Sex and Murder Magazine

John McNee

Miletto was licking his lips on the approach to the compound. His breakfast at the hotel had been less than satisfactory and his journey across the mountain roads had been a long and confusing one. Now as the 4x4 climbed the mud track up to the gate, he encountered the scent of roasting meat, carried down on the icy Norwegian air from the main chalet.

He was met at the gate by a heavyset man clutching a hunting rifle. He inspected Miletto’s passport, barked something into his walkie-talkie, then directed him to a white-bricked building a few hundred yards up the hill.

Dr. Olaffson was waiting for him when he arrived. He stood halfway up the steps to the main entrance, a pipe in one hand and a mug of hot coffee in the other. He was a man of medium height and build, with a warm, clean-shaven face, a head of unkempt grey-gold hair and big, bushy eyebrows above thin eyes. He was dressed in a green woolen jumper, brown corduroy trousers and boots.

Miletto waved a greeting as he pulled up, grabbed his coat from the back seat and leapt out.

“You look well,” Olaffson remarked, as he gripped the pipe in his teeth and pumped the younger man’s hand. “Any trouble finding the place?”

Miletto nodded. “Terrible trouble. Even with your directions.”

The doctor grinned up one side of his face. “Excellent. You must be hungry. My wife will be serving lunch in a few minutes if you want to join us.”

They walked down to the main chalet, where Miletto took a seat at the kitchen table and Olaffson’s fat wife laid out plates of mashed and caramelized potatoes, pickled red cabbage, green peas, sautéed mushrooms, gravy, and rhubarb jam. Dr. Olaffson, the pipe bobbing up and down between his teeth, carved the roast and served up thick slices, which the three washed down with large glasses of red wine from the doctor’s own vineyard.

“Didrik told me you were in the film business?” said Olaffson, leaning back in his chair.

Miletto nodded and helped himself to more potatoes. “I produce. Less now than I used to.”

The doctor struck a match and relit his pipe. “I’m afraid Svana and I don’t get to the cinema much anymore…”
A small wheat-coloured Lundehund wandered through from the living room. Mrs. Olaffson lifted a strip of meat from her plate and threw it down to the dog.

“Svana…” Dr. Olaffson chided, quietly.

“It’s mainly straight-to-DVD these days anyway,” Miletto continued, heavily focused on the plate before him. “If it ever makes it out of the studio. This is all delicious…”

“Oh thank you,” Mrs. Olaffson said, beaming. “Everything on the table is home-made.”

“How are you enjoying Norway?” the doctor asked.

Miletto took another bite before replying. The meat was tender and succulent. He wanted to savour the flavour longer, but swallowed in order to answer the question. “I’ve hardly seen anything of it,” he said. “Only the mountains…and trees.”

“The trees…yes,” Olaffson smiled. “That’s really why Svana and I wanted to come here. There are too few trees in Iceland. The forests are so much bigger in Norway. It’s much easier to…hide oneself.”

“You do a good job of it,” said Miletto.

“Won’t you try some flat bread?” Mrs. Olaffson asked, holding out the basket. The dog was resting its head on her lap now and beginning to whine.

“Svana,” said the doctor. “Won’t you take Huld out of here? Please?”

Mrs. Olaffson rolled her eyes, stood and led the dog out into the hallway.

“You don’t sound very passionate about your work,” the doctor remarked, when his wife was out of earshot.

“I’m not,” Miletto replied between mouthfuls. “I’m far more interested in yours.”

Dr. Olaffson smiled and raised his glass to his lips. “Shall we discuss that subject then?”

Miletto shrugged. “That’s what I’m here for.”

Olaffson nodded and set the glass down. “All right then, Mr. Miletto.” He leaned forward, placed his elbows on the table and interlocked his fingers. “Tell me…why do you like to eat people?”

Miletto hadn’t anticipated the question, but he smiled and formulated a simple reply. “I like the taste.”

“Is that it?” Olaffson asked, apparently unconvinced.

Miletto shrugged. “I’ve never consulted a psychiatrist about it. I’m sure one would try to convince me that it’s a sexual hang-up, probably oedipal, but that would be nonsense. The truth is I never once considered it, never fantasized about it, until I tasted it.” He directed his fork to the plate of carved meat sitting between them. “May I?”

Olaffson waved his hand. “Please do,” he said.

Miletto stabbed a pair of slices and transferred them to his plate. “This really is fantastic.”

The doctor nodded. “Thank you.”

