Through The Valley by Yates, B.D. (feel good books .txt) 📕

selected to learn the location of the farm, and the Provider would be given the job of slaughtering an animal.  Nobody wanted to do it because it was probably a long and dangerous trek to reach it. Emmit had never heard any squeals or moos or anything of the sort, and in the stillness, loud sounds like that would carry. It was probably miles away, perhaps to discourage starving criminals from sneaking off to get some meat of their own.

  Yeah. That's gotta be what it is. Don't be crazy.

  But it didn't feel crazy at all. It felt wrong, and it irritated his brain like an itch he couldn't quite scratch. Trying to explain where their food supply was coming from felt more like he was playing a part in a movie; reciting lines and thinking thoughts that he was supposed to say and think. In his gut, he was certain that he knew the truth. He just wasn't sure if he could face it.

  Emmit swung the axe down and split a log of dead wood in half with a heavy chunk, the two halves tumbling away from each other as the vibration buzzed through his hands and resonated up the strained and quivering muscles in his arms.  With each exertion, his face moaned.

  He had developed a pattern when he was made to chop the wood. After three or four solid whacks, he would pause chopping, rest the crude axe against his small pile, and arch his back to try to stretch the aches and pains out. His spine snapped and popped like a line of firecrackers each time he did. He would then remove his glasses, using the lenses as a makeshift mirror, and squint at himself.

  He didn't know why he repeated the same mantra of checking his face; nothing was changing fast enough for him to notice. He did notice, however, that he was beginning to bulk up slightly despite the lack of food in the camp. He was also sporting a dark and patchy beard now, which only made the itching worse.

  He had laughed at himself once as he gazed at the gouge in his cheek, the reddish lips of sliced flesh barely held together with fresh scabbing and dried blood.  Abruptly, the wavy curtains of cut skin had made him think of a vagina, which had led him to dub himself "Vaginaface". He envisioned himself as some sort of comedic gangster in a spoof porno movie, only instead of twin handguns he was armed with twin dildos that he held by the rubber balls.  Oh, the bullies of his youth would have broken ribs from laughing at that one. Pup and the Rev had glanced up from their own work, casting concerned looks to each other as Emmit cackled like a madman. He didn't mind. Here, in this place, your mind could be a movie theater if you wanted it to be. It was all he had, and he had learned to laugh at his own misfortunes at an incredibly young age.

  Things had been surprisingly chill with Roy. The big man didn't go out of his way to speak to Emmit, but when he did speak to him (to tell him his job duties, tell him it was time to eat, other supervisory scolding) he was neither sinister nor amiable. They were just two men talking, and as far as Roy seemed concerned, Emmit had paid his price, and all was forgiven now. Emmit couldn't understand how Roy could speak to people he had tortured, see the smudgy smoothness of the scar tissue he had left behind, and not feel any guilt. Then again, if Roy had been a hitman in his old time, he probably didn't feel much of anything for anyone he hurt.

  Poke had been careful to steer clear of him, but that wasn't much of a feat because Roy had been keeping him on a short leash.  He would either assign them jobs that required them to separate, or he would plod over to Poke with weapons in his hands and take him off on excursions into the woods. That was what they had been doing for the past three or four days, and where they had gone this morning as the other men started work. Off into the white forest with spears and clubs like a father and son, without telling anyone else what they were doing.

  Yeah, well we all know what's in that forest. I think I'll stay here and chop wood, thank you.

  The Links seemed to keep their distance, almost as if they were respecting the boundaries of the camp. Occasionally Emmit would catch a glimpse of movement from the corner of his eye and look up to see one or two of them, shuffling slowly through the foliage and smiling quietly as they went about their dead men’s agendas. He had spent an entire afternoon (at least he felt like it had been an afternoon, but it was hard to keep track of time) watching one of them, a thirty-something mummy who had been dressed in a shredded gray NIKE hoodie and tattered, mud-stiffened jeans. The thing had stumbled out of the trees and then stopped, clawing lazily at the air and leaning backwards as if trying to watch a plane fly over. Then it had apparently entered shut down mode; it stood there, motionless, for hours. It was a creepy sight, watching small drifts of snow beginning to collect around the Link's ankles as it... hibernated? Slept? Did they sleep?  It was the same eerie stillness of a person in a casket—no human being should ever be so still.

Well, it's definitely asleep now.

  Roy and Poke had returned from one of their day jaunts and caved its head in without it even noticing. Emmit had heard the whack and seen the fine maroon mist jettison from the end of Roy's club, even from hundreds of yards away.  The thing was