The Beloved Granny of the Death Game

I hauled my aching back up to the fourth floor.

The busted wooden door of Dorm 4404 creaked open, and a foul stench hit me.

It had me gagging and hacking for breath.

A sickly yellow glow leaked out through the crack, along with a sound that made my teeth ache. It sounded like bones being gnawed and chewed to splinters.

I took a deep breath and stepped inside.

Lord have mercy! The place was a landfill come to life.

There were broken bowls, moldy bread rolls, rotting cabbage leaves, and piles of filth everywhere. The floor was coated in a black, sticky grease that sucked at my shoes.

Inside, a scrawny little boy, thin as a stick, was hunched over in the corner. He was straining over some dark, shapeless heap I could barely see.

He whipped his head around when he heard the noise of me stepping in.

His face nearly stopped my heart. His cheekbones were sharp enough to cut, his eye sockets were sunken deep like black holes, and his lips were split and peeling back to show yellow teeth.

Thick, dark red saliva hung and dripped from the corners of his mouth.

It was his eyes that froze me solid.

His eyes glowed sickly green, like a wolf that had been starved all winter. They locked on me as though he could leap at any second and tear me apart.

“Hungry! So hungry… Meat…”

…

The voice came out ragged, like his throat was full of gravel. He hunched lower, shuffling toward me step by step.

The reek of rot and blood pressed heavier on me with every move.

Everyone who was watching the live broadcast was frightened.

[The Hungry Dead’s about to lose it! Granny, run! He’ll eat you alive!]

[Oh, hell nah! That’s a sight I did not need burned into my brain…]

My stomach lurched, bile stinging my throat.

However, when I saw him—skin stretched over bones, stumbling like he could barely stand—the fire in my chest flared up.

Instead of running, I reached out and grabbed his twig-thin arm.

“Would you look at yourself, child? You’ve been starved nearly to death!

“Don’t your parents feed you? What kind of mom or dad doesn’t put a hot meal in front of their boy? Busy or not, a kid needs supper on the table!”

The little boy froze at my outburst, like he did not know whether to lunge or listen.

Even the wolfish gleam in his green eyes faded for a moment.

I seized my chance, sweeping the room with a quick glance.

There—in the corner!

Half-buried in trash lay a big old clay jar, its lid weighed down with a slab of rock and a sheet of filthy plastic.

From underneath drifted a faint tang. It was sharp, sour, and unmistakable!

Pickled cabbage! Oh, sweet heavens, pickled cabbage!

I heaved the rock off and tore the cover back.

A rich, tangy scent burst out, chasing away the stink of rot.

Inside, golden cabbage gleamed, crisp and slick, practically begging to be eaten.

The boy blinked in confusion, sniffing instinctively. For a moment, he forgot the dark, sticky drool sliding from the corner of his mouth.

“Hold on, honey. I'm going to make you a meal!”

I spoke decisively and dove into the trash heap.

By some miracle, I dug out a chipped clay pot, a beat-up little stove, a knife, two sprouting potatoes, and some dry kindling.

I got the little stove set up in no time, stacked the firewood, and pulled out the box of matches I stuffed in my pocket earlier.

Scratch! A flame leaped up immediately.

I set the cracked clay pot on top, fished a big head of pickled cabbage out of the jar, and gave it a few good chops into rough strips. Then, I grabbed a couple of spuds, frozen solid but not yet rotten, peeled them, hacked them into chunks, and tossed the whole pile straight into the pot.

Blub-blub-blub…

Soon enough, water bubbled and hissed, steam rising with a mouthwatering sour-salty smell.

The boy did not move a muscle.

Bent over like a crooked stick, he lingered only a few paces from the fire. His green-glinting eyes fixed hungrily on the cracked clay pot, where the steam curled upward.