“Garlic?” he asked, chewing. “Rosemary?”

Olaffson shook his head. “We just baste it in its own juices. It really doesn’t require much seasoning. A little salt and pepper…” He cut a piece of the meat from his own plate and held it up. “This is top of the line,” he said. “Fifty thousand Euros per pound.”

Miletto almost choked.

“Baby flesh,” the doctor continued, tearing a strip in his hands and biting slowly down on the end. “None more tender. From a two-year old girl, fed on a strict diet of milk, fruit and grains. You want to know her name?”

Miletto poured half a glass of wine down his throat and coughed. “Not particularly.”

Dr. Olaffson grinned. “I like gourmets, Miletto,” he said. “I like connoisseurs. Of course I’ll supply to anyone who can promise a certain level of discretion no matter what their reasons. To many cannibalism is a fantasy, or a compulsion…sexual or psychotic… But I prefer to do business with people who simply…appreciate the flavour. It’s the same way with me. Svana as well.”

“Well,” said Miletto, “It’s the finest I’ve ever tasted.”

Olaffson dropped the rest of the strips to his plate and licked his fingers. "I'm glad."


After lunch the pair headed back up the hill to the white-bricked building, passing a line of parked trucks and three or four armed guards on the way.

“The level of security is regrettable,” the doctor remarked. “But necessary. There are many…out there…who’d like to find me.”

Olaffson led Miletto into the white building, along a darkened hallway and down a flight of stairs to a large, open-plan laboratory. “This is where it starts,” he said, marching swiftly past the rows of tables, littered with instruments and papers. “Each embryo is produced here according to my own unique pattern. The resultant fetus will grow in the womb at an accelerated rate, about twice the rate at which you and I would have grown. This continues after birth, though the aging slows somewhat in later years.”

“You can age them?” said Miletto.

Olaffson nodded, calmly. “Most of my subjects have passed puberty to reach full maturity in approximately ten or eleven years. That’s better than fifteen or sixteen, yes? Without that rate of turnover, it wouldn’t be a profitable business. Some of my customers order what we would call ‘calf-meat,’ you know? Babies. But the vast majority want fully grown bodies. Not connoisseurs, Miletto, you understand? The other kind. Every day I get more orders for full-grown penises, sexual organs… They want to fry female breasts in butter and carve them like turkeys!” He laughed. “It’s ridiculous. But it pays the staff wages. So I have to speed the rate of maturity to meet demand. Plus,” he continued. “Little things… alterations to skin and hair colour… Whatever we like… The intelligence of the clones we reduce. We make them more like cattle. It’s easier that way.”

“Clones? Then they’re not human?”

“Of course they’re human!” Olaffson replied. “Their DNA is 100 per cent human. But genetically modified. It’s not different. Better, maybe. I have an organic herd or two, of course, some customers demand it, but this…” He pointed his finger at a Petri dish sitting on the edge of a work-top. “This is better!”

Miletto considered this a moment. “Which did we have for lunch?”

“This,” said the doctor. “Of course. That’s why I designed it.” He turned and walked towards the door. “Come on. I’ll show you where we keep the livestock.”


At the rear of the lab, steps led down to a long underground tunnel, which the pair marched along, continuing their conversation, to emerge in the basement of a large, renovated barn. The doctor led Milleto past numerous windowed rooms in which several bored and heavily pregnant women wandered about through sawdust, bowed their heads into troughs or dozed upon old mattresses.

“One day,” the doctor said, “not too far away, we’ll be able to grow babies mechanically. It will all be done with machines. But for the moment biological mothers are a necessity.”

One floor up were the main habitats, where the subjects grown specifically for slaughter were held. The ‘herd’ was divided into groups by gender, age and ‘ultimate destination’. Some groups Miletto saw were kept in large enclosures, with natural light and apparatus to allow exercise. In another part of the building, several specimens who had the look of four-year old children were kept caged to prevent muscle growth. Human veal.

Most of the specimens Miletto was shown looked about sixteen years old. Most, like the pregnant women, were dressed in hospital gowns, but some had peeled these off and wandered around nude. At first glance there was nothing particularly special about them. They could have been kids randomly plucked from most any high school. There were, however, some common features. There was the obvious low level of intelligence which the doctor had described, illustrated by the lack of speech. All communication seemed to be reduced to vague grunts.

Also—and Miletto presumed this was a part of the genetic trickery—every naked male or female he saw seemed to be, apart from their heads, entirely hairless. Finally, and most apparent—they were fat. Perhaps not obese, but they certainly carried more meat on their bones than the average teenager would wish. This last made perfect sense to Miletto.

