Posted by PK on November 06, 2001 at 19:21:01:
ALICIA
"This is where the processing actually happens," said the manager. His manner was carefully
neutral. If he intended to shock her, to 'gross her out', it would of course spoil the effect if he
was too obvious about it.
Alicia really didn't want to be here. She had only applied for the administrative position at
Eastern Foods because a degree in anthropology wasn't exactly a hot item in the world of
paying work and she needed the money. Bluntly, she was unemployed and pretty near broke.
Since she was intelligent and well educated it had not been difficult, despite the ineptitude of
the Euro-funded government sponsored training schemes she had been on, to aquire the
necessary skills to hold down a job as a glorified secretary and accountant to a firm of meat
packers. It hadn't hurt her chances that the post wasn't exactly sought after.
She held her expression as blank as the manager's as she looked down from her vantage on
the balcony - more a mezzanine floor - to the scene below.
Most of the women being processed were Asian, of course, but 'Eastern' wasn't exactly
accurate unless you count Polynesia and South America as being that.
I wonder what they do with the excess male population, Alicia thought. She wasn't aware
that she had vocalised it.
"Oh, there's a market for that too," the manager responded. "Smaller, but it's there. Not our
business, though. I suppose the rest of them spend more time shooting each other."
Callous and offhand though the remark was, the anthropologist in Alicia had to admit that he
had a point. Less women, more unchanneled aggression and competition. She knew , of
course, that since cannibalism became legal a lot of third world countries were selling off
their excess young women for much needed funds. She also knew that they were technically
volunteers, but since the consent forms were a matter for their own countries to handle she
couldn't help but wonder how willing these pathetic sacrifices to prosperity actually were. On
the other hand, it had to beat starving to death. Hang on to that, she told herself.
For a fact, it seemed that there was little deliberate cruelty involved. The workers handling
the women were - well, workmanlike. If they enjoyed what they were doing, they didn't let it
affect their performance. As if reading her mind, the manager spoke again.
"Don't worry," he said solicitously, "It's quite humane. Well, mostly. We have to gut some of
them alive, of course, it's more practical, but it doesn't really hurt if it's done properly."
Alicia let that go. She didn't see anyone being disembowelled alive, just women being
methodically butchered. They came in through a door in a line, like people queueing for a
position in a bank or the post office, and were led to tables by helpful workers. Their hair had
been cut short and some of them still seemed to be a little damp, as if from a recent shower.
Their expressions were generally downcast and resigned. With a seemingly heightened
clarity of perception, she noted that their bare feet left faint wet prints on the tiled floor. She
focussed on one, a young girl she mentally named Thea for no particular reason, because
she stumbled as she was led to her table. To Alicia's eyes the girl seemed angelically
beautiful, but a part of her mind assured her that she was nothing out of the ordinary.
She had dark eyes, wide with terror at the moment, neat virginal breasts, a thatch of
untamed hair between her unsteady legs. Cute nose, too.
The worker assisting her supported her by holding her arm and speaking to her soothingly
until she managed to climb up and lie down on the block. Alicia wondered if she understood a
word of it, but it seemed to work. Once she was settled, he picked up a tool, connected to the
mains by an industrial strength power lead, and held it to her head. She convulsed once and
was still. Then, with an array ot tools, powered and otherwise, he reduced her to cuts of
meat.
"We're a small business, but we're expanding," said the manager. "And we're learning as we
go. Of course, we need new equipment all the time, but...."
He blathered about grants and finances for some time, while Alicia tried to take it all in. She
felt a little sick.
"The next room is where we do the whole roasters," he burbled on. Taking Alicia by the arm,
he led her out and down a short corridor. "You'll want to see this..."
Alicia was no sentimental vegetarian, she had no patience with them. As far as she was
concerned, humans were omnivores, if we'd stuck to nuts and berries we'd still be hanging
from the branches trying to avoid the more aggresive species. Still, what she had seen
couldn't fail to have an impact. Those were real people being killed in there. She dealt with it
by going over the realities of the situation in her head, as effective a method of self control
as any she'd ever heard of. Get a grip, girl, she told herself. You knew what this was about.
