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It was the boy from the bathtub. Justin couldn't see his face, but he could smell the clorox, raw and fresh. He had carved a great deal of flesh off of this one, as well as removing the viscera. But he had not yet cut off the head. Now it was snuggled under his chin, tongue burrowing like a worm into his wounded throat. He felt the teeth tearing at him, chunks of his skin and muscles disappearing down the boy's gullet. He felt one of the bones in his neck crack and splinter.
The pain was as shocking as an orgasm, but cleaner. The joy was like nothing he had known before, not when he watched his mother die, not when he tasted the flesh of another person for the first time. It had worked. Not only was the Asian boy still alive, but the others had come back as well. They had never left Justin at all. They had only been waitng.
He got his arms around the hollow body, pulled it closer. He cupped the cold rubbery buttocks, entwined his legs with the thrusting bones of its thighs. When its jaws released his throat, he pressed his face against the voracious swollen one, pushed his tongue between the blackened lips and felt the teeth rip it out. His mouth filled with blood and rot. He swallowed, gagged, swallowed again.
A head rolled out from under the bed, pushing itself by frantic movements of jaw and tongue. The severed ends of the neck muscle twitched, trying to help it along. Its nose and left eyebrow were pierced with silver rings, its empty eyesockets crusted with blood and greasy black makeup. It reached Justin and bit deep into one of his thighs. He kicked once, in surprise, then bent his leg so that the teeth could more easilly get at the soft muscle of his groin. He felt his flesh peeling away.
The upper half of a body was pulling itself out of the closet. Its black-lacquered nails dug into the carpet. Ropes of intestines trailed behind it, coming apart, leaving a trail of shit and ichor on the rug. This one had been, possibly, a Mexican boy. Now its skin was the color of decaying eggplant, and very few teeth were left in its gaping mouth. Dimly Justin remembered extracting them with a pair of pliers after the rigor mortis had slackened.
It tore Justin's belly open with its hands and sank its face into his guts. He arched his back, felt its fingers plunging deep, its mouth lapping at the very core of him.
The small pleasures of his life--reading, listening to the music of another time, choking the life out of boys and playing with their abandoned shells--were nothing compared to this. He wanted it to go on forever.
But, eventually, he died.
The corpse from the bathtub chewed at Justin's throat and chest. Half chewed pieces of Justin slid down its gullet, into the great scooped-out hollow of its abdomen, out onto the floor.
The corpse from the closet sucked up the liquor and partly digested meat it found in Justin's stomach.
The head bit into Justin's scrotum and gulped the savory mass of the testicles like a pair of tender oysters.
They seemed to know when to stop feeding, to refrain from pulling him completely apart, to leave enough of him. When he came back, Justin knew exactly what to do.
After all, he had been doing it long before most of the others.
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