“Is this all you have?” he asked.

“Not nearly,” Olaffson replied. “We hold a few others at this compound, but then there are other compounds, other herds, dotted around the place. I can’t take the risk of keeping them all at one location. If word got out I was here…if I had to evacuate…I have to protect other people’s investments.”

“I see,” said Miletto.

“That’s more or less it,” the doctor said. “There is one more part of the tour. I wasn’t sure if you’d be interested. You did say you wanted to see everything.”

Miletto nodded. “Yes. Everything.”


They emerged from the barn and continued up the hill. It hadn’t been an hour since lunch but the sky was already beginning to darken. At this time of year, they were lucky if they got a full seven hours of daylight.

The abattoir loomed above them, a large square silhouette at the top of the slope. In truth, Miletto had been waiting for this. He had always been a practical man and far from emotional, but he did consider himself ethical. His first taste of human flesh had been a revelation and, to begin with, the moral problems of cannibalism bothered him not a jot. Whoever that first person had been, they were dead long before they arrived on his dinner plate and there was no practical sense in fretting over how they had met their end.

But as the years passed and his desire for the meat only increased, he became concerned he was contributing to an underworld syndicate targeting random citizens, butchering them and passing the prime cuts on to him. This gnawed at his conscience. Dr. Olafsson appeared to offer all the answers. If his herds were raised in health and happiness (excusing the caged youngsters) and had all the intelligence of animals, well, what really was the difference between eating them and beef or lamb or pork? What did it matter? The fact Olaffson raised them himself from conception only helped to ease his mind. If there was no record of any birth then there was no-one to be missed and next to no danger of his secretive indulgence ever being uncovered by the authorities.

The trip, so far, had helped alleviate almost all of the guilt he’d felt over the past months. The abattoir was the final test. If he could bear witness to the site of specimens being put to death, merely to fill his belly, and remain stoic, unmoved, then it only made sense that he should continue. If he could not, then he would not. This was the deal he’d made with himself.

The doctor, panting a little following their ascent, approached the side entrance and pressed the buzzer. “With the way the orders come in,” he said, as they waited. “We usually don’t have to have a slaughter more than once a month, but I knew you were coming, so I had a few put on hold and a couple of problem cases brought forward.”

“Problem cases?”

“Occasional specimens that need to be put down for one reason or another. We don’t like to do it, but it’s necessary…” A Norwegian voice sounded from the speaker at the side of the door and Olaffson answered. With a click, the heavy metal door was electronically unlocked and swung open with a groan.

The air inside was heavy with a stench so pungent it almost made Miletto gag. A smell compounding the odours of strong disinfectant, feces, blood, and sweat assaulted his nostrils. The doctor noted the instant change in his guest’s complexion.

“Sorry about that,” he said. “You get used to it. Much worse in summer, anyway.”

They walked down a narrow corridor lined with corrugated iron and onto the slaughter floor, where they were met by an imposing man wearing boots, gloves and an apron of chain mail. “This is Tor,” said Dr Olaffson.

“Hello,” said Miletto.

The butcher grunted a reply but didn’t look up. He was busy readying his working space and the instruments of slaughter. His first victim—a blonde adult male—was already in place, shivering in the middle of the room. Miletto noted that his hands had been tied behind his back and there was a metal grate in the floor beneath him. He seemed very cold, his teeth even chattered, but he didn’t seem scared. In fact, his eyes held no emotion at all. To Miletto, they might as well have been the eyes of a fish.

Tor finished with the preparations and looked to Olaffson. The doctor gave him a single short nod. Without even pausing to take another breath, Tor rounded the boy, took a black taser from his belt and placed it against the back of his head. A noise like someone snapping their fingers sounded from the device and the boy went into a sudden, violent spasm. His shoulders hunched and his jaw clenched. He went up on his tip-toes, bent his back, and looked to be about to topple when Tor caught him at the wrists and eased him down to the floor. No more than six seconds had passed since the doctor’s nod.

“Is he dead?” Miletto asked, finding his mouth dry.

“Not yet,” the doctor answered. “But he’s out of it. Won’t feel a thing.”

Tor grabbed the boy’s ankles—which Miletto now noticed were also bound by a specially designed leather brace—and pulled him up. With what appeared a minimal effort, the giant raised him up from the floor so that he dangled upside down from one huge arm. He attached the brace to a metal truss and railing above them and let the boy go. The boy hung, swinging listlessly above the grated floor.

