Metal clamps above waited to grasp a used body and hoist it away to more huge receptacles containing shining processor blades.
The worker at the conveyor belt - dressed in a blue overall and bloody brown apron - raised a cleaver, and brought it down heavily. A gas mask concealed the worker’s features. The bag that had been dragged inside earlier lay torn open on a table beside the conveyor. What was left of the woman's body it contained lay red and leaking amongst jagged streamers of black plastic. Her meat had been flayed from her bones. Her entrails scooped out. Cap watched in horror as the bloody organs inched along a conveyor, dribbling into a container at the end of the track. Only the corpse's head was left intact, blonde hair sticky with blood.
As Cap watched, the figure raised the cleaver again, hacking pieces from the corpse. These were thrown onto another crusted conveyor to be borne away. The worker lifted the rest of the body - a pile of bloody bones - and deposited it, bag and all, into a large vat.
Cap had once toured a chicken factory - another pointless, unpaid placement from Jobcentre Plus - and the workers there had performed their duties with the same indifference, severing joints efficiently, no longer even aware of the bits of the flesh and gristle that coated their gloves, turning rancid under hot lights.
The contents of the vat began to hiss violently, releasing a cloud of acrid smoke.
When the sound of acid dissolving flesh had receded to a quiet bubbling, the figure removed the gas mask, letting loose a stream of brunette hair. Her face was long, her cheek bones severe.
“Who’s he?” she asked the guards, as she walked over to the bloody container at the edge of the trundling conveyor belt began to drag it towards the double loading doors.
“Caught him sneaking around.”
“How’d he get in? You’re supposed you be guarding the fucking place.”
She addressed Cap: “Who knows you’re here?”
His mouth refused to open.
He watched in horror as she emptied the container out through the doors. A flood of meat mulch and fluids disgorged into the canal, splashing and churning, mixing it to a disgusting pinkish-brown. Fish food.
The woman seemed to grow bored of his silence. “Get rid of him,” she said, without waiting for his reply.
The guards dragged him towards the track, where the glistening hooks dangled ready.
A man in a bloodstained lab coat made his way over, threading between the machinery, a huge syringe in his hand.
Cap wrenched free, finally finding his strength. He dashed towards the exit, feet slipping on the blood-slimed floor. He collided with a piece of machinery, tottered, regained his balance, but not before he’d scraped his calf along a sharp metal skirting flange at the base of the machine. He winced at the pain, but bulled ahead regardless. The man who’d dragged in the bag was waiting at the end of the aisle. Cap noted with horror the congealed blood that matted his beard.
The man grabbed him. Cap fought fiercely, ripping himself free and falling headlong onto two black sacks that lay in the aisle. He let out a cry of terror as his hands slid over the chilly contours beneath the plastic.
Revulsion left him enervated, powerless to do anything but cling on as the bearded man wrenched him back. The black plastic tore beneath his clutching hands, letting free a burst of fetid gas. Cap stared in horror at the bruised face that peered through the hole he’d made in the bag.
The bearded bouncer pulled out a baton, slid the telescopic weapon to its full length. Cap backed away, his grasping hands sliding across blood smeared steel. He turned; saw only the double bay doors and the lapping canal water visible through the gap beneath them.
He slammed head first through the doors and out into the water. Submerged, he thrashed below the surface, his cry an eruption of bubbles.
He tried to breathe, instead sucking in a mouthful of vile water. He refused to think of the small lumps of matter that filled his mouth. He was free, thrashing through the scum-streaked channel.
Pulling himself out of the water, he scrambled to his feet, ignoring the pain in his calf. He half ran, half stumbled from the factory, through the undergrowth. Nettles stung his exposed flesh and brambles ripped at clothes and skin. He emerged onto the main towpath, tripping over a thorn covered feeler. Falling heavily, he rolled across the dirt and into the canal.
He fought the dark water and reached the surface, swimming to the opposite bank. There he climbed out and collapsed amidst the weeds.
