Abattoir, page 18
He did not know how late it was, for he paid no attention to clocks. But he knew it was night and he knew it was time.
The Old Man carefully dressed himself. He did this at a time when all of the other residents of the nursing home were long asleep. He put his on his battered corduroy coat, weathered boots and an old baseball cap he had found in the common room.
With great care, he cracked open the door to his room and examined the hallway, looking right and left, just as all the residents had been told to do when preparing to cross the street.
It was empty, lit only by faint utility lights.
With a cat’s stealth, he made his way down the long hallway, past rooms reverberating with snores and forgotten televisions, past the side exit door, which he knew would be locked.
Instinct led him through the dining area, dark and empty, into the kitchen. It too was dark and empty, and he was alone as he walked slowly over its tiled floors.
A sound jarred him. It was like thunder, which always terrified him, and he stopped in his tracks. His eyes went to the source, identified the stainless steel box in which ice cubes were made, and resumed his stealthy walk.
The kitchen’s back door was faintly illuminated by the green glow of an exit sign and the Old Man walked directly to it. If he had been aware of such emotions, he would have felt gratitude when he found it to be unlocked.
He felt the frigid air of the outdoors, but experienced no real discomfort from it. Nor did he experience any sense of freedom, for such concepts were meaningless to him. He walked slowly and deliberately through the courtyard, out the gate and onto the deserted, snow-covered street.
Toward the voice that called.
The snow fell gently, a dry, crystalline powder that squeaked beneath his boots. The air was bitter cold and not a soul, besides him, was out. His were the only footprints visible in the pristine snow.
As he trudged, the surroundings gradually changed. The facility— his home for far longer than he could remember—was gone from sight. Replacing it were suburban ranch houses and quickie marts, gas stations and coffee shops. These, in their turn, were replaced by older structures, second-hand stores and pawnshops.
Eventually, these too disappeared, giving way to old factories and weathered warehouses, dimly lit and made of battered red brick.
The voice was clearer now, its beacon resonating in his skull.
He stopped.
He did not know what it was, this hulking shape that loomed alone on the horizon, but something about it terrified him.
He hadn’t felt this emotion for as long as he could remember.
The place was tall and dark, wide and imposing. It had a tower, with a clock’s face.
He’d been there before. He sensed this instinctually, as he did everything else. In the same way, he knew that this place was very, very bad.
And very, very good.
The Old Man started toward the vision, with the same steady and relentless pace he had maintained throughout the night.
For the voice was coming from within it.
Since time was not important to him, he did not know how long it took to reach the place, but he eventually did. Only then did he halt his steady march.
He stood before its massive door, a strange and frightened knight having arrived at the destination of his quest.
He brought his hand up to knock, but before his aged knuckles could touch the cold wood, the door creaked open.
Warmth and light poured out into the night. And much more—the smiling face of a young, beautiful girl.
Her eyes met his; black against blue. Her tiny soft hand took his gnarled, old one and gently led him inside the Exeter.
=§=§=§=
What’s coming?
Solitude was giving way. Something approached. A shape, a feeling.
Confusion.
Very hot, yet very cold. Terrifying, yet pleasing.
Confusion.
Everything was spinning. And stopping. Spinning and stopping.
Why was this feeling familiar? What was this shape? What did it want?
Does it want me? Who is “me?” What is “me?”
Anticipation, dread.
Rapid passage through solid forms, then passage back. The desire to escape, the need to hide, deep down below. And the desire not to hide. The need to come out. To embrace.
A quandary. Clearly a quandary. But what is a quandary?
Confusion.
Only one clarity amidst all the hot, the cold, the fear, the joy—no escape.
Whatever was to happen, would happen. Was supposed to happen. Could not be stopped from happening.
=§=§=§=
20
Su Ling’s eyes shot open in the silence of deep night.
Wrong. Something terribly wrong.
“Alex!”
She shook the sleeping man almost violently, not yet noticing the frigid cold that enveloped the bedroom.
He came awake groggily.
“What?”
“She’s gone.”
“Who’s … ?”
“Anna’s gone. I feel it!”
She didn’t wait for him, jumping out of the bed and dashing across the apartment to her daughter’s empty room.
Su Ling uttered a cry and began a frantic search of the flat, opening closet doors, peering behind the couch, even—illogically—inside the refrigerator.
Cantrell was soon at her side, placing a robe around her against the pervasive cold that permeated the entire apartment.
“Anna!” she cried, her voice laced with panic.
Cantrell threw open the door and went out into the hall, his breath steaming before him. He started when he saw the towering linden in the foyer. Its green leaves and slender branches were now weighted with thousands of tiny icicles. In a strong wind that was coming from somewhere, they made an eerie tinkling noise.
There was a light below. Peering down, he saw the open doorway.
“Down here, Su! Come on!”
They raced down the stairs, staring in shock at what they saw.
Anna stood before the open door, dressed only in her pajamas, vulnerable to the snow and icy wind that swept in to envelop her. Outside, they saw the outline of a man.
Their hands were clasped together across the threshold.
“Get away from her!” Su Ling cried, rushing toward the door. “Leave her alone!”