You're not a kid to be freaked out by what you already knew. Take a deep breath and face it.
By the time they came out on a platform overlooking the second processing area, Alicia's
legs were steady and her stomach had reached an uneasy cease fire. The earthy
slaughterhouse smell didn't bother her, she wasn't squeamish, at least not in that way. She
hadn't gone through life believing that meat grew in plastic trays at the supermarket. She
could handle it.
The scene below was different from the last in several respects. The woman were led in as
before, but were shaved, if that was the word, by a blowtorch before being led to a line of
machines where they underwent the final processing.
"Doesn't that hurt?" she couldn't help saying.
"Not as much as you'd think," said the manager. Alicia couldn't remember his name for some
reason, even though he'd introduced himself less than an hour before. Was it really that little
time?
"We do give them a mild anaesthetic before the spit goes in. It's a shame we have to do that
while they're alive but..."
"I meant...um.. the burning..."
"Oh, hardly at all. They're still a bit damp, you see, and we've learned to use just the right
amount of heat....there were a few accidents at first," he shrugged apologetically, "but it's just
a skill, like sheep shearing. If it's done right, there's no real pain, and of course it's quicker
than shaving. I imagine that would hurt a lot if they got nicked."
"I imagine it would."
The manager nodded companionably, satisfied that he'd made his point.
"About the spitting, you said..?"
"Oh, yes, we do them alive because it's easier like that with the machines we use. They
weren't really designed for this sort of operation, it would be awkward to lift them on if they
were already dead."
"Not designed...? But.."
"For spitting women, yes, not for commercial use. We got them cheap from an American firm
that went bust overestimating the demand. They were designed for home use, but they're too
expensive for that. How many women is the average private individual going to spit and
cook?" He grinned at Alicia who smiled back, acknowledging the point. "Look, it's easier to
explain if you just watch one. I'll talk you through it. See that one over there?"
Alicia had found it difficult to focus on what was happening. It was easier to talk theory.
Nonetheless she followed the pointing finger to where a small girl, newly depilated, was being
led by the arm to one of the waiting machines with its attendant crew of two workers.
"They're adjustable for size, of course..."
The girl knelt on the platform. The brightwork of the device gleamed, it seemed like a bizarre
variation of an expensive excercise machine.
The operator positioned a spit so that it was level with the girl's anus.
"With some of them, it's easier to use the .. er.. vagina." A shrug. "It's a matter of judgement.
Once the heifer is in place.."
The academic in Alicia noted the dehumanising euphemism as distancing term, somehow
she was glad he hadn't said something like 'gook' or 'spic'. She wasn't sure why.
The second worker helped the girl keep her position as the mechanically driven spit
skewered her. The point exited through her mouth. Then a blade extending from the base of
the machine slit her belly and her guts slithered out into a trough. Her attendant severed
internal connections with a long, sharp knife.
"Worked that time," muttered the manager under his breath. "Sorry," he added to Alicia,
"That doesn't always work, the positioning....most of them just use the knife. Would you
believe those gadgets had a self activation switch?"
Alicia raised her eyebrows dutifully. She wasn't quite sure of the implication, but she
guessed. "You mean....?"
A nod. "They were designed so the woman could do it to herself. Some of them actually were
used that way, but not many. Not enough. Their loss, our gain. That's business for you."
"What happens to the entrails?"
"Good girl," said the manager, visibly pleased. "I can see you'll do well here. Don't worry.
they're not wasted. Some of the offal is human edible, the rest is processed as animal feed or
fertiliser. That's another department. Would you like to see that?"
"Not just this minute, thanks."
The spitted girl was now being lifted off the machine, her arms bound at the wrists and tied to
the body at the small of her back, and carried across the room, where she was set on a rack
along with several other newly gutted carcasses.
