Orphans of the Storm

See, he'd long had the dream of apprenticing himself to one of the great Cajun chefs of the day - say, Emeril, or even K-Paul himself, to perfect his culinary skills in advance of opening up his own place one day. Charmayne had tried to convince him to set his sights higher, like attending Le Córdon Bléu in gay Paree. Whatever the case, he'd need those pots & pans, and he begged the rest of their neighbors to hold the boat till they got back from their foray up the flooded streets. And as he recalled, she was also worried about her car, an expensive foreign job that was a birthday gift from her parents, last berthed in a Canal Street parking garage that surely was submerged under ten feet of filthy water, as he tried to make her see.

So, by the time they gave up after seeing the watery ruin of Uncle Bernard's eatery, and she couldn't find her wheels, they high-tailed it back to their place only to find - there wasn't a solitary soul left in the building, besides themselves. Papa Dee, the Ramirez', and all the others had cleared out with whatever they could carry, leaving the rest behind. Even Toní had taken a powder with his best taffeta gowns and feather boas. Char, furious, immediately lit into Remy, blaming his selfishness for the loss of their rescue; he countered with the time wasted searching for her car was when they could've made it back. They near came to blows once or twice.

But, what was done, was done. They'd missed the boat, and their gooses were surely cooked. So now they were abandoned & alone, truly "orphans of the storm". They just couldn't believe that their friends couldn't have held the FEMA folks until they got back. The big old yellow brick building never seemed so empty and forlorn in the six years they'd lived there together.

With darkness coming on, and miserable as could be, they retired to their apartment, where each sulked for the rest of that day & evening in separate rooms, alone with their thoughts. Later, on his way to the bathroom, Remy heard Char calmly call out his name from the bedroom. When he looked in, he saw her laid out nude on the bed, smilin' and covered in Hershey's syrup, whipped cream, and cherries in pleasing places, as a kind of human ice cream sundae; a "peace offering" dessert if you will. He didn't need any more coaxing than that, as some of his old lustful spirit returned for awhile.

However, as soon as Katrina's evil twin sister, Rita, arrived, while not quite her sibling's match in the wrath of God department, fear and desperation renewed. Days of torrential rains, accompanied by fierce winds that seemed to threaten tearing down the apartment building, caused both of them to huddle together in the gloomy days and dark nights in their bed, afraid that the rising floodwaters would eventually reach the window level.

Remy tried his damnedest to comfort an increasingly distraught Char that they'd eventually be rescued after all, while not letting her see the worry & despair that was gaining a hold on him as well. After the rains subsided again, the air became even fouler than before, with an ever-present odor of something unnameable - evil, even - that they tried their best to hold at bay by burnin' scented candles most day and night, with little success.

And, of course, the ever-present physical hunger, that gnawed away at them both, night & day, so that their strength was slowly yet surely sapped, robbing them of sleep, and leaving them too tired for their usual passionate style of lovemaking. Hell - even plain ol' red beans & dirty rice would've seemed a beggarman's feast at that point! This seemed particularly cruel, even hellish: for a couple of vital, attractive young folk like them to slowly starve to death, deprived of satisfying their own unique appetites. So much so, that, inevitably ... they began contemplating the heretofore unthinkable.

Not that this would've been without precedent. Many of Remy's own ancestors emigrated to the city right out of the back country bayous, where in the black water swamps still lived tales of the fearsome loúp-garou, a legendary man-beast who'd transform by the light of the full moon, and hunt ordinary men for to feast on their flesh. Then there was that one strange night when, as a boy, he crept downstairs in his parents' house to overhear them and some of his visiting kinfolk discussin' family history around the kitchen table in low, whispered tones, until his Granny Thibodaux suddenly let loose with a witchlike cackle. "Well, meat's meat, and Man's gotta eat!", she declared, like to make his hair stand on end. As he got old enough, they shared the story with him.

