The creeping hell closed in. The real Hell that had started with a gun. Could these any longer think of themselves as men? After the second time the change starts. It gets a little easier. All you have to do is keep from looking at anyone. It's nice to live. With life there's hope. Don't get cheated.
What happened one day surprised no one. Eight of the ten remained, two gone. Thompson had been gone for days. The hunger returned. The pendulum swung back. The beast man shoved out any remaining noble thought and screamed for food. The addict returns to his drug, the pervert to his revolting deed.... As mad as these, the starving.
Nor was McBride surprised when he found himself holding a little stick. He wasn't greatly disturbed when it turned out to be the short one. Sympathy from the others? Not a bit. Only a sort of brooding resignation. And hunger. Always hunger.
"Flaunders," McBride said. "Where's Flaunders?"
"Don't worry," the one who had passed the straws said. "He took his chance with us. Been working like a madman since Thompson went. He wouldn't stop, so I took the straws in to him."
"I don't care about that," McBride informed. "But I've known him since we were kids. Just felt that I'd like to—well—maybe it's better this way." He started slowly away.
"Where you going?" someone said suspiciously.
McBride looked at the man with a feeling part disgust, part pity and a little of something unexplainable. He almost laughed.
"I'm not depriving you of your next meal," he said. "I just feel like being alone for this."
He walked slowly on, taking his thoughts with him. What was the purpose in all this? All a monotonous cycle, constantly repeated. From the torture of starvation to the torture of the shame and bitter self-accusation that makes one despise himself, back to the starvation. Men slowly becoming something lower than pigs, and knowing it all too well. A satisfying of the body at the expense of decency, even, of sanity. A Hell within souls.