Tor knelt down, grabbed the boy by the hair and pulled his head back. In the next instance the knife had skewered his neck and been drawn forward to rip open his throat in a burst of blood and red flesh. The large room was suddenly filled with the echoing noise of gushing liquid. Miletto hadn’t even noticed Tor pick up the blade. It had all been so fast. His shock at the sight of the sudden, undignified murder was belated…and minor.

“When we started, we used a bolt gun for slaughter,” said Olaffson, ever the helpful tour guide. “It meant they were dead before they had their throats slit. I preferred that. Simpler. Just a little pop and it’s over.”

“Pop?” Miletto echoed.

The doctor nodded. “But too many customers ask for the heads to be kept intact. They want to be able to look into the eyes of the people they’re eating. So we don’t like to damage the heads anymore.” He pointed to the boy. “Once he’s been bled, he’s skinned and the internal organs are removed. We save some of those…for paté, soups…sweetbread… Anyway, that’s all done a little further down the production line, so the others don’t have to see anything too unnerving when they’re led in. You can see if you’d like.”

“No thank you,” Miletto replied.

The two of them left the butcher to his toils and went to view the holding pens, where the rest of Tor’s workload were queued, waiting to be ushered onto the slaughter floor.

“He does them all himself?” Miletto asked. “Every little job?”

The doctor shrugged. “It’s a full day’s work. He seems to enjoy it. A solitary type, anyway. He wouldn’t care for co-workers.”

Miletto looked away from the doctor and cast his gaze over the queue of walking foodstuffs. There were fewer than twenty in the line. A couple were children. One or two looked quite unhealthy. None looked like they could offer society any more off of a plate than on one.

Then he saw her.


She was tall, perhaps 5’9” in her bare feet. She was brunette. She was slim.
And she was beautiful.

She had a face like the Virgin Mary in Italian paintings. Her hair had been allowed to grow straight down to her shoulders, where the ends curled, so that a tangle of ringlets fell across her breasts. She had the most perfect breasts he’d ever seen. They were plump, pert and well proportioned, with small dark nipples. His hands twitched at his sides, aching to reach out and caress them. His fingers anticipated the touch—firm, smooth, and soft.

Miletto took a step towards the fence separating them.

A thin trace of shadow showed the underside of her rib-cage and a line had formed in the skin of her flat stomach, leading down to her navel. From thereon it was a smooth expanse of snowy flesh down to her hairless sex. Her legs were long and healthy, the skin shining like taught silk.

He looked back to her face and found that she was looking at him. Her eyes—large, clear and brown—were not like the butchered boy’s. Not like a fish. He saw intelligence there, certainly more than her peers, and warmth. Her glistening red lips parted and she smiled. He felt thunderstruck. Against all the odds, even her teeth were perfect.

“Miletto?” said Olaffson. “Miletto, man, are you all right?”

She was an angel. A model. A movie star. A Goddess. She was nothing like the animals around her. They were fat, ugly and thick-headed. She was anything but. It didn’t make sense to him. It didn’t make any sense.

He wheeled about to face Dr. Olaffson and thrust his finger towards the girl. “What’s she doing here?” he asked.

The doctor took a look at the subject in question, squinted at her beneath his bushy brows and sighed. “Ah yes,” he said, with a measure of distaste. “Her.”

“Well?” said Miletto.

“A complete disappointment,” said Olaffson. “A waste of time and effort. And money.”

“Why?”

“She won’t put on any weight,” the doctor answered. “We’ve tried everything but she won’t fill out. Too lean. Too much muscle, no fat. I can’t sell that. It would be doing my customers a disservice. She can’t sire children either, so she’s no good for breeding. Just a waste really. She’s almost sixteen now, past the ideal age for slaughter anyway. If I keep her around any longer she’ll just waste more of my money through food and care. So…”

“You’re not even selling her?” Miletto scowled. “You’re just going to kill her?”

Olaffson nodded. “I know, I know. It seems wasteful. I might feed her to the dogs…”

“How much do you want?” asked Miletto. “Name it.”

“What?”

“For the girl. I’ll buy her.”

The doctor smiled. “No. You don’t understand. The meat would be no good…”

“I don’t want her butchered!” Miletto snapped. “I don’t want to eat her! Alive! As she is. I’ll take her out of here right now. How much do you want?”

Olaffson’s expression hardened. “You jest.”

“Not at all. How much?”

“No.”

“How much?”