Seems there was a great-uncle on his daddy's side, one Jacques Julienne, otherwise known as "Black Jack", a 'gator poacher back in the deep bayou during the Great Depression of the last century. He was a truly ornery sum'bitch that lived entirely by his own code, and whom one learnt never to cross paths with. That was the unfortunate lesson one neighboring trapper earned from a long-running dispute over territorial claims. The man eventually disappeared, and his worried relatives sent for the Louisiana State Police to pay a call on old Uncle Black Jack. They came upon his camp, drawn by what they later described as "tantalizing cooking smells" to a large cauldron heating over a fire, with Jacques squatting beside, nonchalantly stirring the bubbling contents.

Assuming it was nothing more than a crude pork stew, they casually inquired what he was cooking. Black Jack regarded them a moment, then announced with a grim smile: "Someone who didn't agree with me". With growing alarm, the one trooper held his gun on him, while the other one searched the surrounding clearing until he came upon the missing man's gutted remains hanging upside down from a cypress tree branch like a field-dressed deer, with a hungry gator feastin' on the rest. Horrified, they both stared at this, the first one taking his attention away from Uncle Jacques just long enough for him to get the drop on 'im with his shotgun, until his partner gunned him down in return.

And, during their last desperate forays to find food, the eerie quiet of the deserted, flooded streets was broken more often now by scattered gunfire from various directions. Seems there was an ongoing modern-day battle for the city of New Orleans; only instead of a siege by either British or Yankee invaders, this one was being fought by its' own residents betweenst themselves and any that dared to venture in to help them.

The worst was when they chanced unseen upon a group of men - if you could call them that - struggling with a young black girl of about eighteen or so, stripping her right out in broad daylight before hauling her, kicking & screaming for her life yet in vain, into an abandoned building, obviously aiming to rape her - and, perhaps an even darker fate. Unarmed & outnumbered, they could do little but watch in horror till they turned away towards home again, shaken to the core. Without a cop in sight, how they both longed for the days when the local gendarmes would come poundin' on their door ...

So, it really didn't come as much of a surprise when, during the following night, as Remy and Char lay in each others' arms in bed, listening to both the sounds outside as well as their own runaway thoughts, she suddenly spoke up:

"Baby, eat me ... please."

It wasn't so much a request or suggestion, as so many times before - but a plea.

XXXXXXXX

Of course, he tried his damnedest to talk her out of it - it was just plain crazy, an incredible idea - but, she could be just as stubborn and bull-headed as he. After what they'd just witnessed, and with a slow death by starvation all but certain, she'd made up her mind that she didn't want to leave this world by either means, Plus, it only seemed logical, went her argument, that he, Remy, should have the best chance of survival for eventual rescue, as he was the one of them with the true talent, his culinary skills, and he could always find another gal - as he always did before her - to be by his side, and in his bed, as he went on to fame & fortune. And of course - she was the tastier, more appetizing of the two of 'em.

At first he didn't know whether to laugh at this, at her presumptiveness, or cry over her amazing sense of self-sacrifice. But, the truth was undeniable: meat's meat, and man's gotta eat. Eat ... or die.

It must've been a combination of things ... the fouled air outside, the growing menace from others, even the deteriorating condition of their physical bodies that affected both their minds ... but, he really, actually began to consider this, how to practically go about it.

Remy remembered the stories that Papa Dee had told them on many a dark, stormy night, about his ancestry both by way of the ancient Caribe Indians, who were reputed to've practiced actual cannibalism as a mainstay of their diet, as well as immigrants from Haiti, where voodoo still held sway. He'd revealed to them the secret recipe, from ingredients surprisingly easy to come by, for what he'd called "zombie dust", a sort of conjurin' powder that was said to've put its' victims in a state of near-death, so that they'd be accidentally buried until the chosen time their masters would summon them to rise up out of their graves, and do their bidding.

The plan was to mix up enough of the potion to put her deeply under, so that she would gradually just drift off into the Great Beyond, leaving all this pain & grief behind her. She'd actually suggested that he measure it so that she'd still be conscious as he did the deed, but he vehemently voted against it. He didn't want to be staring into her dark, beautiful eyes - the very same ones he used to watch the stars' reflections in - whilst he performed such a grisly task. That, was just asking too much of him.

