Crisis Event: Black Feast by Greg Shows, Zachary Womack Page A

the pots, and Sadie could hear the hiss of their flames and see steam rising from the open pot. She guessed it was full of empty bottles being sterilized and kept hot so that they could be filled with human flesh. A pair of stainless steel tongs lay next to the pot, ready to reach in and pull out a clean jar.
    The pressure cooker was for the canning.
    To the right of both pots were six rows of double stacked jars full of black, viscous chunks of canned flesh. There were twelve jars in each row, and just enough room at the front of the table for another two rows. A wall shelf beyond the table was stacked with more of the filled black jars.
    On the floor next to the table was an old galvanized tub like the one her grandfather had kept in his barn. The tub was full of a thick dark liquid Sadie assumed was blood and sat in front of a half-opened door.
    Thunder boomed and Sadie jumped, on the verge of a scream.
    She looked around quickly and saw a second table, this one covered with the tools of butchery: half a dozen medical scalpels, a meat cleaver, several long butcher knives, a hacksaw, various pairs of pliers, and a claw hammer.
    Next to the table on the floor were three red fire extinguishers. Part of the wall next to the table was blackened, and Sadie guessed they’d had a fire.
    Beside the tools were two gallon jugs of lab grade acetic acid, three round blue containers of table salt, a canister of slaked lime, and a big white bag with a red and black label that read “Potassium Nitrate.”
    Despite the horror in front of her, Sadie felt a spike of desire. Potassium Nitrate was as useful a chemical as you could ask for.
    Still, she was slow to move. The room was poorly lit and creepy and stank of vinegar and old pennies, and over in one shadowy corner was a tall, triple-doored cabinet like an armoire. It had had probably held laboratory supplies when this room had been a biology lab.
    Sadie looked back at the butchered woman and the dead girl who’d been tossed casually on the floor. She couldn’t seem to make herself move, or to stop the voice in her mind from shrieking “No, no, no, no, no!” over and over again.
    Her head felt thick and sludgy, and she could hear her blood rushing through her ears—a roar of white noise louder than the thunder outside.
    Sadie’s hands were full on quaking, and if they didn’t stop she was going to drop the shotgun.
    Once again it was her grandfather’s voice that steadied her.
    “Focus,” his voice told her, “And cock the damn gun.”
    The click of the hammers was loud, but the noise seemed to dispel the bubbly feeling in her head. The rush of blood in her ears subsided, and she was calm again.
    “Move,” her grandfather’s voice urged her, and within seconds of hearing his exhortation she also heard footsteps, far away and unhurried, as if the person taking them was relaxed and comfortable and didn’t have a worry in the world. Next came a whistle, someone butchering an old Hank Williams song.
    Sadie, who’d been frozen in the doorway now moved, rushing across the bloody floor to the bag of potassium nitrate. She looked around, then leaped for the ball jars, grabbing one up and rushing back to the potassium nitrate bag.
    “Get out of there, girl,” she heard her grandfather yelling, but she ignored the voice and dipped the ball jar into the bag and scooped the powder into it. Then she set down her shotgun, twisted a cap onto the jar and tightened it in two turns.
    “Lord I got ‘em,” a voice sang, and then there was a huge “Bang!” as if a door had slammed shut.
    Sadie, ready to scream, rushed to the door, the jar in one hand, her shotgun in the other. Her heart was thumping again and a wad of bitter of spit flowed into her mouth.
    She looked around the edge of the doorway and saw a big-bellied man in blue overalls and work boots coming toward her. He wore a holster with a pistol at his side.
    “No,” she squeaked, then stepped back into the room and looked