used to slaughter pigs, longhorns, or any animal that proved itself more useful dead than alive. Bolts will easily scramble a brain from two meters, and at five they could crack a skull. Any farther and it’d leave a person with a bruise and a good story to tell.
I ran hard. Who the hell did he think I was? I sure as hell didn’t know him. My muscles—my whole body was sore, but it felt good to stretch my legs. By the time Keith was back up and around the corner I was halfway down the length of the barn, where I skidded to a halt. There was a painted metal door, pockmarked with rust. I grabbed the doorknob with my three metal fingers and pulled, ripping the door from its hinges.
A wave of rotten stench rolled out of the gaping door. Bile welled up in my belly again, but I bit it back and plunged into the darkness. The buzz of flies welcomed me, enveloping everything in white noise. They landed, crawled across my face and arm. It was all I could do to ignore them.
Light trickled in from a window set high in the far wall, one that likely looked out over the slaughterhouse. A polished steel table dominated the center of the room. Behind it was another door. All of the corners of the room were inky blackness, made more so by the harsh light at my back.
I leapt up and slid across the table, meaning to head straight for the door. Soon as I hit the surface, though, I understood my mistake.
The table was slippery as snot on a glass doorknob. My butt slid fast, throwing off my balance and landing me hard on my back.
Keith was at the door. “You think you can come back here?” There was an edge of pain in the farmer’s voice. “You took my Suzie and now you think you can take my pigs?”
“Do I know you?” I didn’t. Who did he think I was? I spun, kicked the table hard, and made for the door. The table tipped and I heard a grunt from the farmer. My shoulder hit the door, and I was through before he was able to fire another shot.
My eyes hadn’t adjusted to the gloom of the building any more than my nose had adjusted to the stench. Fat flies crawled over my skin and I had to shake them free before moving again.
The floor was a metal grate, slick with blood and filth. The door to my left opened easily, so I took it. This door had a solid feel, so I slammed it behind me and braced myself against it. The flies were thicker there, buzzing so loud it sounded like a band saw cutting oak.
Nobody ever wants to see the inside of a slaughterhouse. They think of a pig farm as a magical place where cute piggies go in and ham steaks come out. Hooks, knives, pliers, hammers, bone saws, and bolt guns hung on pegs. Chains—filthy chains—dangled from a dark ceiling. The whole place reeked of death and pig shit. There was blood everywhere: dried blood, fresh blood, slick blood, and hardened blood all across the table, all over the floor. Even the metal grate of the floor was caked with ichor. Like before, I had to force back the urge to vomit. Unlike before, I failed.
I turned and emptied my gut onto the ichor-covered floor. The sharp burn of whiskey and stomach acid coated my mouth and overwhelmed my nose.
“Shouldn’t a come back here, Tom,” called the farmer. “You know what I got for you.” There was a click and a low hum, presumably the bolt gun powering up.
The farmer thought I was someone else, an enemy of his. Why? He was going to shoot me on sight, which put a kink in my plans to talk things out. Could he even hear me? I pressed my palm to my forehead. There had to be a better plan.
Of course, there was. Violence.
No. It was a matter of principle. I’d die right there if it meant proving that I could go without violence. I’d meet a horrible, violent end just to prove it to myself. Shit. That didn’t prove anything, did it?
“C’mon out. Get what’s coming, Tom,” said the farmer on the other side of the door. His heavy footsteps started again, clomping past my door and farther down the hall. He must
I ran hard. Who the hell did he think I was? I sure as hell didn’t know him. My muscles—my whole body was sore, but it felt good to stretch my legs. By the time Keith was back up and around the corner I was halfway down the length of the barn, where I skidded to a halt. There was a painted metal door, pockmarked with rust. I grabbed the doorknob with my three metal fingers and pulled, ripping the door from its hinges.
A wave of rotten stench rolled out of the gaping door. Bile welled up in my belly again, but I bit it back and plunged into the darkness. The buzz of flies welcomed me, enveloping everything in white noise. They landed, crawled across my face and arm. It was all I could do to ignore them.
Light trickled in from a window set high in the far wall, one that likely looked out over the slaughterhouse. A polished steel table dominated the center of the room. Behind it was another door. All of the corners of the room were inky blackness, made more so by the harsh light at my back.
I leapt up and slid across the table, meaning to head straight for the door. Soon as I hit the surface, though, I understood my mistake.
The table was slippery as snot on a glass doorknob. My butt slid fast, throwing off my balance and landing me hard on my back.
Keith was at the door. “You think you can come back here?” There was an edge of pain in the farmer’s voice. “You took my Suzie and now you think you can take my pigs?”
“Do I know you?” I didn’t. Who did he think I was? I spun, kicked the table hard, and made for the door. The table tipped and I heard a grunt from the farmer. My shoulder hit the door, and I was through before he was able to fire another shot.
My eyes hadn’t adjusted to the gloom of the building any more than my nose had adjusted to the stench. Fat flies crawled over my skin and I had to shake them free before moving again.
The floor was a metal grate, slick with blood and filth. The door to my left opened easily, so I took it. This door had a solid feel, so I slammed it behind me and braced myself against it. The flies were thicker there, buzzing so loud it sounded like a band saw cutting oak.
Nobody ever wants to see the inside of a slaughterhouse. They think of a pig farm as a magical place where cute piggies go in and ham steaks come out. Hooks, knives, pliers, hammers, bone saws, and bolt guns hung on pegs. Chains—filthy chains—dangled from a dark ceiling. The whole place reeked of death and pig shit. There was blood everywhere: dried blood, fresh blood, slick blood, and hardened blood all across the table, all over the floor. Even the metal grate of the floor was caked with ichor. Like before, I had to force back the urge to vomit. Unlike before, I failed.
I turned and emptied my gut onto the ichor-covered floor. The sharp burn of whiskey and stomach acid coated my mouth and overwhelmed my nose.
“Shouldn’t a come back here, Tom,” called the farmer. “You know what I got for you.” There was a click and a low hum, presumably the bolt gun powering up.
The farmer thought I was someone else, an enemy of his. Why? He was going to shoot me on sight, which put a kink in my plans to talk things out. Could he even hear me? I pressed my palm to my forehead. There had to be a better plan.
Of course, there was. Violence.
No. It was a matter of principle. I’d die right there if it meant proving that I could go without violence. I’d meet a horrible, violent end just to prove it to myself. Shit. That didn’t prove anything, did it?
“C’mon out. Get what’s coming, Tom,” said the farmer on the other side of the door. His heavy footsteps started again, clomping past my door and farther down the hall. He must
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