Hideout by Jack Heath (iphone ebook reader txt) 📕

I’m strangely uncomfortable hearing this story. Not because of the act—stabbing someone with a needle is nothing compared to the things I’ve done—but because of the way she describes it. The other Guards see the torture as righteous punishment, a solemn duty. Clearly Zara doesn’t.

‘It’s hard to describe how exciting it was,’ she says. ‘Having that power to hurt and not get punished for it. Way more fun than drawing. Even after I got my new laptop, I never went back to it.’

‘Do the others know this story?’

‘Of course. Like I said, no shaming here.’ She pats my knee and stands up. ‘The sooner you open up to us, the better. You have no idea how good it will feel.’

She’s right. I have no idea. I’ve never told anyone what I am. A couple of people—dead now—found out, but I never told them. And even after they knew, my compulsions were only ever discussed obliquely. Take the body and … do what you do, the old FBI director once said to me. Charlie Warner, the crime lord I used to work for, called it body disposal. I didn’t want to say the actual words, and they didn’t want to hear them.

But I get the feeling that Zara is different. I could tell her: I eat people. She wouldn’t be disgusted. She might even be excited.

This little group of monsters could be the perfect place for me to settle down. If only I was who they think I am.

‘Anyway, I just came back to get some more food for the traps.’ Zara holds up a bag of flour. ‘Take a walk with me?’

‘Sounds good.’

She offers me her hand to help me up. I wipe my dirty palm on my pants before taking it. Then she leads me into the forest, like the fairy-tale creature she is.

The yeast traps are just jelly jars with cheesecloth stretched over the top of them, held on with an elastic band. Through the glass I can see a spongy white mass.

‘Here’s one I prepared earlier,’ says Zara, like a celebrity chef. ‘Usually I pour in a cup of milk and wait for it to go sour before I mix in the flour, but this one is a bit of an experiment. I used water instead, because I don’t especially like the smell of spoiled milk.’

She shoots me an enigmatic smile, like this is a joke—who likes the smell of spoiled milk?—or a character flaw she’s embarrassed to reveal.

‘Looks like it’s working,’ I say, although I really have no idea. I’ve been hungry my whole life, but I’ve never had to resort to baking my own bread.

‘Hmm,’ Zara says, tapping the glass. ‘Maybe.’

She lifts off the cheesecloth and adds a little more flour from the bag, along with some water from a steel bottle. She stirs the mixture with a stick from the ground.

Her clothes are loose, leaving her arms and neck exposed. She doesn’t seem to feel the cold.

It’s like she wants you to taste her, says the voice.

I’m reminded of an old joke about a hungry soldier walking through a jungle. He spots a bacon tree in the distance. As he approaches it, licking his lips, he’s shot by an unseen adversary. It wasn’t a bacon tree—it was a hambush.

The other kids at the group home thought that was hilarious, but the punchline only made me hungry.

I want to know why Zara was snooping around upstairs, but I don’t want to ask directly. ‘I was talking to Cedric earlier,’ I say instead. ‘It sounded like he and Samson were close.’

‘Oh?’ Zara looks politely interested.

She’s not biting. I put some more bait on the hook. ‘But it seems they had a falling out.’

If Zara killed Samson, she’ll confirm this. Make Cedric look guilty. Divert suspicion. It’s what I would do.

But Zara just says, ‘Poor Cedric. He has a gentle heart.’ She picks up another yeast trap and examines it.

I take a risk. ‘Remind me what you did for a living? Before you came here?’

‘I never told you,’ she says.

Lucky. ‘That explains why I can’t remember. Were you a baker? A pastry chef?’

‘I wish. Just a humble public servant.’ She bows. ‘I travelled the world, working for the Department of Agriculture.’

I was thinking she might have been a therapist. She has that aura—attentive and non-judgemental.

As we get deeper into the woods, the canopy blocks out more and more of the feeble winter sun. There’s barely enough light to see by and every tree looks the same. Zara must have an amazing memory or she’d lose half the yeast traps she hid.

‘Is that where you learned this stuff?’ I ask.

‘God, no. I was working on the language for trade bills. I never met an actual farmer.’

‘Why did you leave?’

She shrugs. ‘Guess I just got sick of being behind a desk. What about you? You never told me what you did before this.’

She says before this as though I’m one of the team. Like now I torture people for a living.

‘I was a teaching assistant,’ I say, because Lux was. I hope she doesn’t ask me any math questions.

‘Which school?’

‘Braithwaite.’

She holds up a fist. ‘Go Panthers?’

‘Go Panthers,’ I confirm. ‘You know your college football.’

‘Did you ever play?’

‘No.’

‘Never?’ She squeezes my arm. ‘You have the build.’

I don’t, and I’m not sure what she expects to gain by flattering me. ‘How did you find out about the Guards?’ I ask.

She tilts her head. ‘Don’t you know?’

‘Sorry.’ I fake a sheepish smile. ‘Have you already told me this?’

She waves it off. ‘No, I just thought one of the others might have. I was like you: I found the site and liked it. I subscribed to get extra content. Then I started submitting.’

‘Submitting?’