All You Can Eat Part One

 

This short story came to life after a visit to a buffet with my uncles, Andy and Joe. Initially, I had envisioned it as a potential fish-out-of-water novel, but as I sat there, uncomfortably full from all the classic buffet staples, the idea transformed into a simpler, more immediate story. I ended up writing it that night, inspired by the experience and the feeling of being utterly stuffed. I'll be posting it in four segments over the next few weeks.

All You Can Eat

Part One

 

 

            The sidewalk was cold against his skin, harder than any rock he had ever known. It wasn't just the cold that bit into him, though—it was the way the surface seemed to reject him, as if the world itself had turned against him. His head throbbed, a slow, insistent pounding like a drumbeat from some unseen tribe. He clawed at his memories, but they scattered like startled birds. One moment, he was crouched by the fire, his hands slick with the blood of a fresh kill, the air thick with the scent of smoke and charred meat. The next, there was a light—not the warm, flickering glow of firelight, but something sharp and searing, like the edge of a spear splitting the sky. Then, nothing.

Now, here he lay, beneath a vast, alien sky that groaned with gray clouds, framed by towering cliffs of glass and stone. The air buzzed with strange noises—high-pitched wails, low growls, the incessant hum of things he could not see. A giant beast roared past him, its black body gleaming, its belly filled with faceless, staring creatures. He recoiled, scrambling back against the wall, his breath coming in ragged gasps.

He wore only a loincloth, now damp and clinging to his skin, a pitiful barrier against the biting wind. His hands, calloused from years of wielding spears and scraping hides, shook as he pressed them to the smooth, alien surface beneath him. He smelled things he could not name—sharp and acrid, sweet and cloying, a confusing riot of odors that made his head spin.

The people here—if they were people—moved with a strange urgency, their bodies wrapped in layers of brightly colored skins, their faces pale and blank. They spoke in a rapid, jagged language, their voices rising and falling like the cries of birds. None of them looked at him. None of them stopped.

Until she did.

She was small, with dark hair pulled tight against her head, her face painted in unnatural colors. Her eyes were wary but kind, and she crouched down in front of him, her movements slow and deliberate, like a hunter approaching wounded prey. She reached into the bundle she carried and pulled out a thin, green rectangle, which she pressed into his trembling hands. The material was strange, soft yet firm, with intricate markings he could not decipher. She spoke, her voice gentle, the words a meaningless hum. Then she handed him a bundle of cloth and gestured at his body. He stared at her, uncomprehending, until she mimed pulling the cloth over her own body. He understood, then, and nodded. She smiled faintly before disappearing into the crowd.

He clutched the bundle to his chest and turned the green rectangle over in his hands, his fingers tracing the strange symbols and patterns. Was it some kind of token? A charm? He thought of the painted rocks his tribe used to mark their sacred places and felt a pang of homesickness so sharp it took his breath away.

The world around him was alive in ways he could not fathom. Light blinked and danced in the glass cliffs, and the ground beneath him thrummed faintly, as if the earth itself had a heartbeat. He saw creatures with glowing eyes and metal skins, slithering along paths as smooth as rivers of stone. He saw fire trapped in tiny cages, its warmth stolen but its light preserved. He saw people holding strange, flat objects to their ears, speaking into them as if to spirits.

His stomach growled, a sound as familiar as the call of a wolf, and he doubled over, clutching his middle. He smelled food then, rich and savory, carried to him on the wind. His nostrils flared, and his mouth watered. He stood, unsteady on his feet, clutching the cloth bundle and the green token, and followed the scent.

It led him to a cave of light and noise, its entrance wide and beckoning. People streamed inside, their movements purposeful, their faces alive with expectation. He followed them, his steps hesitant but driven by hunger. Inside, the air was warm, filled with the mingling scents of roasting meat, baking bread, and something sweet and buttery. His stomach clenched with longing.

He stopped just inside the entrance, overwhelmed by the sheer abundance of it all. Tables groaned under the weight of food—more food than he had ever seen in his life. People moved between them, piling their plates high, their laughter mingling with the clatter of metal and glass. His gaze darted from one thing to another, his mind struggling to make sense of the shapes and colors. A man nearby plunged a metal stick into a mound of something white and steaming, and his hand twitched, the old instincts kicking in. A weapon?