The woman was calling his name. He turned. Dry dust had adhered to the wetness on his cheek.
She stood on the opposite bank, holding a small, square object in her hands.
His wallet.
Taken from his coat. His address was inside. He squinted through the sunshine, taking a last look at her face, then terror seized him and he ran.
He didn't remember how he’d reached the police station. He must have ran the entire mile and a half, people staring at the wild-eyed, soaking wet man, dressed in tatters and bleeding from one leg.
But he was here, and he was safe in the confinement of a cell. At his repeated entreaties the police had sent someone to investigate the factory. They’d allowed him to sleep in the drunk-tank when he’d told them that it was no longer safe to go home.
Harper, the friendly young WPC who’d taken his statement, came with a cup of tea.
“Have you arrested them?” He took the tea - warm, too milky.
“I don’t know what’s going on. You must be making waves, though - there’s someone from the brainy gang here to see you. They’re going to transfer you to somewhere more secure.”
His watch told him it was 2.00am. He’d slept a fitful sleep of nightmares filled with flesh and dirty water.
The someone from the brainy gang - Detective Chief Inspector Clemens, a middle aged man with dark hair and dark, penetrating eyes - asked him more questions, then escorted him out to a black, unmarked BMW.
They drove across town. Cap pressed his forehead to the window glass and watched the city lights slide by. He thought about the factory, the equipment, the runes, the chanting from the speakers, trying to make sense of it all.
We’d industrialised all of our primal needs. Our hunting, our gathering, now handled by production line, delivered pre-packed and shrink wrapped. Sex and desire were marketed and sold. Our religions were a get rich scheme.
What if the old Gods had never gone away? What if they still required adjuration and sacrifice? We were too far removed from our roots to perform the task ourselves. Someone had seen a gap in the market, another way to monetise the natural order.
Cap needed a drink.
Clemens pulled up to a large, single story building. The ratchet of the handbrake interrupted Cap’s thoughts. This police station was out in the suburbs, quiet, bathed in orange light. A couple of blocky prison vans sat outside, along with a single patrol car.
A desk sergeant booked him in. More statements. He told them what he knew. Outside the windows, inside their cosy middle-class houses, people slept, unaware. Unaware of the gears that turned on their behalf, unaware of the workers who made their way through the dark streets to begin shifts, doing God- knew-what for God-knew-who.
Once his statements were completed, Clemens led him to an infirmary room, and left him there with doctor who guided him to a leather gurney. She took his temperature and blood pressure. Her eyes never focussed on him, as though he were an item - a tv or a computer - she was servicing.
“You’ve been in filthy canal water, with an open wound, so I’m just going to give you a shot.”
The needle was huge, and when she administered it, he swore he could feel cold liquid filtering through his blood vessels.
Cap lay back. The door opened, and Clemens re-entered, regarding him with those dark, almost black eyes. He sat down at the computer in the corner and began to type.
A weight washed over Cap, pinned his limbs down to the gurney leather. He tu
rned to the doctor, whose eyes now seemed to hold more compassion.
The door opened again, and the woman from the factory stepped into the room, the harsh illumination highlighting the sharpness of her cheekbones. Cap tried to move, to talk, to flee in panic, but his veins were filled with lead, and his vision was blurring around the edges.
She turned to Clemens. “Checked his background?”
“Yeah. Recently divorced, barfly, lives alone. No one will miss him.”
Panic welled inside Cap, but he was a prisoner in a fast-numbing cell of flesh. Inside, he thrashed and raved, but he couldn’t escape. A single tear rolled hot across his paralysed cheek.
His vision was darkening now. He remembered the only time he’d had an operation. The nurse asking if he knew his name, what he was there for, asking him to count down from ten, and by the time he reached five, all was black.
Clemens finished typing and turned to the woman. “How’s business?”
