Christopher Leppek - Abattoir

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.