No one should have to eat their best friend -- a friend that they've worked with for six years, a friend they've spent almost every waking moment of their day with and who taught them everything they know, a friend they've put their life on the line for countless times, one they've even taken a bullet for that at this very moment is draining their life away... But when it gets down to brass tacks, when he's already eight days gone and you're nearly there because you've been bleeding to death trapped in hole in the ground for almost three weeks, where the only water you get is what you can lick from a putrid puddle when the scarce rain falls, when he's laying about six feet away becoming more and more like a hunk of meat and your stomach's creeping up to your backbone -- somewhere along that line between best friend and food, survival instinct takes over. Whether or not he would have wanted it this way is not even a concern because that instinct to survive is stronger than a bond that can no longer exist. It takes over even if you feel like howling as it does.

There was frost in the breaking dawn air as Sergeant Brewster began to eat the part of his friend that was closest to him, a hand that had been stretched out to him seeking to give and take comfort in its last hours of life.

Lieutenant Wyatt's fingers were soon gone, and Brewster's suddenly ravenous appetite made quicker work of the ripening meat on his wrist and forearm. The fabric of Wyatt's sleeve slowed things down only for a few moments. With nothing but teeth to tear it with, the seam gave as Brewster shook his head and jerked with it with a feral growl. The whole arm ended up coming off at the shoulder with a wet pop, sleeve and all.

Soon after the first arm, the other followed. Still Brewster wasn't full. He needed more. He didn't have the strength to tear off Wyatt's laced and knotted boots, so he pushed up the pants legs and gnawed where the calves were bared.
A half hour or so later, both of those too were consumed. He didn't eat the bones, didn't have the strength to crack them open, or the heart to. With a last lick, he was at satisfied and turned away. It was enough for now. He was feeling lightheaded, a little queasy from his rotting meal, and the bullet hole in his shoulder was starting to ooze again from his exertions. Besides, who knew how much longer he'd be trapped? Faint voices carried to him, but not often. He'd need save and not gorge so he would have the strength to let them know he was here if they did ever come closer.

Brewster dragged himself back up to lie beside Wyatt's head. The smell this close to him was almost unbearable, but for Wyatt, he could take it. Besides he'd already eaten some of him, so what was the smell? With a snuff he rested his own head inches away, ear to the ground, and kept the dead man company. He stared at his unblinking bulging eyes, lids that had been closed when he died but were now widening slits from swelling. For those first two days after Wyatt stopped moving, he'd almost expected them to open and for him to say, 'hey pal, how ya'doin?'in that happy way he always had every morning as they started work. Those now dull gray-filmed eyes just looked unseeing in the same direction, the mouth below them remaining silent but gaping too, day after day. Brewster knew that wasn't going to change.
With a sigh, he pushed to his feet and hobbled to the furthest place he could in the small area to relieve himself on the bottom of a rusted-out steel drum. There wasn't much to it and he was weak to almost falling, but he still couldn't piss even a dribble where he slept. He made himself leave his sleeping place.
Bladder quickly emptied of its drops, he came back to sleep on the drifted pile of leaves and heavy woolen overcoat that were his bed.

Over the next few days as he continued to eat Wyatt, strange ideas began to come to Brewster. Thoughts entered into his consciousness that never had, that never would have concerned him before.
What happens after we die? Do we see the ones we leave behind? Can Wyatt see me? Will he be angry at what I did?

Really, this whole situation was his fault to begin with. Wyatt had been counting on him, his partner, to stay alert and let him know if the drug-runners they had been tracking down were near. But a partridge suddenly gunning out of hiding had distracted him for just a moment. It had been the critical moment, and they were ambushed. He'd flung himself in front of Wyatt to stop the bullets from hitting him, but more bullets followed and he couldn't stop them all, and Wyatt had been hit several times. Then they were thrown into this strange-smelling pit to die.
Such somber and deep ideas had never been a part of his existence till now; he had just lived life day by day and done what he was asked to the best of his ability. But for some reason, these reflections were becoming a constant and unwelcome visitor.
Rolling over, Brewster turned his back to Wyatt, unable to look at the blackening face any longer. Wyatt was dead and it was his fault.