"Very convenient for easy handling, as you can see. They're shipped in cool vans - not
frozen, fresh killed is best and the customers prefer it - and delivered with the spit still in.
They're a standard size, so they fit right onto the frame of the roaster, hand turned or electric.
The spit itself can be returned for a small deposit refund or," he smiled at her knowingly, "a
slightly larger discount on their next purchase. Nothing wasted. Neat, eh?"
"Very efficient. Is she dead?"
"Oh, yes, I should think so. Shock and blood loss during the gutting usually takes care of that.
The trick is to keep them alive if the client wants one still breathing. That needs a special spit
and we don't usually gut them at all. Most live roasters are sold on the hoof, but a few we do
here for clients who don't want to do it themselves. We can't ship them far, of course. That
would be inhumane, and anyway they don't last very long."
"And the ones you sell al.. on the hoof?" She had already decided it would be wisest to adopt
the terms of the trade." The manager's shrewd glance showed he hadn't missed it. She would
also be wise not to underestimate him, she noted.
"We have a dormitory for them. By law, they're only shipped just prior to use, government
rules on humane handling. And against illegal slavery. You remember the row last year about
that?" It was half a question.
"About abuse of the consent law to use imported livestock as slave labour, yes. How do you
know the customer will..er..." She didn't recall hearing a euphemism for 'kill them'.
"We don't. They specify date of use on the order, we deliver on time, they sign for it. After
that it's not our concern.if they're not killed within the day, they're in violation, not us. Seen
enough here?"
"Yes, thanks." The manager turned to go and she followed him out.
"I'll show you the dormitory where we keep them until their orders come in."
"Sounds like fun," Alicia half muttered. The manager gave her a sharp look and then smiled
wryly.
"You think I'm trying to shock you, don't you?" He ignored her hesitation and let her off the
hook. "I am and I'm not. If you're going to work here, you need to know what's going on, and
you need to see it now. It's not just figures in a book."
"I quite understand," said Alicia, a little stiffly.
"No you don't, no offense. We made that mistake last time. Played it softly, softly. The girl
wasn't shown around, we didn't want to rub her nose in it. But she knew. Quiet little lass, and
very clever. We had her half trained when she had a nervous breakdown and left. We still
don't know what she saw that set her off, it could have been anything. Maybe it just preyed
on her mind until she snapped. It would have been better for us, and kinder to her, if she'd
had the tour, even if she ran out screaming after half an hour. Now do you see?"
"Yes I do," said Alicia, "and you're right. Sorry."
"No need. It wanted saying and now it's been said. If you want to go, go now, better than
wasting my time and yours." There was no heat in the matter-of-fact challenge.
"I'm staying."
"Good for you. Now let's get on."
Alicia followed him down a short flight of stairs, down another corridor and through a door.
They emerged in a dimly lit boxlike room with darkened windows at the far end. The manager
gestured her across to join him. The reason for the arrangement struck her just as he spoke
again.
"One way glass. We can watch from here without alarming then."
It seemed a oddly ambiguous bit of consideration, keeping an eye on the merchandise but
not rubbing their noses in it. Alicia's nose wrinkled at the metaphor. In the back of her mind
she had anticipated rows of box stalls with naked women lying on straw in their own ordure.
What she saw as her eyes adjusted was nothing like that. The large room below and in front
of them was filled with neat rows of beds. Spartan, perhaps, but clean enough. It resembled a
barracks more than a barn, or perhaps a large dormitory in a youth hostel, apart from an
space at one end with some chairs and a low table. Young women were sitting on the beds or
standing and talking in groups. Some of them were reading old magazines, others watched a
television set in one corner of the lounge area. They were dressed in assorted cheap
clothing, all clean. A few wore a toga-like garment that must have been mass produced.
"We keep them comfortably clothed and fed, of course. The clothes are mostly second hand,
for those who don't come with any. We reuse them until they're too worn, then throw them
out and replace them."
"They seem very calm," said Alicia. The women did indeed seem oddly unmoved by their
situation. A few appeared dull and resigned, but many of them were quite animated, chatting
as if this was nothing out of the ordinary. They might have been in the marketplace. She
winced at the unintended irony of the thought.