Deprived of his beloved cookware, Remy felt compelled to raid the empty apartments in the building for the necessary implements for his chores, when he remembered old man Epstein's place. The building superintendent and a "ham" radio operator, he had an old battery-powered shortwave rig that they used to gather round during other storms to listen to the police & rescue reports. Cursing his stupidity, he frantically tried it over & again for almost two hours, sending out repeated distress calls to anybody who might be listening, without so much as a break in the static, till the batteries wore down. His heart sinking like a stone, in a fit of useless rage he smashed the set. Then, finally he gave in & sullenly made his way back to Char - and, the inevitable.

Remy recalled later a distinct sense of unreality, unbelieving that their lives - his and Char's - had finally, unavoidably come down to this, even as he felt his animal survival instinct taking over. This just couldn't be happening - I mean, this was the good ol' U.S. of A., land of plenty, home of the free - not some dinky little Third World country where disaster, disease, and famine usually ruled. Just how could this catastrophe have happened here? And who the fuck was to blame, anyhow?

So, resigning himself to do what he felt he had to without another choice, he filled the bathtub with what was left of the potable water, undressed and carried her into the bathroom, gently & lovingly bathed her, then dried her off and with his remaining strength, brought her back to the bedroom, laying her on plastic tarp that he'd covered the bedsheets with. Waiting in the kitchen for their grim purpose were the purloined cooking utensils & knives, along with a kettle on the boil with the remaining propane. See, the plan was to mix the powder in with plenty of chamomile tea, the way his great-great-great Aunt Felicity had purportedly done with nightshade for a couple of rapacious Yankee carpetbaggers that'd paid her a visit in the days following the Civil War. All the better for it to go down nice an' easy.

Remy remembered how the sun had seemed to disappear entirely from the sky that September afternoon, and the shadows lengthened early. At the same time, he became aware of a ... presence, a sense of living evil that may have originated all the way from the remotest bayous, and might well have contributed to the general breakdown in law & order in the days following the floods, drifting in through the open windows. He heard - or, so he thought - unseen voices, whispers in the shadows, coaxing him ever onwards in his preparations for the unspeakable. He imagined blood-thirsty Uncle Jacques, even poor mad Aunt Elyse, urging him to commit to this course of action, an invitation to eternal damnation for his immortal soul. Even swore he caught sight of 'em, out of the corner of his eye. All this, while his fevered brain tried to focus on the more practical aspects.

Which part of her would he cook and eat first? He'd once read that the organ meats - the liver, kidneys, & such - were the most nutritious in any animal, even man himself. But it was the smooth curves, the youthful, taut leanness of her caramel-colored body - her limbs, her torso - that'd always fired both his lust and sensual appetites, as well as his creativity. Should he carve a steak, a cutlet out of her shapely thighs, her firm, rounded ass? Or, perhaps even a succulent fílet-de-fillé from that seat of her womanhood he loved the most?

Premature grief as well as terror gripped his heart as he wondered: how would he explain to others - to any one, most of all her parents, who never cared much for him to begin with - why he'd done it, even if he managed to survive? He'd have to dispose of the remains well enough so that nobody ever could find out. But, then - how would her family be able to properly mourn her? How could she receive a fitting, traditional N'awlins jazz funeral?

These wild thoughts were mixed with the hypnotic refrain of a pop song from his childhood that had ahold of his mind:

The devil inside, the Devil inside,

Every-single-one-of-us, the devil inside ...

He carefully, determinedly carried the saucer & cup with its' deadly potion into the bedroom where she lay, the lit candles in the gathering darkness casting frightful shadows on the walls, giving the over-all effect of a pagan human sacrifice. All the while, Charmayne Bouviér Dupüis lay there calm, motionless, hands folded across her belly, her eyes meeting his from across the room - unafraid. The very air in the room seemed to thicken, making it hard to breathe. Remy stooped down beside her, drawing her up so that she could take the drink.

"Here 'ya go, baby bird ... drink all of it ... and then, just close your eyes and rest. Soon the angels will be comin' for you ... "

He was damned sure when his turn came, it wouldn't be heavenly hosts, but their infernal counterparts that'd claim him. And then, the goddamnedest thing happened, just as her lips were about to touch the cup -

His left hand spilled it to the floor. Remy wondered a moment, idiotically, if his fingers had suddenly gone numb - until he remembered with a shock that he was right-handed. Then, like a volcano erupting, all the suppressed fear, grief, anger, frustration, and other emotions shot to the surface, and he broke down, sobbing like a motherless child, tearless from dehydration, arms crossed & head bowed, unable to face her.

