Story: SB015 The Conveyor Belt


Posted by Sawney Beane on May 03, 2006 at 23:14:09:

The Collected Works of Sawney Beane: Volume #15

THE CONVEYOR BELT

by Sawney Beane

25 August 1994

1,285 words

DISTRIBUTION NOTICE and DISCLAIMER: Sawney Beane requests that any distribution of this work of fiction remain within the realm of social responsibility. This story is suitable neither for minors nor for the seeming majority of adults who have difficulty distinguishing fantasy from reality. It is pure fantasy, which means that, for whatever reason, someone has found it interesting to think about the events depicted herein. It does not in any way mean that the author would like to see this fantasy become reality, so if you are the type of person who might be swayed into doing something irrational by reading a work of fiction, the author respectfully requests that you decline to read further.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Sawney Beane, originally a native of Edinburgh, lived for twenty-five years in a cave on the coast of County Galloway, subsisting on the flesh of unfortunate travellers, roughly a thousand of them all told. He and his wife raised a large family of eight sons, six daughters, eighteen grandsons, and fourteen granddaughters. Eventually, the family was captured, and the whole lot was brutally and unjustifiably tortured and executed without trial. Since his death in the early 17th century, Beane has reformed his ways and now confines his atrocities to his literary endeavours.

WARNING: This story contains scenes of non-consensual female snuff for the purposes of cannibalism. If you find such things offensive, please steer clear; you have been warned.

AUTHOR'S NOTES: This is a very brief story that is in some ways very similar and in some ways very dissimilar to my other stories. One of the things that I aim for in writing a story is to thoroughly explore the thoughts and motives of the people involved. This story can be seen as a psychological photograph of a woman in a very unenviable position. The hint of a plot and its justification are fairly inconsequential in comparison with the girl's thoughts and fears as her fate unfolds all too quickly.
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Click, click, click, click, click, fwoomph! Several dozen female screams rose into the air around Karen. She herself remained silent with her eyes tightly shut. She opened one eye just enough to read the large numeral "5" painted on the ceiling above her. She closed it again before the conveyer belt began to move slowly onward.

Karen opened her eyes and, having nothing better to do, thought about the conveyor belt. It was actually two conveyor belts moving together. The smaller one supported Karen's head, while the larger one carried the remainder of her body. Fortunately for her, the two moved at exactly the same speed.

The conveyor belt stopped, and Karen looked at the large numeral "4" painted above her. She closed her eyes and girded herself for the horrible sound. Click, click, click, click, click, fwoomph! Karen was the only woman in the long line of the conveyor belt who did not scream. The general terror settled down to a background level of sobs and sniffles. The conveyor belt moved on.

Karen was unable to see the women strapped three feet away from her on either side. A rough leather strap connected to the conveyor belt pressed painfully into her forehead and completely immobilized her head. She did not care to look anyway. Similar straps secured her chest, wrists, ankles, and waist. She was, of course, completely nude, having been forced to surrender her clothing and jewellery three days earlier when she checked into Harvesting Station 5710. Karen could not get used to the vulnerability she felt without her clothes. She had good reasons to be afraid. Click, click, click, click, click, fwoomph! Karen looked up at the numeral "3" above her as her peers screamed and cried.

Karen ached from her bondage. Memories floated back to her from nearly two hours earlier when she had been tightly secured to the conveyor belt under the number "25" painted on the ceiling. Since that time, she had been moved to a lower number every five minutes. Her countdown was nearing its end. Most of the sobbing was now to her right, and the horrible noise grew louder each time on her left.

Still Karen did not cry. It was not that she enjoyed her situation. She could think of none worse. But, unlike her peers, she did not want to vainly protest her immutable fate. She'd known that this would happen on this day since she was born. What good was screaming now? Still, it became more and more difficult to concentrate on pleasant experiences. Her mind drifted irresistibly toward the number "0" on the ceiling near her. Click, click, click, click, click, fwoomph! The numeral "2" loomed above her, and screams filled her ears.

As a Food Grade human, Karen had envied the potential longevity of her siblings and friends for as long as she could remember. The Food Grade classification was the government's solution to overpopulation and food-shortages. At the time of Karen's birth, every tenth child born in each hospital was assigned Food Grade status. Twenty years later, three out of every ten babies became Food Graders. Before she had left the hospital at three days age, the date of her twentieth birthday had been tattooed below her navel. This sign marked her as future food and denoted the day of her conversion from human to meat. As she grew, she was required to have her mark redrawn every five years. It was still there, but she knew she would never see it again.

Click, click, click, click, click, fwoomph! Karen's mind shot to an image of the pretty girl who had stood in front of her in line throughout the morning. When the screams had died down, Karen realized that all of the sobs were coming from the right of her. She stared up at the numeral "1" as the conveyor belt began to move once again. Her chest felt very hollow.

Karen closed her eyes tightly and remembered the words of the neatly-dressed man, "The people of the United States of America and the State of California thank you from the bottom of their hearts for your invaluable sacrifice for the good of the nation and of the world." It was not as if she had any choice in the matter. The conveyor belt stopped, and Karen saw, upon opening her eyes, a large "0" painted on the ceiling above her. Much closer and more menacing, a large stainless steel blade hung above her neck. It dripped with the blood of a thousand Food Grade women. Karen squeezed her eyes shut and vowed never to open them again.

Click. Karen thought of all the disassembly lines in the building. There was the one she was strapped to, which processed female Food Grade humans between five and a half and six feet tall. Others existed for male Food Graders and for women of different sizes. How many people were lying beneath a rising steel blade at that very moment? Karen remembered that she and all the other Food Grade women around her had been treated to a small portion of human flesh as a last meal on the previous evening. She had never tasted human flesh before. She had to admit that it was quite tasty, but the whole episode had haunted her. What had that woman been thinking as the shiny blade had begun its rise above her fragile neck?

Click. She thought of her long black hair, which she had long prided herself on. It had been cut short early that morning. Her head had felt unusually light and unrestrained until the leather strap had been secured around her forehead. She missed her hair. She wondered where it was now and what would become of it.

Click. Karen thought of the zipper-like separation of the two conveyor belts beyond station zero. In less than a minute, her head would follow its conveyor belt away from the torso conveyor belt. Both pieces would travel down the line for further disassembly. She and the other Food Grade women had been shown the entire process from the observation windows overlooking the plant floor. It seemed a rather cruel thing to show them this, but her curiosity had forced her to look the whole thing over. Karen wondered who was watching her now. What women were witnessing her death as she had looked upon with morbid interest the death of a cute blonde girl a few hours earlier?

Click. Karen reflected on how important this moment was to her, while the other women strapped to the conveyor belt had an entirely different significant moment. Furthermore, the moment could hardly be interesting to the harvesting station's employees, who oversaw the disassembly of a woman every five minutes, twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, on this disassembly line alone. Like all the rest, Karen was about to be broken down into a hundred-odd pieces and distributed to grocery stores. Each packaged body part would bear her name, photograph, and the address of her parents. Within a week, a hundred thank-you notes would arrive at her parents' home praising her tenderness and good taste. It was considered very rude to consume a person without sending a proper thank-you note.

Click. A drop of liquid fell from a great height and struck Karen's neck. Her stomach and chest felt painfully empty. Her toes and nipples tingled. A hot feeling filled her head. Her taut neck began to itch, and she felt an incredible pressure over her entire body. Her dry throat could not produce a scream as her body overruled her mind and attempted to cry out in its last second of life.

Fwoomph!