A nap later and a tiny bit more alert and refreshed, it then occurred to him that if he ever got out of this pit, it wouldn't take him long to find the people who'd shot them. He'd track them down and do far worse to them. He'd get revenge. He'd tear them limb from limb.
Like you did to Wyatt?? the question seemed to come from nowhere to accuse him. He was overcome with loneliness and sorrow and whimpered to himself. Then suddenly the most uncontrollable itching hit him and the sadness was replaced by the drive to satisfying that tortuous itching in any way possible. On the thirteenth day after Wyatt's passing, Brewster spent the best part of it tearing his own belly to bleeding rawness before falling to sleep from exhaustion.

On the fourteenth morning, he woke up and decided he couldn't and wouldn't eat any more of Wyatt despite being half-starved. He stayed on his bed with eyes closed and listened to the sounds of geese flying by high above. Winter was on its way. Thankfully the fierce itching on his belly had ceased to be such a driving aggravation. Now it was moving to his back, but it wasn't so bad there that he couldn't tolerate it. He told himself to ignore it, and went to sleep again curled up on the overcoat.
That night a cold rain woke him up. It felt like heaven on his inflamed and irritated skin. It soothed and quenched as again he thirstily lapped up what he could from the ground before it seeped away. The mud didn't smell so strange anymore. Perhaps he was getting used to the strong chemical odor in this pit -- he didn't notice it anymore, just the earthy smell of wet soil. The mud was actually smelling good. Rolling over he dug his shoulders into it, squirming with relief as the brief squall ended. The sticky goo had seemed to salve the skin there, so coating that thoroughly he then rubbed some onto his stomach too. The stars soon peered down at him through dissipating clouds as he rose up to his tallest, to taste the clear beads of water hanging suspended from exposed rootlets poking out above his head. When every last bit of moisture was gone, he slept again, tired and unheeding of his now soggy bed.

On the fifteenth morning, five weeks after they'd been thrown into this hellish hole, the day began with a light falling of snow. Brewster woke to find himself dusted in a blanket of white. Wyatt was too, but the stench wasn't covered. He looked into what was left of his friend's eyes and was completely overcome with remorse at all that he'd done. Gagging and staggering to his feet, he emptied his stomach of what was left from the day before. He knew with certainty that now he would rather starve than keep doing what he had been. He didn't even bother to try and lick up the snow. Perhaps if he perished from hunger or thirst, he'd go to wherever Wyatt was and he would be forgiven for all of this.

After burying his vomit, as gently as he could, he pushed Wyatt's remains to the base of the dirt wall he'd died nearest to. Covering him with the frost-stiffened overcoat and leaves, he then scraped what dirt he could up over his friend with torn and bleeding nails. Then curling up in a ball, head tucked to his chest, crying to himself, he slept again the whole day and night through.

On the sixteenth day, Brewster awoke with the conviction that that what he had done was unforgivable. There was no excuse for it. He should never have let harm come to the one person who was counting on him, and he should have died here because of it. He didn't deserve to be alive. He was an animal. With no way to take his own life at this moment and in this place, he threw his head up and howled into the dawn of another frosty morning, heart overflowing with inexpressible grief.

At long last his pathetic cries found an ear, and after so lengthy and tragic a wait, he finally heard voices. He couldn't help but call out to them ' the need to live surged through him and overcame the guilt. The knowledge that revenge could soon be had drove him into a frenzy -- he called out again, he was here, here, HERE!!

Quickly the sounds came closer, and after a few minutes of eternity, two men were peering down at him, breath fogging around their heads in the chill air.