“We’ve smashed our quotas for first quarter. And we have the Monsanto harvest contract coming up.” She nodded over to him, “We can keep him on ice until then.”
“Once he’s out, we’ll load him up.”
Cap tried once more to jump from the gurney, but his fight or flight instinct had been overridden by whatever drug they’d administered.
The last terrified thought that passed through his mind lasted for about the count of five.
Footsteps
by Carol Stokes
What abundance springs in her wake?
***
Jake had counted three dead sheep, a couple of dogs and a dead cow floating down the canal and he'd only been standing there five minutes. He had almost spat out his spliff when he saw the cow. It was floating on its back, legs jutting out upwards, its belly bloated and a huge pink tongue hanging out its mouth. It was the funniest thing he'd seen all week.
Robbie had said it was because of all the rain. All the fields outside town had flooded and all the dead animals were the ones too stupid to get out the way.
Jake supposed it made sense. The shitty brown water of the canal had almost reached the top. At least all the extra water meant that it stank less.
Jake would have liked to stay a bit longer to see what else would float past. You didn't get much wild-life down the Hernebury Estate – rats and Staffies on steroids mainly, but the wind was beginning to blow again and it looked like it was going to piss down.
They walked away from the canal to Robbie's crapped out silver Renault Megane. He would have liked a proper motor but the piece of shit only cost 250 quid, and even Robbie could afford that.
It was parked in the litter-strewn weed-infested forecourt of a long-abandoned brown brick factory. Jake could just read out the lettering at the top ‘Browns Paper Factory Est. 1868’. Blank grimy windows, half of them broken, peered down at them.
It was all like that around here for as long as Jake could remember. Old Victorian factories that used to make shit for the railways, or work metal, or make fucking something. All closed decades ago, all as dead as this fucking town.
Robbie shivered. “Bit fucking nippy for June. Global warming, my arse. It feels like cunting December.”
“Wolverton's never been Tenerife, truth be told,” Jake replied.
Robbie laughed. “True enough.” He licked his lips. “We'll be warm soon though.”
Jake laughed loudly but he couldn't quite keep down the unease.
Muffled knocking came from the boot of the car. Jake looked down.
“Do you reckon we should crack it open a bit?”
“Nah, she'll be fine.”
They drove off, passing by factories long closed, then newer industrial and trading estates, mostly pre-fabs with metal roofs selling stuff for the building trade, the ones that were still open anyway. Now and then there'd be an IKEA or a Mattress World but nowhere that really made shit any more. Jake remembered just before finishing school about asking for an apprenticeship. The advisor had just laughed at him and asked “What in? Hairdressing?”
Jake sighed. There really was nothing in this town. Even the really shitty jobs had been grabbed by the Poles. They were welcome to them. Getting pissed and stoned with his mates and doing a little bit of larceny on the side, well that wasn't too bad. But most of all he liked to walk around on his own, especially in the posh parts of town with their big red detached houses, leafy trees and big gardens.
That's where he'd spotted her. In that private school Steve had almost got into. She'd been skipping along the pavement, no joke, skipping in her black blazer and her black, grey and white tartan skirt, school bag slung over one shoulder, a thin musical instrument type case on the other. He'd just stood there gaping at her and after that he'd couldn't keep away.
He'd mentioned it to Robbie who'd just grinned. “Well, let’s make sure you can get close and personal with her, then!”
They drove on. The rain was heavy, driven almost horizontal by the rising wind. The banging from the trunk was getting louder, and Robbie was sure that he could hear muffled sobs.
Robbie slapped the steering wheel with his left. “I fucking swear that if the bitch doesn't shut the fuck up, I'll smack her one.”
The banging grew louder.
“Shut the fuck up, you stupid cunting bitch, or I'll break your fucking jaw!” Robbie roared.
The banging subsided and the wind rose to a scream.
Jake's mouth went dry and his stomach churned. What the fuck had he been thinking?