“I can’t.”

“Of course you can. How much?”

The doctor laughed bitterly, hardly able to believe what he was hearing. He thought for a moment and replied: “Six hundred thousand!”

“Done.”

“And fifty!”

Miletto didn’t flinch. “Done.” He held out his hand.

The doctor ignored the gesture and shook his head. “This is insane. Come on man, you can’t be serious!”

“I’ll give you a cheque,” Miletto insisted. “Get me to a computer and I’ll transfer the funds myself.”

Olaffson pointed at the beautiful girl in the pen. “For her? For…for that?”

“Do we have a deal?”

The doctor folded his arms and pursed his lips. He stayed that way a few moments, as though he were concentrating all his efforts on sucking a mint. Then he sighed inwardly. “I misjudged you, Miletto.”

“Do…we have…a deal?”

Dr. Olaffson rolled his eyes and threw up his hands. “Fine. She’s all yours. Take her and be damned.”


It was a long drive back to Fagernes from Olaffson’s compound, a thick blizzard only making it longer, but Miletto didn’t feel the need to rest. The excitement was consuming. Finally they reach the hotel—an indifferent conference place, where a man could achieve a fair promise of anonymity—and went straight through the lobby and up to the room. Miletto cared not a bit about the concerned or intrigued looks brought about at the sight of this middle-aged man emerging from the snow with a beautiful young woman in a buttoned-down black overcoat—his coat—and bare feet. In fact, he rather enjoyed the attention.

Once inside the room, Miletto sat the girl down on the bed and reached for the phone, hurriedly punching numbers. “Laurent! Hello? Laurent, are you there?”

“Who is this?” a groggy voice answered.

“It’s Miletto. Listen to me, Laurent, I’ve got a job for you.”

“Sure, Miletto.” He heard the crook on the other end of the line light up a cigarette and take a drag. “Whatever you want. You know that.”

“I need documents. Everything. From scratch, you understand?”

“Sure, sure. How soon?”

“How soon can you get to Norway?”

“Norway?” Laurent laughed, and the laugh became a cough. “Sorry, my friend. A month.”

“A month? That’s no good.”

“Three weeks maybe. But no sooner. I’m a busy man, Miletto. You know how it is…”

“I’ll pay you. Whatever you want. I’ll pay.”

Another slow drag. No pressure. “I know you will, friend. I know you will. But I have other commitments.”

“So do I! Three weeks…”

“If it’s that urgent, find someone else.”
“I don’t know anyone else!”

“Well then…” A slight chuckle. “You’ll just have to wait, won’t you?”

Miletto bowed his head and sighed. “All right, all right. But you’ll let me know if you get a window in your schedule?”

“Certainly, sir. Certainly.”

Miletto gave the name of the hotel and the number at which he could be reached then said his goodbyes, silently cursing the fact that in the whole world he only knew one counterfeiter worth a damn. He hung up the phone and stood staring at the wall. “I hope you like the room, cherie,” he said. “It looks as though we could be here for some time.”

He turned. The girl had managed to undo the top button on the coat and tried to shrug it off, but had only tugged it down enough to expose her right shoulder and breast. Now she stood at the window, her hand pressed to the glass, watching the snow falling over the floodlit car park. The image was exquisite.

“I’ll have to name you,” Miletto said. He thought for a moment—just a moment—then smiled. “Elisa,” he said. “You can be Elisa.”

The girl turned away from the window and moved back to the bed, giving the coat a couple more uncomfortable tugs. Miletto reached out, his anticipation at its height, and took her head in his hands. His thumb caressed her cheek, finding the skin as soft as a ripened peach. Her hair was damp. He ran his fingers through it, brushing it clear from her face. His hands slid around the back of her head, around her neck and over her shoulders.

Elisa seemed not to mind. He reached down and unbuttoned the coat and she wriggled her way out of the sleeves. When she had escaped the clothing and was nude once more, she looked up to Miletto and smiled.

Miletto leaned in and pressed his lips to hers.

To his surprise, Elisa was receptive. She didn’t struggle, and although there was no passion in her kiss, it was soft, warm and inviting. She parted her lips and welcomed his tongue.

Her mouth tasted better than Mrs. Olaffson’s roast.

Miletto pressed his hand to her shoulder and lay her down on the bed.


The first day was a rush of noise and excitement. Miletto left Elisa in the room, hanging a ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign on the doorknob and heading out into the snow-swept town to find shops where he could buy clothes. He garnered a few confused looks from curious customers, this middle-aged man hunting through the women’s sections for jeans, tops, socks, bras—no, forget the bras—and panties, but the checkout girls didn’t raise any eyebrows.