'Holy crap you're alive!'� one called down ' he was unable to answer yes, his throat wouldn't work the way he wanted it to and he was parched. He was sure he looked as pathetic as he felt. He knew his hair was falling out in patches and his bones were sticking out in every direction.
'Harry, your rope ' tie it off to that tree,'� one man instructed the other -- Harry quickly left the circle of blue sky above to do what was requested. He was back after a minute and a piece of yellow rope snaked down to plop its remaining coils in the dirt. 'We'll have you out in a minute, just wait,'� that first man assured down to him, and as good as his word, he soon had shimmied down its length and was standing with Brewster in the deep hole too.
The rotting atmosphere now hit the man ' it had sunk like a fog down here and hadn't reached up to the surface. With the crook of his elbow to his nose, he blinked and looked around for the cause. Using a ginger toe to poke at the probable source -- a leaf and loam-covered coat that till now had looked just like another pile of leaves and dirt -- he kicked the garment to one side to reveal what was beneath it and stepped back. The body there was as cold as the air around itm too cold for bugs and worms, but the damage done was obvious and severe. There were bullet holes in the torso, and except for a head with the policeman's cap still on it, the extremities were gnawed off. It wasn't pretty.
Brewster stared at the other man, and could see he understood just exactly what had transpired. The sorry remains of Wyatt lying and rotting there spoke volumes, saying what he did not. There was some shock on his rescuer's face as the man gave a final quick survey of the body's condition and then turned to look at him. Strangely, there was no anger in his rescuer's eyes. After a moment, he looked up at his companion, who had also seen it all. Harry's eyebrows raised, then lowered as he both said and asked quietly, 'It's Wyatt?'�

Nolan nodded. These two had been missing for almost two months, and they'd been looking for them for as long in an area so vast in the New Brunswick woods that it had taken this long to stumble upon them. They'd still held faint hope that somehow Wyatt and Brewster were alive, that they'd somehow survived, though everyone in the detachments really knew different.
'We'll get him out first, and then call in forensics.'�

Despite no words or actions to the contrary, Brewster could feel disgust practically radiating from the both of them. They were men he knew and had worked beside on occasion. He couldn't help but slink to the farthest spot away that he could. He crouched low, a tiny whine escaping him. He was pathetic.

But apparently they weren't going to leave him in here no matter what he'd done, because after making a loop in the end of the rope and slipping it over his head and under his armpits, Nolan slowly approached him with his hands in the air to show he had no intent to harm. Nolan could have killed him on the spot without a fuss -- he couldn't move. He would have wet himself if he'd had a drip left in him, he was that scared and dazed. Gently, Nolan took hold of his shoulders and he couldn't resist ' he was so much weaker than he'd realized.
'I've got you, don't worry,'� Nolan assured him softly, and very carefully put the loop of rope around him too in order to draw them closer together. 'I can't imagine what you went through,'� he said with unbelievable sympathy and rested a hand on the spot where the bullet wound was healing over.
Brewster looked into the officer's eyes ' they were the softest shade of brown. He'd never realized that before. He was thankful for the mercy in them.
'You both ready?'� Harry called down, set to pull.
'Yeah, but you're gonna have to help a lot, I'm working with one arm holding this guy, he's practically skin and bone but he's still not light,'� Nolan called back. 'Christ the stink, bring me up,'� he coughed and began the climb, hauling himself and his cargo up with his free gloved hand, hiking boots digging in while Harry pulled as hard from the top.

The men took turns carrying Brewster slung over their shoulders through the several miles of dense woodland they would have to cross to get back out to the road, not taking time to speak, anxious to get to the rig and let the rest of the department know that at last, Wyatt and Brewster had been found.

Darkness was falling and as the rocking motion lulled him, Brewster wavered in and out of consciousness, so thankful and relieved at finally being rescued that the calm sleep he hadn't had in weeks was overtaking him. He was going home. He was safe.

