V.

  • Part 5

  • 11:11:20 pm on November 5, 2009 | # | 44

    The old oil refinery stands against the evening sky; a monolithic structure whose rust covered metal pipes and tanks scratch at the horizon. Some tanks have been patched with riveted and welded pieces of scrap metal. The pipes are joined with retro-fitted plastic tubing and PVC pipe leading to four large metal structures converted from prefabricated metal buildings.

    In front of the refinery is a pair of large metal doors built in to the ground. John backs his truck up to the doors and stops the truck. He jumps from the cab of the truck and grunts as he hits the dirt.

    “I’m getting too old for this shit.” He mutters to himself as he walks to the doors and pulls one of them open. A horrible stench wafts out and nearly drives him back. He gags and holds his shirt over his mouth as he opens the other door.

    “Can’t we get someone to clean this fucking thing out every once in a while?” He says as he steps back.

    Below the ground, the stainless steel corpse grinder awaits; its metal blades caked in gore and clotted hair. Just inside the door is a small metal lever. John pulls it and the blades spin to life, shedding its rotten sludge and revealing razor sharp teeth.

    He moves to his truck and pulls another lever, the bin of the truck arcs forward until it is on its end. He pulls a pin and the back of the bin opens. Putrefied bodies fall from the truck and into the grinder.

    John peers in the machine as the bodies are quickly mangled and reduced to a thick rust colored slurry. Chunks of severed limbs and bloated organs float to the surface and are occasionally sucked back down in the swirling liquid.

    As he watches the mix, the guard at the gate approaches him.

    “Hey asshole.”

    John turns around and finds himself face to face with the angry guard. He doesn’t flinch

    “The Engineer wants to see you.”

    John reaches into his coat and pulls out a hand-rolled cigar.

    “Of course he does.”

    The guard stares him down, expecting an apology or some degree of respect. John lights his cigar with the battered silver Zippo he’s had since he started smoking when he was thirteen. He exhales a cloud of blue smoke into the guards face before growling at him:

    “Get back to the fucking gate.”

    The guard sneers and walks away. John turns back to his work.

    When the last body falls in, he pulls another lever on the truck. Its pneumatic system whines as the bin lowers back down onto the chassis of the truck. John kicks the doors shut and walks over to a small brick building next to the refinery.

    Bookmark and Share
     

Comments


Leave a Comment

You must be logged in to post a comment.