Neither Anna nor the stranger seemed to hear. The two of them remained in a fixed position, holding hands, staring into each other’s eyes.
“Su, wait!” Cantrell urged.
He’d seen the subtle tug of war going on at the doorway. The man—he could tell by now that he was quite tall and old—seemed to be resisting the girl’s pull, as if afraid to come inside.
Su Ling paused, picking up the same signal. They both watched the strange encounter.
At last, the old man surrendered. With one hesitant step, he crossed the threshold.
He was, indeed, tall and apparently quite old. He was thin, dressed shabbily in a snows-wept corduroy jacket and faded baseball cap. His ears and nose were bright red from the cold.
“Who are …?”
Cantrell hushed Su Ling, whispering in her ear: “Let it go, Su. Something’s happening here.”
She wanted to resist, her protective maternal instincts cried out for her to do so. But she relented. Su Ling, too, could sense something special. Anna’s attitude was clearly not one of fear, but of direction and purpose. And something about the old man finally convinced her that he was no threat.
With an enigmatic smile, Anna turned and began to lead the old man further inside, across the foyer, as if she were escorting an old friend. She paid no heed to the other adults in the room, nor the intense cold.
As Cantrell watched the strange procession, his eyes were attracted to the antique grandfather clock which stood beside the door. The hands stopped, then began to move counterclockwise. The clock’s gears made a soft whirring sound as they revolved, faster and faster.
The child led the old man unerringly across the room, stopping in front of the door that led to the conference room.
A wave of horror washed over Su Ling. The killing floor; that’s where she’s leading him.
Anna opened the door and tried to lead him inside. Again, the old man hesitated at the threshold, finally relenting as she continued to tug and coax, allowing her to lead him into the room.
Mirroring her actions, Cantrell took Su Ling’s hand and led her the same way. She, too, hesitated, but relented.
Cantrell switched on the light, revealing the conference room as they had always seen it—bathed in bright fluorescent light, the long walnut table and leather chairs neatly in place, the soft mountain landscapes in their proper places on the wall, a handful of documents on the table, where Cantrell had left them.
As the procession made its way inside, an air of expectation hung over them all. What were they doing here?
Anna stood silent, waiting. The old man had lost his bewildered expression, replaced now with one of approaching terror. And possibly recognition. It seemed as if he had been here before, as if he were experiencing a terrifying déjà vu. Their hands were still clasped together, as were those of Cantrell and Su Ling. The only sound was their soft breathing.
The change was subtle at first, barely noticeable. The long wall opposite them began to ripple, ever so slightly. As Cantrell watched it begin to change, he was reminded of heat mirages on the far horizon of lonely highways. It didn’t look quite real.
The cool, antiseptic air of the conference room was soon replaced by a clammy, steamy heat. Cantrell opened a button on his shirt, Su Ling wiping sweat from her brow. The girl and the old man seemed unaffected.
The mirage intensified, taking on a silvery shimmer. And then came the unmistakable scent of animals. It grew from a hint to a barnyard reek. And there was more to it than the scent of livestock. Mingled with the smell were human sweat, axle grease and something that smelled very much like rendering flesh.
Fresh blood.
Sounds began to break the silence; those of a factory in full operation—chains sliding along pulleys, the thrum of heavy machines and buzzing saws, the shouts and laughter of working men, knives being sharpened on stones.
The lowing of terrified cattle.
Cantrell and Su Ling stood, their backs to the wall, staring open-mouthed at the mirage as it began to slowly dissolve.
Anna and the stranger stood before them, one regarding the scene with open expectation, the other absolute horror.
The struggle between the conference room and whatever lay beyond it was becoming decisive. The conference room, which represented the now, was surrendering to that which was then.
Cantrell knew what it was as soon as it began to appear. What else could it be?
The Exeter was reclaiming itself before their eyes, taking on its true identity.
The abattoir.
No longer were the trappings of the now visible. In their place were stained brick walls, concrete beams, steel hoists and lifts, dimpled steel floors.
So that they can’t slip in the blood, Cantrell thought.
The industry of death lay before them. Five or six men were working in the room, all clothed in heavy boots and rubber overalls. They walked by the intruders as if they didn’t exist. They shouted commands and instructions to each other. One of them, the stub of a cigar in his mouth, barked orders to “keep ‘em movin, keep ‘em movin!”
The intruders watched the assembly line precision in horrified silence.
From the left, a queue of longhorn steers were being forced forward through a long fenced chute, rising from somewhere below. The sounds that came from them made it clear that they knew—in their instinctive way—exactly what was happening. Exactly what was about to happen to them.
The steer at the top of the chute was forced into a narrow enclosure, open for the moment at both ends. First, the rear door, through which the animal entered, was closed behind it. Then, at the front end of the enclosure, a wooden wall—guillotine-like—consisting of two parts, was brought together, forming an opening around the animal’s neck, isolating and locking the head.
The worker standing before the wide-eyed animal raised his burly arm, striking the steer’s head with the sledgehammer clutched in his hands.