Then something familiar came to him ' was it a sound or a smell? ' and he was fighting to stay awake because it seemed that in their haste to get him out, Nolan and Harry were now traveling along the very path that he and Wyatt had when they stumbled on the cabin where the drug dealers were hiding out.

Too late to warn them, it was happening all over again ' there was crashing and hollering and gunshots, and Nolan was down and Harry was screaming and trying to draw his sidearm, and he himself was lying on the ground in a pile where he'd been dropped by Nolan as he fell. The men who'd shot him were now standing above them, and blood was everywhere. Nolan was saying nothing, wasn't moving. Harry groaned and then was quiet. They were all going to die here and now if these men weren't stopped! They would be as dead as Wyatt was.

Sergeant Brewster forced himself shaking to his feet.

'You again?! You're alive? Fucker, I shot you,'� the nearest man said in amazement. This time you won't get up again. I'll shoot you all, and this time, I'll bury you in that pit!'� he swore.

Brewster shook his head. No. This wasn't going to happen again. Nolan and Harry would not die, not like Wyatt!

'You killed Wyatt! You'll pay for this!'� he gargled out between lips that could barely form the words, now close enough to the man with the gun to recognize him as the cold-blooded murderer who'd put the bullets into Wyatt and then him.

Both assailants froze like they'd been turned to stone, yet he did not hesitate -- he lunged, clawing with bare nails and sinking his teeth into the shoulder of the killer.

'JESUS JESUS SHOOT HIM SHOOT HIM!!'� the man he was tearing into was screaming, and after a few more curdling shrieks, the begged-for shots finally rang out.

With the smack of the bullets to his vitals came clarity.

Brewster was no longer afraid of what was coming as he felt life gushing away. He now knew he'd done what he had to, and somehow he knew these men would pay for what they'd done. He left his teeth locked in the flesh they were ripping, closed his eyes, and soon, he had the answer to the questions that had troubled him so deeply.
Wyatt was there, waiting for him, calling for him to come, telling him he'd done well and he was good and his very best friend. He went to Wyatt, running as fast as he could under a sky so blue over grass so green, so vivid it was almost alive. He'd never dreamed such colours existed.


'GET HIM OFF ME!'� the man said as his attacker finally stopped moving ' he was trying to push him off, but couldn't free himself from the weight and the clenching teeth.

'That fucking dog talked! I heard him! He said 'you killed Wyatt!' I'm not touching it,'� the man shook in mortal fear, looking around because he was sure the hand of Satan was coming up from the ground below his feet to take him down into it.

The man already at that level raised his pistol, acknowledging nothing so insane even if he'd heard it too.

'Get it off me Leon or you're next.'�

Leon pondered for the briefest moment if he could outrun a bullet, and decided he couldn't. Timidly he approached the body of the large half-balding German Shepherd that lay across his bleeding partner in crime. He tried to push it off with stiffened fingers, but when the man beneath it yelped, he stopped.
'He's got his jaws locked on me you idiot! You're gonna have to pry them open.'�

Leon's eyes rolled white ' he didn't want to touch any creature like this, a dog that he knew he'd heard speak like a human ' words accusing Dean of a murder that had sat on his conscience for two weeks since he'd known the cop had finally died. He knew Dean had heard the dog speak too, because Dean had froze to the spot in disbelief just as he had. But now Dean was waving the gun at him and Leon knew he had no worry about using it. He obeyed and stuck his fingers between the dog's lips and his boss's skin. They slipped along pointed canines and found the sharp molars. He dug them into them and pulled ' the teeth were sharp and cut into him, but soon the jaws gave and parted. He shivered in disgust and wiped the blood and mucous from his sliced fingers onto dirty jeans.

'Now get it off me, stupid!'� Dean barked, not in any shape to push the large animal off, bitten as badly as he was. He was actually beginning to feel a bit woozy, probably from losing blood ' he glanced down and it seemed to be pouring out.