But no. It was not a weapon. It was a tool, used to shovel food into his mouth. The man chewed and swallowed without a second thought, his eyes glazed with satisfaction.

The primitive man’s breath quickened. He took a tentative step forward, his bare feet silent on the polished floor. He clutched the green rectangle tighter, his knuckles white. Whatever this place was, it promised to feed him. And he was so very hungry.

          The warmth inside the cave was almost suffocating. The air was thick with the scents of food, and the noise seemed to bounce off every surface, sharp and ceaseless. The primitive man’s eyes darted from face to face, each one unfamiliar, each one a mystery. People moved past him, brushing by without a glance, their expressions calm, even indifferent. He clutched the bundle of cloth and the green rectangle tighter, feeling the edge of panic creeping up his spine.

“Sir?”

The voice came from behind him, low and firm. He turned slowly, his muscles tensed, ready to run if he needed to. The man who had spoken stood just a few feet away, dressed in black and white. His face was clean and smooth, his hair combed back neatly. He looked at the primitive man with an expression that was both curious and cautious, like someone approaching a strange animal.

“Do you need help?” the man asked, gesturing toward the tables piled with food. His words were meaningless sounds to the primitive man, but the tone was clear: a question. A challenge, perhaps. The primitive man tightened his grip on the green rectangle and took a half-step back, his bare feet sliding slightly on the polished floor.

The man in black and white frowned, then tried again. He pointed at the green rectangle clutched in the primitive man’s hand. “Money?” he said, slowly, as if speaking to a child. “Do you want to pay?”

The primitive man stared at him, unblinking. The sounds meant nothing, but the gesture toward the rectangle was unmistakable. Slowly, hesitantly, he held it out. The man in black and white took it, his fingers brushing against the primitive man’s rough, calloused skin. He unfolded the rectangle, glanced at it, and nodded.

“Okay,” the man said, his voice lighter now. He gestured toward the tables of food. “You can eat. Go ahead.”

The primitive man frowned, his brow furrowing as he tried to decipher the gestures. The man pointed at the tables again, then mimed lifting something to his mouth and chewing. The meaning became clear: this was food, and he could take it.

Hunger gnawed at his insides, but he stayed rooted in place, his body rigid with suspicion. The man in black and white seemed to realize this, because he smiled faintly and took a step back, holding his hands up as if to show he meant no harm.

Another worker appeared, a woman this time, her face kind but puzzled. She said something to the man in black and white, her voice soft and questioning. He handed her the green rectangle and gestured toward the primitive man, saying something in response. The woman nodded and looked at the primitive man with the same cautious expression. She pointed at the tables, then at him, her hand making the universal motion for eating.

The primitive man’s stomach growled loudly, and he flinched at the sound, embarrassed by his body’s betrayal. The woman’s smile widened slightly, and she nodded as if to say, “Yes, we know. Go.”

He looked from her to the tables and back again, his instincts warring with his need. These people could be tricking him, luring him into some kind of trap. But the smell of the food was overwhelming, filling his head with memories of feasts around the fire, of meat roasted until the fat dripped and sizzled. His legs trembled with the effort of standing still, of resisting the pull.

The man in black and white said something else, his voice growing firmer, and gestured one final time toward the tables. The primitive man exhaled slowly, the breath hissing between his teeth. He took one tentative step forward, then another, the ground beneath him feeling strange and unnatural. The workers watched him, their expressions still cautious but now tinged with a kind of relief.

He stopped just short of the tables, his eyes scanning the mounds of food piled high. His mouth watered, and his hands flexed involuntarily, the muscles remembering the weight of a spear, the feel of tearing meat from bone. But he did not move to take anything. Not yet.

Behind him, the man and woman exchanged glances. The primitive man’s world had become narrow and sharp, focused entirely on the feast before him, but he could feel their eyes on his back, their presence like shadows stretching long and thin...

...Stay tuned for part two