He purchased a few pairs of trainers and boots in various sizes, plus some gloves, scarves, hats and a scarlet overcoat which they’d need if they intended to go out around Fagernes. He had told himself he was only in search of essentials, but at lunchtime found himself standing in the make-up aisle of a small general store, examining lip-sticks and blusher. It made him giddy to think of dressing her up as a doll. His precious, perfect doll.

He reached for a hair-band and clasp, then wondered about shampoo. That led him to think of soaps, scents, dental care, feminine hygiene. Shit! Would she need tampons? She was barren, but did that mean… He didn’t know. There was so much he hadn’t thought to ask. His shopping list grew with each passing moment. He returned to the room loaded up with practically every modern necessity excusing condoms.

He entered and found the place in complete disarray; bed sheets strewn, drawers pulled out, curtains torn, wardrobe emptied. Miletto wasn’t an idiot. He’d known something like this might happen, but he hadn’t expected it to be so bad and he hadn’t meant to be gone for so long. The worst was the smell. Another oversight. One more minor question which he’d forgotten to ask the doctor. He crossed to the far corner of the room, locating the source of the stink and confirming his fear—Elisa was definitely not house—trained.

He went out on a second risky shopping run and returned with an armful of cleaning products and a length of thick cord. He found the girl kneeling at the window, not the slightest hint of fear or guilt on her face. He took her by the hand and led her into the bathroom, then wasted the next twenty minutes trying to tie the cord around her hands and ankles in knots that he could be sure would hold, but wouldn’t hurt. He tied the other end of the cord around the bath-taps and planted her there, under a lukewarm shower.

The rest of the afternoon was spent cleaning up and getting the room back into some order. Around dinner time he left for a third time, returning with sandwiches and a vegetable pizza. He made sure she was cleaned to his satisfaction, then helped her dry herself, wrapped a bathrobe around her and took her back into the room. She ate happily on the bed. Not a sign of complaint. The rest of the evening Miletto whiled away with more phone calls, explaining to various parties that he wouldn’t be available for a few weeks, that his Norwegian trip had had to run long. The job proved even more unpleasant than cleaning up Elisa’s feces.

The second day was better. In the morning he made love to her, showered with her and ordered breakfast sent up to the room. The clothes he’d bought sat unworn in their bags. He was still too nervous about what she might do if they were out. Forget table manners. What if she tried to tear off her shirt in the restaurant? What if she took a piss in the street? Her unfathomable beauty could only garner her so much leeway; him none at all. So they stayed in the room, ordered more food. He turned the TV on and understood almost none of it, though she seemed to find it entertaining. He took photographs, made love to her another two times and told her he loved her.

On the third day he had to put newspaper down and began to wonder if he should be rubbing her nose in ‘it.’ He’d never had a child. He’d never owned a dog. He knew nothing about training. Perhaps when they made it back to Paris, he’d find someone. A professional who could teach her how to use the toilet, how to clean herself, dress herself, teach her about manners and…well…everything. When they made it back to Paris. In the meantime, what could he teach her? A few words, perhaps? She’d had no chance to learn anything penned up with the rest of her kind, but that shouldn’t stop her now she was out. She was fully capable, right?

“Miletto,” he repeated to her, exaggerating the vowels. “Mi-le-tto…Mi-le-tto…”

On the fourth day he finally let the maid into the room. He dressed Elisa simply in jeans, sweater, jacket and boots and headed downstairs. She really didn’t like the boots it seemed. He spoke to the assistant manager, arranged an extension of his booking and a special arrangement with the maid service, so that he would only be bothered every four days. They spent much of the afternoon in and around the lobby

On the fifth day he took her out. She seemed to be getting restless, but even if she wasn’t, he knew he certainly was. He led her into the middle of town, found a park where they could ‘play.’ She got some exercise. He managed to convince himself he was coming down with a cold.

By the sixth day she still wasn’t responding to her name. Nor his. He had no idea how long a thing like that would take. How long did it take with dogs? There was no progress in other problem departments, and he had to keep reminding himself these were early days. He had to remind himself of that.

On the seventh day he tried to entertain himself by dressing her up and putting make-up on her, but she resisted the make-up and the clothing selection didn’t arouse him terribly much. He wished they could be somewhere more cosmopolitan than Fagernes, somewhere he could find expensive lingerie and sex toys. Things that would fire his imagination and sex drive. As it was, he felt he was rapidly losing interest.