"Why do you think that is?"
Aha. A test.
"Not drugs?" Alicia tried, just to eliminate the obvious.
"No." He smiled.
"I suppose," she ventured, "if they're going to get hysterical they'd have done it by now. On
the way over."
"Yes, good, and?"
And what? Alicia went blank. A test. Have you been paying attention. Of course, it was
obvious. "The first room!" she blurted.
"Well done. Yes, any remaining screamers go straight to the abattoir."
Alicia hadn't seen anything like that. She assumed it was rare, or the 'screamers' were
sedated first. Another thought occurred to her and popped out before she could stop it.
"Do they get any excercise?"
"Oh, yes. There's a large field at the back of the building. They can go out for fresh air, even
play sports if they want to or know how. There are adequate sanitary facilities and plain but
nourishing food. Stews, mostly, but more than ample and often better than they're used to."
Alicia believed it. There was no obvious abuse here, beyond the mental torment of knowing
they could be taken out and turned into somebody's party roast at any time. Was that worse
than starving? Watching their families starve? A part of her noticed the need to rationalise
and was put on alert. Did concentration camp guards get used to it as all in a days work? But
the analogy was faulty and she knew it.
"I think we've see enough for now. Still interested?"
"Yes."
"Excellent. Come back to the office and we'll sort out the paperwork."
Back in her small flat, Alicia put the package on the kitchen table and stared at it. The
manager - Dave - had handed it to her just before she left. She didn't have to ask what it
was.
"Vegetarian, are you?" he'd asked.
"No."
"Then try this." He gave her what was obviously a cut of fresh meat, wrapped in plain
butcher's paper, that another worker had come in and given him while they were talking.
Alicia had wondered ar the time if it was his dinner.
"You can throw it away as soon as you're out of here if you like," he had said, "but if you'll
take my advice you'll eat it. If you don't, you'll always wonder." The words had stayed with
her.
The rest of the interview, coming back from the dormitory and in the office, had gone
smoothly. Alicia had even been spared the embarrassment of forgetting the manager's name
before she had to use it. It was clearly visible on the office door, 'David Harding'. They had
covered the few remaining points with dispatch.
Bluntly, he had asked her, "Why do you want to work here?"
"I need the money." She wasn't much good at lying and knew it would be a bad move to try to
dress it up. It wouldn't impress Mr. Hardcastle.
"Good answer." A smile. "The starting salary's not much but if you're any good it will get
better. I started this business with a bit of capital, most of it borrowed, and an idea. That's it.
I'm no good at numbers, really, I'm an ideas man." He grinned at her carefully blank face.
"Yes, I know. 'Ideas man', useless bugger with no real skills or common sense and a mortal
fear of hard work. Cooks up hare-brained schemes between dole cheques, right?"
Alicia started to flush but she had to laugh.
"What we need is somebody to keep the numbers straight. We could hire an accountant and
pay through the nose, or we can get somebody bright like you who's willing to learn the job
and work hard. I don't care if your degree's in anthropology or astronomy. Can you do the job,
that's what matters."
"I just thought..."
"What?"
"If you want somebody new, fine, I see that. But you can get graduates in economics...."
A snort. "I could hire a witch doctor too."
"....or accountancy."
"Do you do comedy? I don't need somebody who expects to be paid the Earth to tell me how
to fiddle my taxes. Look, I'll show you the books - it's all on computer really - and you tell
me."
For the next hour the talk had all been of money, schedules, databases and thrilling stuff like
that. Alicia had no trouble concentrating on it, she was no stranger to mental discipline. In the
end it came down to one thing.
"Can you do it?"
"Yes, I think so."
"Will you stick with it?" All right, two things.
"Yes."
"Good lass." He stood up and offered his hand. "See you Monday, nine o'clock sharp."
Sh eshook it firmly. "Thank you Mr. Harding."
"Call me Dave."