Leon looked for the best way to get hold of the beast, and noticed for the first time it was wearing a collar. Where the nameplate was riveted to the leather was as good and sturdy a place to pull as any.
'Sergeant Brewster,'� he read to himself half in awe as the animal came free and he drug it to one side. Laying it down with growing fear and respect, he turned back to Dean to see what he wanted to do next, and if it was to be done at continued gunpoint. Dean appeared to have passed out.
That put things in a complete and different light. The direction this situation was going to take was now completely in his hands.
Since it was, Leon decided that he wasn't going to nurse Dean here in the woods. In fact he wasn't going to nurse Dean at all. He'd had enough of killing and of killers, and this guy had made his own bed. Even a bank full of dollars wasn't worth the price this was costing him, his sanity and his soul. In his mind, God had spoken to him through Sergeant Brewster, and payback of the worst kind was coming if he continued on this path.

Leaving Dean to whatever the good Lord willed, Leon went to the second aerially-camouflaged outbuilding, a shed beside the cabin used to store bales of marijuana. There, he retrieved a tarp up from the now-emptied floor, returned, and wrapped up the dog in it before laying him gently on the front porch of the cabin.
That taken care of, wiping his oozing fingers on his jeans again, he went to where the two police officers lay and checked to see if they were breathing. He felt one throat and then the other. The blond cop was dead. The dark-colored one wasn't though, he still had a pulse. His name-badge said 'H. Hughes'. This time hurrying out behind the cabin, he started up one of the four-wheelers cached there and drove it out front to where bodies living and dead were lying.
Leon wasn't a big man but he was strong enough that he managed to pick the larger officer Hughes and sit him in the rear seat. He bungie-corded the man to the bars, and set off full-tear for the highway. There'd be a police rig somewhere along the road, these guys didn't walk in from Moncton.

Leon's fingers were feeling a buzzing soreness as his search along the byroad connected to the main highway finally led him to the vehicle he knew would be parked on it. The breathing of the guy behind him had been getting more and more ragged as they'd bumped and sped through the woods. Now that they were here, it was almost down to nothing. He knew the officer needed a hospital emergency room. The temptation to just leave him on the front seat and radio in to their headquarters was almost overwhelming, but the city wasn't far off and Brewster's warning rang like the cry of angels in his ears. Gulping and unhooking Hughes, Leon hooked him below the arms, locked his hands in front of his chest. amd walked him backwards to the passenger side of the SUV. Thankfully it was open, and with effort he got the man in. Hughes' chest was soaked in blood, and Leon took a moment to feel inside his jacket for just where the wounds were. There was a hole just above his left breast, and a sucking sound.
Punctured lung, he thought to himself, and covered the hole like he'd seen them do on t.v. The sucking stopped. It was punctured for sure, that capped it. Leon popped the glovebox, and saw just what he needed, a sandwich in plastic wrap. He took the wrap off, stuffed the roast beef in his mouth because he was feeling more hungry than he could remember ever being, and slapped the plastic onto the hole in Hughes. It was all he could do for now other than drive hell-bent for leather to Moncton. Prepared to hotwire the vehicle, he checked the obvious places, the ashtray and the visor. The visor paid off with a set of keys. The second Ford key started the engine, and turning on the lights he put the pedal to the floor and headed out for the city.
The moon was beginning to rise as he pulled into the emergency driveway of the Moncton City Hospital. Leaping out, Leon laid on the horn to let the staff know there was someone in need before he sped off into the night. He didn't want to be caught here, they'd throw him in jail for life as an accessory to a capital crime.
As he sprinted under the moonlight, Leon began to think what a lovely night it was, how hungry he was already, and how much he was enjoying the feel of the damp air on his cheeks and the pavement flying by under his feet. He continued to run, following his nose. He wasn't sure what he smelling as he ran away from the brighter city lights towards the countryside, but he was certain it would lead him to something good.

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