Christopher Leppek - Abattoir

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.

Anna held out her hand to the apparition and smiled.

“Rupert,” she said quietly. “It’s okay.”

A wisp of a smile appeared on the boy’s face, as if the sound of Anna’s voice comforted him—as if he hadn’t truly heard his name spoken by a human voice in a very, very long time.

His arm slowly extended, he accepted Anna’s hand and placed his in hers. Su Ling watched as her daughter’s hand enveloped what appeared to be an insubstantial shape, but the girl had no reaction to show that anything was out of the ordinary.

Anna led the boy further on, toward the old man who still stood, confused and frightened, by her side. As the boy neared, the old man began to shake. His eyes grew large, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps.

Cantrell was the first to see it. The eyes of the boy and the old man were identical—sharp and intensely blue, with a shape that was unmistakably the same.

The old man began to back away, the boy’s face reflecting a similar fear.

“It’s okay, Rupert,” Anna said, smiling at each in turn.

She brought them closer together.

“Don’t be afraid.”

At last, they allowed their hands to touch, their blue eyes to make contact.

Recognition flooded their features; not that of two people long parted, but of a self divorced from self.

A mutual self.

It was a coming together, after an eternity of separation—a powerful déjà vu, but grounded in reality. A body and a soul—forced apart by fear—reunited by a little girl’s love.

The boy’s shimmering slowed, then stopped. The confused and lost expression on the old man’s face was replaced by serenity and awareness, and something that looked like joy.

They melded together, the larger, corporeal body of the old man absorbing the smaller, ethereal, form of the boy.

Su Ling began to weep when she saw the two of them become one, finally understanding what was unfolding.

Cantrell held her tightly in his arms, trembling as he shared her understanding.

Anna’s smile grew wider. She’d done what needed to be done, and it felt good.

Behind them, unnoticed at first, the gray pall began to lift. In its place reappeared the familiar environment of the Exeter’s conference room.

The joining now completed, the old man—and the spirit that the young boy had returned to him—took one deep breath. The wide smile on his face mirrored that of Anna.