked us the biggest question. Ask it. Ask it!”
I clench my teeth at the jarring chorus, but I ask, “What’s coming?”
Those horrible mouths turn up into wicked grins.
“Grand Cyclops is coming,” they croon. “When she do, your world is over.”
I look at him, not understanding.
“We don’t have to keep up this fight, Maryse. Told you we’ve been watching you. There’s a special place for you in our grand plan.”
“Fuck your grand plan,” I spit back.
He laughs, and something deep in his belly growls.
“Such language! What would your mammy and pappy think?”
I almost put my sword through him right then and there.
“We apologize. Know that’s a sore spot for you. Now see, we could use your fire. Really should hear us out. After all, you think your little ragtag friends and that witch—with her blue bottles and weak magic—can stand against us? That you going to stop what’s coming with singing and Mama’s Water? Look at your face! You think we don’t know all about y’all? Girl, you even understand what you’re fighting?”
He signals and I tense up. But the Ku Klux who steps forward don’t even look at me. He just sets a plate on the table. I look down to see it’s meat, cooked rare and bloody. It got a cut on the top—that suddenly opens up into a mouth and lets out a sharp squeal!
Take all I got not to flip that table over as the meat begins inching its way across my plate. I turn to look about the shop, where people are eating. Devouring this living meat. Shoving it in they mouths like hogs at slop, chewing and grinding and swallowing it into their bellies. The sight brings up bile in my throat. I snatch a fork and stab the meat, holding it down while it screech and wriggle.
“One day,” I growl, “I’m going to cut you up into little pieces.”
I snatch my sword, lifting up and pushing from the table. The Ku Kluxes stare at me, intent in their eyes. But Butcher Clyde gives the slightest shake of his head. I look out at the people, transfixed in their eating, and turn away quick, wanting to be out of this place. A multitude of voices catch me as I reach the door. “Good of you to come by. Of course you know, this means we have to return the favor. Be seeing you, real soon.” Laughter from a hundred mouths chase me from the shop, a jarring chorus of razors in my ears.
* * *
“Don’t know why we can’t just play Spades,” Sadie grumbles. She’s sitting slouched in her too-big overalls, Winnie at her side. “And how you learn a Kraut game anyway? Y’all gone over there to kill ’em or play cards with ’em?”
Chef flashes that easy smile, shuffling the deck as the slim cards blur between her fingers. We at Nana Jean’s. The farmhouse full with people and the kerosene lamps flicker our shadows big off the walls. I check my new pocket watch, brass instead of silver. Half past eleven. The hour late.
“Picked it up from some German soldiers we caught,” Chef answers. “None of ’em coulda been older than sixteen. White boys told them Negroes had tails and we was cannibals. So the Germans we captured was extra friendly, thinking teaching us card games would stop them from getting eaten.” She pulls the smoking Chesterfield from her lips to flick ashes, before her face goes dark. “Then we come up on a Kraut patrol and one of them tries to give away our position. Had to slit his throat myself. Stupid kid.”
“You have any good stories ’bout that war?” Sadie asks.
Emma Krauss pulls up a chair, face bright as she spreads out her prim brown dress and lays the shotgun she carrying in her lap—what she calls a Merkel. Thing look bigger than she do. “Meine Freundin Cordelia. Deal me in. My sisters played this game. Though, I am not very good.”