***
Eve had been a taking short cut home from school after finishing her flute lesson when they took her. The air had been still but the air sweet with the smell of honeysuckle and cherry laurel coming from the two overgrown hedges flanking the lane on either side.
The sun had been shining, her senses filled with light, scent and the sound of bees, finches and blackbirds.
Then rough hands had grabbed her, flung her to the ground. The sound of harsh laughter as they bound and gagged her. The last thing she saw as they bundled her into the boot was the blueness of the sky, the last thing she felt was a calming breeze on her cheek. Then darkness, the feel of hard rubber beneath her and the smell of old oil in her nostrils.
She had tried to scream but the gag muffled them. She kicked against the sides of the boot until a voice - from the crueller, taller one, she thought - told her to be silent if she didn't want to get hurt.
So she lay still. Panic gave away to disbelief, then to horror as her mind dwelt on what they had planned for her.
A woman's voice whispered in her ear, powerful and calming, nurturing and warming: “Do not fear, my child. No harm will come to you.”
The boot filled with the smell of fresh grass and wild herbs, first frost and spring rain, budding flowers and autumn leaves.
Eve calmed and breathed in the freshness of the air.
***
They drove past the Goodyear Tyre factory. It had closed a couple of months back, and the only lights that came from the complex was from the security guard's blue portacabin in front of the two two-storey administration office. The low-lying sheds and buildings behind the high steel fence were dark and silent and no smoke rose from the blue chimney stack at the centre of the plant. In a few months there would be nothing there at all.
Jake gestured to the factory. “Uncle Bob used to work there.”
“Yeah?” Robbie replied distantly.
“Shame,” Jake replied undeterred. “Fuckall left open now. Chinese mate, buggered everything up. This country used to make shit once.”
Robbie glanced at him in disbelief. ”What the fuck's takeaway got to do with anything?”
Jake tried to tell him about what he saw on the telly the other day. How the Asians were taking all the jobs because they were happy to work for a bowl of rice and how globalling was fucking up normal working folk but his head was heavy from the dope he'd smoked and the two cans of strong lager he'd down
ed. So he shut up and watched the drab procession of terraced housing, cheap takeaways, pawn shops and closed factories flit on by. The driving rain splattered onto the door window, making the buildings blurred and soft, as if they were about to dissolve in the storm.
“Thank fuck she stopped all that banging. I was about ready to give her a slap,” Robbie muttered.
They drove off past other empty Victorian factories, past the building where some deluded hipsters had tried to set up a craft brewery. They'd given up after six months, probably not helped by the jokers who had got in one night and trashed the place.
“Pint? Staffordshire Volunteer?” Robbie suggested.
“Shouldn't we be getting to the woods,” Jake replied, even though that was the last place he wanted to go now.
“Plenty of time, Aidie and Karl won't get off their shift for another hour.”
“Fair enough.”
Robbie took a left and headed into the Bilbury Estate, a collection of pre-fab bungalows and red-bricked semi-detached and terraced council housing built after the war. Not the biggest shithole in Wolverton but not far off. It was home turf and the Staffordshire Volunteers was the nearest thing they had to a local. Why the fuck hadn't they just gone into town, Jake wondered?
They pulled into the pub's carpark. The sign was done like one of those old country pubs Jake had seen on the telly or when they were speeding down some country road. It showed some bloke in an old uniform and a big tall fuck-off hat holding a musket. But it was the only old thing about the pub. It was actually a light brown brick building with a flat roof built in the sixties. A couple of the windows were boarded up.
They walked in. It was a Wednesday night so it was pretty empty. There was Jim and Bill, who hadn't been out the place since Goodyear had closed and a couple of others guy who as far as Jake knew had never worked at all. There were also two of the rat boys used by the players to sling heroin in the estate on their tea break playing pool.
The one thing out of place was a group of guys and girls sitting around the table. They looked like students – you got them sometimes doing some kind of pub crawl. They never stayed long. Jake didn't blame them.
Whirling World Page 2