Chapter 4: The Unholy Communion

Chapter 4: The Unholy Communion

Time, having ceased to exist as a measure of progress, had asserted itself as a form of torture. Alex measured its passage not in hours or days, but in the escalating agony of his own body. The initial pangs of hunger had been a familiar, almost mundane discomfort. They had since blossomed into a gnawing beast inside him, a hollow ache that cramped his stomach into a tight, searing knot. His thoughts, once a frantic storm of escape plans and panicked pleas, had narrowed to a single, primal obsession: food.

He would sit for what felt like hours, staring at the photo of him and Chloe on his phone’s dead screen, trying to remember the taste of the stale popcorn, the flat soda, the pizza they’d had before the movie. He would conjure the images with masochistic clarity: the stringy pull of melted cheese, the savory grease on his fingertips. The memories were ghosts, torturing him with a life that was now as distant and unattainable as the moon.

Water was life, but it was not substance. He was drinking constantly, but his body was cannibalizing itself. A strange, light-headed weakness had taken root in his limbs. When he stood, the white room would swim for a moment. He was wasting away.

His eyes kept returning to the vent.

The square of darkness was a wound in the wall, a constant reminder of his crushed hope and the visceral, skin-crawling horror that lurked within. After his scream had died, he had frantically stuffed the metal grate back into place, securing it with only one screw, a flimsy barrier against the chittering tide. For days—or cycles of waking and sleeping, at least—he had given it a wide berth, treating that corner of the room as cursed ground.

But now, the memory of the swarming insects was being overshadowed by the relentless gnawing in his belly.

He was lying on the cold floor, his cheek pressed against the tile, when a memory surfaced. It was from one of those survival shows he used to watch on lazy Sundays, a guilty pleasure Chloe would tease him about. A rugged man with a beard and a ridiculously large knife was in a jungle, talking to the camera. “In a survival situation,” the man had said, his voice a confident baritone in Alex’s mind, “your squeamishness is a luxury you can’t afford. This beetle is pure protein. Cook it right, and it’ll keep you going.”

Alex had scoffed at the time, munching on a bag of chips.

He sat up, the movement sending a wave of dizziness through him. The memory replayed, insistent. Pure protein.

“No,” he whispered to the empty room, the word a dry rasp. “Absolutely not.”

He pushed himself to his feet and drank deeply from the sink, the cold water a temporary balm on the fire in his gut. He looked at his reflection. His face was gaunt, his eyes sunken and shadowed. A dark stubble was beginning to creep across his jawline. The man in the mirror looked hungry. Desperate.

The survivalist’s voice echoed again. Your squeamishness is a luxury you can’t afford.

He turned from the mirror and stared at the vent. The source of his terror. The nest of his revulsion. And, just maybe, the only thing in this sterile universe that could save him. The decision wasn't made with courage or resolve. It was a slow, cold surrender, the final, shuddering collapse of a dam he could no longer maintain. Hunger was a more powerful force than disgust.

His hands shaking, he dragged the plastic trash can back into position. He dismantled his flimsy barricade, removing the single screw and setting the grate aside. The same stale, dusty air washed over him. He listened. The soft, dry rustling was still there. A whisper of life in the darkness.

He couldn't just reach in again. The memory of that living glove of insects was still seared into his mind. He needed a trap.

He took off his t-shirt, the cool air raising goosebumps on his skin. Using the small, sharp blade of his Swiss Army knife, he carefully cut a small square from the hem. He soaked the piece of fabric in the sink, then wrung it out until it was just damp. He placed the trash can on its side, the opening facing the wall, a few feet from the vent. He laid the damp piece of cloth deep inside it.

Then, he backed away to the far side of the room, sat with his back against the wall, and waited.

It was the longest wait of his life. Every tiny scrape and skitter from within the vent sent a jolt through his nervous system. He kept his eyes fixed on the dark opening of the trash can, a gaping mouth in the stark white room. An hour passed. Or maybe a minute. Time was meaningless.

Then he saw it. A flicker of movement at the edge of the vent. A long, delicate antenna twitched, testing the air. Then another. A sleek, dark brown body emerged, its legs moving with unnerving speed. It scurried down the wall and hesitated on the floor, its head darting from side to side. It smelled the water on the cloth. With a final, decisive scuttle, it disappeared into the trash can.

Soon, another followed. And then a third.

His heart pounded a sick, heavy rhythm against his ribs. He gave it more time, letting his bait do its work. Finally, forcing his body into motion, he moved with a predator’s swiftness he didn’t know he possessed. He lunged, kicking the trash can upright in one fluid motion. The sound of frantic, clicking scrabbling erupted from within. He had them.

He didn't let himself think. He filled the sink with several inches of cold water. Carrying the bin, he could feel the vibrations of the trapped insects through the plastic. He poured the contents into the basin. Four large, dark cockroaches thrashed in the water, their legs churning uselessly. He shoved them under the surface with the bottom of the plastic bin, holding it down with all his weight, his eyes screwed shut, until the frantic thrashing stopped.

When he finally looked, their still bodies were floating on the surface. The hunt was over. The worst was yet to come.

He drained the sink, leaving his catch glistening on the white porcelain. Prepare them properly, the TV host’s voice instructed. He unfolded the small knife blade again. His hands were slick with sweat. He picked one up. It was disgustingly light. Following the half-remembered instructions from a world away, he performed the grim butchery on the cold tile floor next to the sink. He sliced off the spindly, barbed legs. The long, twitching antennae. The head. He worked with a mechanical, detached focus, his mind a merciful blank. All that remained was the dark, oblong torso.

The survivalist had cooked his over a carefully constructed fire. Alex had no fire. There was no wood, no fuel, nothing to burn in this sterile purgatory.

He picked up the small, dismembered torso. He brought it to his lips, his entire body trembling with revulsion. He could smell the earthy, dusty scent of the vents. He thought of Chloe, of her laughing face in the flickering light of the movie screen. He was doing this to get back to her. He had to believe that.

He closed his eyes and put it in his mouth.

The texture was the worst part. A horrifying, brittle pop as his teeth broke the exoskeleton, followed by a soft, paste-like consistency within. There was barely a taste, only a vague, bitter earthiness that coated his tongue. A violent wave of nausea surged up from his stomach and he gagged, tears springing to his eyes. He swallowed, a convulsive motion that felt like forcing down a stone.

He had done it.

He ate the other three, one by one, the process becoming no easier. Each one was a fresh violation, a new level of hell. When he was finished, he knelt before the sink and retched, but nothing came up but water and bile. The protein was staying down.

He splashed water on his face, trying to wash away the feeling, the taste, the memory. He looked at his reflection again. The same haunted eyes stared back, but something in them had changed. The panic was gone. The desperation was gone. In their place was a cold, flat emptiness.

The gnawing in his stomach was beginning to subside, replaced by a different kind of hollowness, one deep in his soul. He had survived. He had found a way to fuel his body. But in the process, a vital part of Alex Thompson, the graphic designer who loved his girlfriend and watched silly survival shows from the comfort of his couch, had died on that cold tile floor. And he knew, with a certainty that chilled him to the bone, that it was never coming back.