It was a sickening thud, and the intruders could hear the cracking of bone. Su Ling cried out when she heard it, but nobody seemed to notice.
The animal slumped within the confines of the chute.
A second worker, to the side of the enclosure, pulled a lever, dropping the floor at a sharp angle, and opening the side of the enclosure. The sound it made was eerily reminiscent of the wooden report made by a falling trapdoor on a scaffold. The stunned animal quickly slid down the sharply angled wood and slumped to the concrete floor. The man went to his knees, wrapping a blood-stained chain around the steer’s hindquarters.
The worker was a man in his mid-forties, tall and barrel-chested, a large and full mustache adorning his sweaty face. When the old stranger, still clutching Anna’s hand, saw that face, he started and made a little sound in his throat, the first sound they had heard him make. Oblivious to the pervasive violence before them, he stared fixedly into the eyes of this man.
The worker rose to his feet, placing his hands on another chain hanging from above. He pulled hard on it, ratcheting it up a pulley, link by link. The steer began to rise, hindquarters first, high into the cavernous room. The man then dragged the body along a conveyer system somewhere above, pulling it to the side of the room where his workmate waited, glistening knife clutched and ready.
When the steer reached him, the animal—its legs still twitching—was suspended over a large steel-grated drain and lowered to within a few feet of the floor. The third worker raised the animal’s head and deftly sliced its throat with one powerful stroke of the blade.
Blood gushed from the steer’s throat into the drain in a steamy cascade, some of it escaping onto the floor, spattering the worker’s already stained overalls.
When it was finally drained, the carcass was moved efficiently along the conveyor into an adjacent room, where the butchery would take place.
In the chute, the next victim was already prepared for its execution.
“Oh my God,” Su Ling whispered, pressing her face into Cantrell’s chest, as the knife did its deadly work. Cantrell, feeling the bile rise in his throat, held her tightly, looking down at the blood-washed floor.
Anna remained motionless, her eyes open in what might have been shock. But she did not blink nor look away. She stood there, unflinching, holding the hand of the old stranger, facing the horror before them, refusing to retreat in the face of fear.
The routine mechanism of death went on. Another steer was shoved into the enclosure, the chute door closed behind it. The first worker raised his sledge, but hesitated. Looking to his left, he smiled, shouting to the second worker: “Hey Garth! Look who brought you lunch!”
The second worker peered around the enclosure and smiled as his son entered the room through a side door.
The young boy, sandy-haired, dressed in denim overalls, plaid shirt and canvas sneakers, entered the killing floor, standing well to the side, aware that he wasn’t supposed to be here. He smiled as his striking blue eyes regarded his father across the room.
“Thanks, Rupert!” the man shouted. “I’ll be over in a couple of minutes.”
“Okay, daddy,” he said, nodding his head.
The first worker finished what he’d started—the sledgehammer landing its blow. He brought it down hard, like he’d done thousands of times before.
Rupert’s father went into action, yanking the lever that simultaneously opened the side of the enclosure and tilted the floor inside. The animal slid out and lay twitching on the floor. The man began attaching the chains to its hind legs.
But the animal came to. The blow to its head had only stunned it. Blood streaming down its nose, it scrambled to its feet in anger and fear.
“Whoa there!” Rupert’s father cried, trying to calm the animal and warn his fellow workers.
The steer did not heed. It swung its head in a violent half-circle, its long horns whistling through the air. Rupert’s father was just able to jump clear of the deadly thrust, his back slamming against the brick wall behind.
In desperation, he pulled out his pistol—a safety requirement for situations like this—but was unable to take aim. The frenzied steer was quicker than he was, driving its right horn deep into the man’s chest.
He cried out in agony, but could not fall—he was impaled on the horn. The horrified cry of the boy, who was witnessing the whole scene, joined that of his father.
Oblivious to the report of another worker’s pistol, confused and panicked, the boy began to run, tears running down his face, his mouth gaping in a silent scream. He slipped on the bloody floor but caught his balance, and continued running.
Toward Anna. She didn’t move out of his way.
“No!” she cried. “Don’t!”
Somehow, the boy heard. Something in Anna’s voice, something in her presence, made him hear. And listen.
He stopped in his tracks, his eyes meeting those of the little girl who stood in his path. It was the first moment when anyone from the killing floor acknowledged the presence of the trespassers.
Behind the boy, the killing floor immediately froze in place, like a movie frame stuck in a projector. The once full color scene—the dead man impaled on the dying steer’s horn, the gun flying from his hand—now took on a brittle sepia tint.
Su Ling gasped in sudden comprehension: Anna’s puzzle . . . this was what she was seeing!
And then it began to crack, with spider web fractures, like delicate glass. In less than a heartbeat, the vision exploded into millions of tiny shards. Cantrell and Su Ling threw their hands across their faces, but felt no tiny projectiles strike them. When they opened their eyes, they saw nothing behind the boy but a flat, gray pall.
Unaware of the changes behind him, the boy took a few tentative steps towards Anna and stopped. A soft gleam enveloped his body in a gauzy haze. They could see his youthful face, his sandy hair, his faded overalls, but all in soft focus.