By the eighth day he was supremely bored. Elisa could offer him nothing in the way of conversation and there was no entertainment to be had in dressing her up or having her pose for him. He’d never been the kind of kid who could play with dolls for long. As a companion she was less than stimulating. She was beautiful, the most perfect female specimen he’d ever seen. But she was an ornament. There seemed to be nothing going on inside that head, behind that vacant smile.

Even the sex was a disappointment. She was receptive, always receptive. She never put up a fight. But she never made an effort to join in. She just lay beneath him, let him pin her arms back, let him roll her over, pull her leg up, do whatever he wanted. But if he stimulated her she made no show of it. She was utterly dispassionate. In spite of himself he found he was growing resentful. Her apparent inability to reach orgasm struck him as a deep insult. This he knew was idiocy. She was incapable of insult. She seemed incapable of most anything but staring wistfully out of the window, her beauty caught in the half-light. He didn’t try to have sex with her that night.

On the ninth day he surprised himself with violence. He was frustrated. He wanted to provoke a reaction. And he was bored. She was curled up at the foot of the bed, eating some forgotten leftover that she’d fished out of the bin. He slapped the food out of her mouth, hauled her up, slapped her again, threw her down on the bed and took her as roughly as he could. She was silent throughout.

On the tenth day Elisa rebelled. She lay motionless on the bed for most of the morning, but as Miletto was heading out of the door in search of a newspaper—a morning ritual—she powered into him, forced her way past and took off down the corridor. Miletto was surprised. If she’d known where she was going she might have escaped him and run naked into the street. As it was, she turned down a dead end, he caught her, threw her over his shoulder and carried her back to the room. No-one witnessed the display. Inside the room he tied her up in the bathtub again. It was becoming a regular thing.

She resisted him further through the eleventh day and the twelfth. She kicked when he came close, bit and scratched when he attempted intimacy. Though there was passion in it, he found it no more enjoyable than the disinterest.

On the thirteenth day he openly wondered if he should just abandon her, board a plane back to Paris, leaving her behind in the room. The thought of taking her with him had lost all appeal.

On the fourteenth day Dr. Olaffson called.

“I hate to ask this of you,” he said. “But I assure you it is absolutely imperative that you return her to me. I will refund you fully, but you must bring her back.”

Miletto sighed. “It’s quite alright,” he said. “The honeymoon period’s over anyway.”


As Miletto approached the compound he thought he caught the scent of roasting meat. Another of Mrs. Olaffson’s feasts, perhaps? But no. As he drew nearer and the odour grew stronger he realized his mistake. Not roasting meat. Burning meat. Burning flesh, fat, hair and bones. In the back seat, Elisa made not a sound.

He was ushered through the gate by the same guard as the time before. There seemed to be a great many armed guards around today. At least, they were more visible, rushing to and fro on various errands. The compound was in total chaos. He drew up alongside the main chalet, stepped out and, looking up, saw the vast plume of black smoke rising from the peak of the slope—from the abattoir.

Mrs. Olaffson emerged from the chalet, harassed-looking, wringing her hands. The hound at her side barked a greeting. “He’s up there,” she said, directing him towards the top of the hill. “He’ll want to see you. I’ll get someone to escort you up.”

Three guards came, rifles slung, and helped Elisa out of the back seat. She was wearing the scarlet overcoat he’d bought her in Fagernes, but was otherwise nude. The first guard put a leather brace around her wrists and nodded to Miletto to follow.

They were led up the hill to the abattoir. The exertion and the smell from the bonfire made Miletto nauseous, but he tried not to make a fuss. The side entrance to the abattoir was wide open and they went straight through to the slaughter floor, where Dr. Olaffson awaited them.

“I’m sorry about this, Miletto, really I am.” He looked old and tired. Behind him, guards were dragging small bodies towards the corral and Tor was hosing blood off of the cement.

Elisa’s eyes widened at the sight of the bodies. She’d never made it onto the slaughter floor before and it was obvious she was scared.

“I would never normally go back on a deal,” the doctor continued. “It’s a dreadful practice. But these are extenuating circumstances.”

“What’s going on here?” Miletto asked.

Olaffson sighed, gravely. “A cull.”

“Cull? Whatever for?”

“A virus has infected the herd.”

