Cold Cuts

Veronica never came home from the excavation site before 6 p.m. It was an hour commute, through the frozen remains of rural Louisiana, from her house in La Rousse to the valley in Belle Viande. Her cat, Antsy, howled for her mama for the 11 hours that she was gone each day, every day, all week. Veronica knew Antsy was hungry, but there wasn't more she could do. Food was scarce; she had to ration for herself before taking care of her pet. She made all her cabinets child-proof. Antsy would have to be satisfied with a scoop of food at 7 a.m. when Veronica left in the morning and a scoop at 6 p.m. when she returned. Sometimes, she returned even later than that. It depended on how slippery the roads were, how much snow had fallen that afternoon, and how many desperate hunting parties were outside looking to raid her truck and eat everything inside—including her.

But Antsy didn't know this. She only knew food and she knew that there was one way to get it—from Veronica. Surely it had crossed Antsy's mind that she may need to adapt and survive on other means, but in the meantime, she was still dependent on Veronica. She howled and whined until she got home. She climbed over the pots and saucepans on the stove that were filled with chunks of ice. Mostly, she slept. And starved. She climbed up and down the stairs to see if she could find Veronica downstairs or upstairs. She always expected something new, as though the wait would allow something yet undiscovered to pop out of its hiding place and make itself known. But each time Antsy made her rounds in the house, she was met with the same vacancy that had been there for the past few months.

The one part of the house she was never able to investigate was the locked door in the basement, at the end of the hallway. She had spent hours a day for the past two weeks manically clawing the carpet at the foot of the door. Standing on her hind legs, she chewed a poster that was taped to the wood. Antsy knew there was something in there. She paid close enough attention to her mama's actions to know that, somehow, this must be a doorway to more food.

She couldn't tell time, but if she could, she would've realized that it was already 6:20, meaning she actually had a good reason to feel hungry now. Veronica was late. Still, Antsy belted out her yowls at the same volume as she would normally have belted out yowls—no more desperate than they were at 11 a.m.

Antsy was downstairs when she heard tires slide into the driveway. She galloped upstairs and sat attentively at the boarded-up window right next to the door, anxiously awaiting her mama.

Almost immediately after Antsy found her spot, Veronica broke through the entryway, splitting the wooden jamb around the latch. Splinters flew to the ground, stealing Antsy's attention for just one second. She was more startled by her mama's behavior than by the broken door. Veronica breathed heavily. She spun around, paying Antsy no attention, and tried to slam and lock the door, but the latch was dislodged and broken. Veronica couldn't even close it, let alone lock it.

Then Veronica was thrown back from the door with a brutal THUD. The door swung open as though it was just a cardboard flap and hit the coat rack behind it, sending it flying backwards onto the ground. Before Veronica could get up, a man in a ski mask and foggy glasses barreled into the entryway and raised a white shotgun to Veronica's chest.

She lifted her arms in protest. Her hands shook like twigs as she sputtered,"No!"

The great big brute of a stranger was steadfast.

"Take anything," she said. "Just please—"

She sat up suddenly, extending her arm. The man grunted and lunged—almost squishing Veronica's leg into the floorboards with his gigantic snow boots—as he rammed the butt of the shotgun into her forehead. She collapsed like a beetle from a shower wall. A crescent-shaped indentation, just above her eyebrows, seemed to weigh her head down.