"Oh, Baby, baby, baby ... I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry, so sorry ... it's all my fault that this has happened, right from the start ... if it hadn't been for my pig-headedness ... my selfishness, my stupidity ... we wouldn't be in this awful situation. And now - I can't even follow through on this! I just can't do this, Baby - I love you too goddamned much! I've failed you, Babe ... failed you at every turn ... "

Alone in his abject misery, he didn't take notice at first; her gentle coughing and feeble attempts at speaking finally caught his attention. He paused to glance up at her, as she weakly laughed, and said, in a faint resemblance of her normal voice:

" ... now you finally get humility! Just like you, to take credit for an act of God, you big Cajun oaf! You never get tired of wishful thinking, do you? I ... just want you to know, you couldn't be more wrong! You've never let me down once ... and, especially not now!"

He stared at her, dumbly, not comprehending ... then, the light of understanding hit him. He managed a ghost of his old familiar grin, but for only a moment, as exhaustion and resignation took their toll.

"Then ... this is it ... there's nothing left ... goodbye, baby bird ... "

Remy let his weary head sink onto her bare stomach, and closed his eyes for what he truly believed was the last time, feeling her fingers gently stroking his hair. Then, they gave themselves over to the darkness ...

XXXXXXXX

They must've both blessedly passed out, for when Remy next woke, it was already after dark; the candles had burned themselves out. Still delirious, unaware of his surroundings at first, he thought he most surely had died when he heard a faint, yet familiar sound like that of huge wings beating against the close, humid air, coming rapidly nearer, and accompanied by a bright white light that shone through the bedside window.

Was this, in fact, the Angel of Death at last, come to claim both Charmayne and him, and carry them on to the afterlife? His weakened heart fluttered in his chest as both the sound and beam of light seemed to settle finally on the rooftop, till he recognized the loud, booming, boisterous voice that called in from above.

"Hey, Remy - yo, my main man! Stop whatever you and Char are doin', and get yo' selves ready to leave, chop-chop! Last chopper out of Saigon time, bro'! And I'll even forget the twenty you still owe me from our last poker night, so - get yo' low-down Cajun ass movin'!"

It was his old boyhood buddy, Demetrius Henry - "Remy an' Demmy", their friends always referred to them, when they were running the back alleys together. A large, imposing, solidly-built black man who bore a strong resemblance to the actor Michael Clarke Duncan as he grew to adulthood, even down to his shaved-bald scalp, he could trace his ancestry back to 19th Century plantation slaves, though he always boasted that he was in fact a descendant of the mighty John Henry of American legend.

He'd joined the state National Guard soon after school graduation, then the Army Reserves, just like his daddy before him. When he went over to Iraq, he and Remy had kept in touch by e-mail; last word he had from him was a day or so before the power went off from the storm. They must've brought some of the local boys back to help out with the relief and rescue teams.

Demmy himself appeared in uniform at the window, all 6'3", 220 lb. of him, M-16 at his side, a wide grin on his face, hanging onto an aerial ladder.

"We got your S.O.S. - drop your cock and grab your socks, boy - it's check-out time at the Good Times Motel! We're gonna ... "

His voice trailed off as he surveyed the room - the mess, Charmayne still nude and lying in bed above the covers, eyes closed and faint, shallow breathing. But it must've been the _expression he read on Remy's face - a combination of total surrender and fear mixed with immense relief - that'd caused his own mahogany mug to whiten considerably, tipping him off that something grave, even unthinkable was about to happen shortly before his airborne calvary had arrived to the rescue.

"Lawd A-mighty ... what went on here?"

Remy could only manage a hoarse whisper, his words like dust in his mouth. "Demmy ... please, for the love of God ... help me save her!"

His friend glanced quickly at the two gaunt figures before him. "Hell, yeah! That's why we're here - to get you both!"

He went back to the window, barking out a command. "Mac - MacCready! Get down here, quick! Bring two of those shock blankets with you, and some epinephrine in a hypo! We're gonna need it, stat!"