Miletto felt his nausea, which had abated since reaching the top of the hill, return with renewed intensity. “What virus?”
“I never gave it a name,” said Olaffson. “It’s happened in the past. I always thought if I didn’t name it, then it wouldn’t return. Superstitious, I know. Silly for a scientist. It’s definitely not recognizable as any known disease. I don’t know if it generated in nature or whether one of my competitors… Basically, it’s a highly contagious, ultimately life-threatening disease that attacks my herds. Something to do with their genetic make-up…their imbalanced immune system makes them ideal victims. Symptoms were only spotted here about 48 hours ago, but they could have been gestating for weeks. I can’t take any chances. I have to cull this herd to protect my others and I have to renege on our deal. I can’t take the risk that the girl falls ill. If you were forced to take her to a hospital, if people started asking questions…I’m sorry.”

Miletto nodded and looked to Elisa. “So am I.”

Olafsson cleared his throat self-consciously. “If you…need a few moments to say goodbye…”

“No,” Miletto replied, plainly. “Take her.”

Olaffson nodded, looked to the guards and hooked a thumb towards the rear entrance. One of the guards removed the braces from Elisa’s wrists and tugged at the overcoat till it came free. A button popped and bounced across the stone floor. The sound echoed throughout the vast room.

They reattached the brace and hauled her away, dumping the scarlet overcoat at Miletto’s feet. He watched her being led off, doubtless towards a ditch out the back, where, if she was lucky, they’d put a bullet in the back of her head before dousing her in chemicals and setting her alight. As they rounded a corner Elisa turned her head back, brunette curls dancing around her shoulders and cast one last, confused glance to Miletto. She was shivering. From the cold or from fear he wouldn’t hazard a guess. He looked down to avoid her eyes. When he looked up she was gone.

“I really am sorry,” said Olaffson. It was just the two of them and Tor now. “I transferred the full payment back into your account. You can come check if you’d like.”

Miletto was still staring at the corner where he’d last seen her. “And this virus,” he said, “it can’t be transmitted to humans?”

The doctor shook his head with qualified certainty. “No. There’s no way. Not through consumption of the meat, nor in the air, nor general contact. We’re quite safe.”

Miletto nodded, relieved.

“Although,” said the doctor, “Sexual intercourse would be another matter entirely.”

There was a sound like the snapping of fingers and Miletto crumpled to the floor.

Pain had erupted through his entire body and sent him into spasm, but it hadn’t been enough to knock him out. Tor had lowered the voltage setting on his baton. They wanted him incapacitated, but lucid. He had hit the ground and curled into the fetal position, but now he felt Tor’s great hands on him, rolling him onto his back. There was no strength in him to resist, not even to speak.

Above him, the good doctor was calmly refilling his pipe. “It’s a damn shame. I had hoped you were like me. It’s so rare to meet someone who shares my passions so precisely. I wonder…if I hadn’t shown you the girl…what would have happened?” He struck a match and relit the pipe.

Tor attached a brace to Miletto’s ankles and another to his wrists.

“There’s so much we don’t know,” Olaffson continued. “That’s the truth of it. It’s near impossible to catch the disease in its early stages. The symptoms are subtle to begin with. We don’t have enough definitive information for blood tests to be of any positive use. I don’t know if the girl’s infected. I don’t know that you are. But I know you could be. And I won’t take that risk.”

Miletto heard the echo of a distant gunshot and wondered if the bullet was meant for Elisa.

“You understand,” said Olaffson. “You could potentially be a carrier. And I wouldn’t know. It might gestate. If it mutated into something easily transferable from one human to another… We’re talking about a pandemic the like of which the world has never seen. I won’t be responsible for allowing something into the world that could potentially destroy humanity. I won’t have that. I can live with a lot…but not that.”

Tor grabbed Miletto by the legs and heaved him up. “P…please…” Miletto stammered, weakly. The ankle brace went over a hook above him and he was left hanging, upside down. Tor reached for the blade in his belt.

“No,” said the doctor, bobbing before him as he swung back and forth. “Not the knife. Use the gun. Allow him that much.”

Tor turned away, busying himself with some new apparatus out of Miletto’s field of vision.

“Don’t…” Miletto wheezed. “I beg you…” He tried to will his arms and legs into motion. He tried to form some plea, some promise with his lips. He knew he had to do something. But the strength wasn’t in him.

The doctor drew a little closer. “I am sorry. I am, but…” He sighed. “For God’s sake man, didn’t your mother ever tell you not to play with your food?”

Tor placed the muzzle of the bolt-gun against his temple.

He never heard the pop.