by
Paul Williams
Mbau was sick on the night before she started work.
She didn't tell anyone. Her parents were asleep and the infant wasn 't going to betray her. By morning the green vomit would have soaked into the grass, leaving no trace.
Whilst outside she had contemplated running away but knew the situation had to be faced first. It needn 't be as bad as she imagined and, if it was, there would be other opportunities. If you did a difficult job we ll then better employers would find you.
That was the philosophy.
In truth the older members of the community were sti ll doing difficult jobs, partly because birth rates had gone down and there were fewer youngsters arriving to take on the essential tasks. The other reason was the growth in machines that could do work previously done by paid employees.
Nobody had invented a machine that could ki ll people.
Throughout her childhood Mbau had expected to be put on transport. That was where her father started, making paths and clearing woodland so that the most civilised species on the planet could go anywhere on the planet. Then came a day when was sufficient transport and no more paths to make or woodlands to clear.
In addition to making machines the big firms began importing slaves, who were exempt from wages, to do tasks that they would previously have paid their own people for.
Now some of the community were working as slaves, doing some of the jobs that slaves could never do. Like killing the humans.
Except it wasn 't really killing. The animals had to be slaughtered. The community had to be fed. Mbau saw the logic in that and she enjoyed human meat as much as anyone else but the idea of slitting their throats and hanging their feeble bodies upside down until the blood ran out simply terrified her. She didn 't even like killing insects and had hated hunting dogs with her father.
But she had never quit anything. And, now more than ever, her parents needed her. Mom couldn 't work until the infant had finished weaning and Dad was struggling with the meagre income he got on the farm. Other children of farm workers had gone to the slaughter house before. Most hated it but a few boasted of their enjoyment. The employment gave them an outlet for their frustration.
It was less than a thirty minute walk to the gates then another thirty minutes past there before the buildings were reached. The slaughter-house manager advised his employees not to walk to work, failing to realise that he didn 't pay them enough to use public transport.
Mbau walked, the suns beating down on her dark skin. It would be hotter inside the abattoir but showers were provided. Fresh water to remove the blood but surely not the memories. The outward journey was uphi ll , coming back she would accelerate on the slopes. She would probably want to run away.
When she reached the gates a security guard was outside collecting flowers that someone had discarded. He looked suspiciously at her until she stuck out her arm and showed him the tag that denoted her as an official worker. It had hurt when the manager had taped it on but now she didn 't feel anything.
“New?” he said.
She nodded and found the courage to ask him about the flowers.
“Sympathy,” he said. “The protestors leave them.”
“Protestors ?” Nobody had mentioned these before.
“Those who think that the humans shouldn 't be killed. I'm told that they make good pets. For the people who have enough slaves.” He la ug hed. “I'll never be able to afford one though.”
Nor would she. Not on the wages paid there. He opened the gates for her and she walked through, thinking about pets. Would humans prefer that, if they were capable of thinking? Some of the city dwellers had three or four installed in their luxury homes. They dressed them, exercised them, fed them and, when death came, cremated them. Were those humans the lucky ones? Or did the lucky ones become slaves, working without pay or sleep to satisfy the depraved needs of a despised master or mistress. Watching their owner eat relatives and friends.
It felt colder as she walked down the stony path from the gate to the abatoir . The humans were driven here in trucks; she had seen one arriving on the day of her interview. It had railings on top like the prison and execution vehicles. Sma ll humans could escape through the bars but would not survive along in the heat. They didn 't know then that they were coming here to die.
The abattoir itself was sma ll . There were two buildings. The first contained the showers plus changing rooms where you had to put on special overalls and the offices. Smart modern offices with sound-proof walls. There was a connecting walkway into the slaughter building. There you despatched the humans. She hadn 't watched it as the manager said it disturbed the staff to know that they were being observed.
Mbau wondered if it disturbed the humans too. There were rumours of i ll -treatment, a contradiction in terms surely. Could there be such a thing as a painless death. She had never seen anyone die, except on television. Her grandparents were sti ll alive. She went to the communal funerals, preying and thinking about the person but it felt unreal.
She stood outside the building, seeking courage to enter. The decision was taken for her when a ta ll female opened the door and dragged her in. “Welcome to the mad house,” she said. Mbua didn't know her.
“I'm not from your community. The name's Micola . Came here for work, there isn 't even a slaughterhouse in my community.”
Mbau introduced herself. Micola was a couple of years older but seemed less intelligent. She talked a lot. Mbau listened with interest, keen to broaden her horizons. Her father said that work was all about making contacts. The people you befriend and please are the ones who will befriend and please you at a later date. Simple advice.
Micola poured her a class of water, there was a small rest room but no food was provided or permitted. Gradually the room filled up with the other workers, there were forty on each shift and half of them arrived at the last minute. A bell sounded summoning them to the changing rooms where the white aprons awaited. Mbau was unsure which one to take until Micola guided her to a peg. “There's a laundry chute before you go into the rest room,” she said. “Just shove it in there afterwards.”
Then the doors to the slaughter room opened and they went through to wait. Mbau was scared now. She hadn 't expected to wait for the humans and kept looking up at the ceiling which had two transparent glass slits in it to admit sunlight. The holes were big enough to take gas pellets or bullets from a sniper perched on the roof. Only for use in emergencies. Gas polluted the meat and the bullet left a nasty residue.
She had to stop thinking of the humans as people but couldn 't imagine the tall bipeds as the slices on her dinner plate. They were cut so finely by the blades that leant against the wall, pristine clean now but blood red soon.
“I'll do the first one,” said Micola. “You'll have your own targets soon but today just stick with me.”
She nodded, still apprehensive but ready.
Then the doors opened and the humans came in.
There were about sixty of them, all moving reluctantly. The doors closed behind them. She saw a blur of male, female and child faces staring at her. Pleading. Some were whimpering with fear.
Behind her others of her race were moving forward, grabbing a human each. Micola seized one of the noisy ones. She realised afterwards that it made sense to kill the frightened first. Stop them panicking more.
Some of the humans were vomiting. She smelt urine as well and felt sick. Forcing herself to look at Micola she saw her new friend attacking a human with a blade. It went straight through his body then Micola forced it upwards and sideways before lifting the corpse from the blade and throwing it against the far wall.
The female in Mbau's arms whimpered. Mbau looked down at her, feeling the fine air brushing against her arms. She saw the blade press against the human's back and lifted it. Micola was watching her whilst holding another human. A male. Was it easier to kill the males? Could she let this one go? It looked too young to have given birth, perhaps it was younger than her. She could release it. Give it a chance to experience life.
The cries and howls around her intensified as did the stench of death.
“I know,” whispered Micola. “If you can't do it just go. The money isn 't everything.”
But it was. She needed it. Could the human be trained to support her parents whilst Mbau went to another community for different work.
Micola had come here because there was no work anywhere else.
It was kill the humans or watch her own family die slowly.
No choice but she couldn't do it. Just couldn't.
Micola moved closer. Was she going to help set the human free or kill it first.
Mbau's grip tightened. The human was still but tears were dripping from its mouth onto Mbau's arm as it stared at the pools of blood and listened to the death throes of its friends.
She couldn't kill it.
The varmint bit her.
Sharp teeth drawing blood. She released her grip and the human bounded for the door.
Mbau slashed out with the blade. The human went down. She cut it again, piercing the stomach then going to the side. Just as she had been shown. Micola was laughing as Mbau moved onto the next human and brought the blade flashing down again.
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