supervision, wandered into the grinding cogs of a crane rig.
Schneider stared, until a more urgent thought bubbled to the base of his skull. With his team’s overseer—and his horrifying charge—heading rapidly towards the accident, there was nobody watching him. This was his chance to run.
Without another glance at the overseer, or at the looming glow of the rendering plant, he loped into the dark as quickly as his trembling legs would allow. Not a single head turned to watch him leave—every sad, opalescent eye was fixed on the fire ahead.
The roar of the furnaces, the monotonous shuffle of dead feet on metal, the slow rasping of the fat-slab, all faded beneath the slapping of his bare feet, the rumble of the ever-present thunder, and—louder every moment—the quiet, vast crash of waves.
He had no idea where he was running to, but anywhere had to be better than the vision of Hell that awaited the haulage team. He willed himself onwards and out of the light, before an overseer could turn and see him making a break for it.
Then he remembered; the fallen corpse. The poor wretch that had been dragged down by the scissoring jaws of the shark-thing, that had not even looked back as its leg was savaged. Crouching against a flaking iron wall, Schneider looked back to see if it had gotten back to its feet.
It had not. Alone on the darkened ground, the dead thing sat on its haunches as the haulers passed it by, arm extended as if for assistance, head swinging as if looking for something.
Its eyes met Schneider’s; its head stopped moving. For a long moment it stared, as the rain fell in light sheets around it. Could it see him, out at the edge of the furnace lights? If it could, did it have any conception of him as another being? Was it just a broken rack of meat, or was it every bit as conscious as him?
The possibility was overwhelming. With the image of those bodies broken against the wheels of the crane still fresh in his mind, the hopeless, withered faces of the flensing mob, there was no way he could leave it there, maimed and lonely. Bitingly aware that anything could be looking his way, Schneider ran back out into the glare of the floodlights, towards the huddled body.
The rain fell heavier as he knelt beside the cadaver, sinking on shaking legs until his eyes were level with its own.
“Can you hear me?” he whispered, straining to speak with lips like salted slugs. The dead thing’s mouth hung open, wordless, arm still extended as if it was reaching to pluck its own words from an indistinct cloud.
Schneider repeated the question, the words coming more firmly with practice, and was answered with a low bubbling sound—the thing’s chest was punctured just left of centre, a bruised black slot that gurgled as its mouth gaped for an answer.
The jaw closed with a slow hiss that might have been frustration, and the dull grey eyes slid shut in a slow blink. When they opened again, there was no illusion of contact—they were looking through him, to somewhere beyond the dark.
Off to the side, with a stuttering roar, Schneider heard the gears of the gantry crane come to life, presumably free of its abhuman blockage. The triumphant bass yell of an overseer answered it, a guttural prayer of thanks to industry renewed, and the familiar clatter and hiss of the flensing work resumed.
The giant and his monster would be returning any moment, and he was right out in the gaze of the floodlights. There was no more time to wait for a response from the wretched thing: he had to get back to the darkness. No matter how hard he wanted it to be otherwise, Schneider thought as he struggled to his feet, it seemed he was the only one here with a mind of his own.
Turning to face the dark, he made it one step before a cold hand clamped around his calf. He jerked away on impulse, panic surging down his spine like frozen slush forced down a hosepipe, and twisted to find the face of the dead thing staring up into his, teeth grey and
Schneider stared, until a more urgent thought bubbled to the base of his skull. With his team’s overseer—and his horrifying charge—heading rapidly towards the accident, there was nobody watching him. This was his chance to run.
Without another glance at the overseer, or at the looming glow of the rendering plant, he loped into the dark as quickly as his trembling legs would allow. Not a single head turned to watch him leave—every sad, opalescent eye was fixed on the fire ahead.
The roar of the furnaces, the monotonous shuffle of dead feet on metal, the slow rasping of the fat-slab, all faded beneath the slapping of his bare feet, the rumble of the ever-present thunder, and—louder every moment—the quiet, vast crash of waves.
He had no idea where he was running to, but anywhere had to be better than the vision of Hell that awaited the haulage team. He willed himself onwards and out of the light, before an overseer could turn and see him making a break for it.
Then he remembered; the fallen corpse. The poor wretch that had been dragged down by the scissoring jaws of the shark-thing, that had not even looked back as its leg was savaged. Crouching against a flaking iron wall, Schneider looked back to see if it had gotten back to its feet.
It had not. Alone on the darkened ground, the dead thing sat on its haunches as the haulers passed it by, arm extended as if for assistance, head swinging as if looking for something.
Its eyes met Schneider’s; its head stopped moving. For a long moment it stared, as the rain fell in light sheets around it. Could it see him, out at the edge of the furnace lights? If it could, did it have any conception of him as another being? Was it just a broken rack of meat, or was it every bit as conscious as him?
The possibility was overwhelming. With the image of those bodies broken against the wheels of the crane still fresh in his mind, the hopeless, withered faces of the flensing mob, there was no way he could leave it there, maimed and lonely. Bitingly aware that anything could be looking his way, Schneider ran back out into the glare of the floodlights, towards the huddled body.
The rain fell heavier as he knelt beside the cadaver, sinking on shaking legs until his eyes were level with its own.
“Can you hear me?” he whispered, straining to speak with lips like salted slugs. The dead thing’s mouth hung open, wordless, arm still extended as if it was reaching to pluck its own words from an indistinct cloud.
Schneider repeated the question, the words coming more firmly with practice, and was answered with a low bubbling sound—the thing’s chest was punctured just left of centre, a bruised black slot that gurgled as its mouth gaped for an answer.
The jaw closed with a slow hiss that might have been frustration, and the dull grey eyes slid shut in a slow blink. When they opened again, there was no illusion of contact—they were looking through him, to somewhere beyond the dark.
Off to the side, with a stuttering roar, Schneider heard the gears of the gantry crane come to life, presumably free of its abhuman blockage. The triumphant bass yell of an overseer answered it, a guttural prayer of thanks to industry renewed, and the familiar clatter and hiss of the flensing work resumed.
The giant and his monster would be returning any moment, and he was right out in the gaze of the floodlights. There was no more time to wait for a response from the wretched thing: he had to get back to the darkness. No matter how hard he wanted it to be otherwise, Schneider thought as he struggled to his feet, it seemed he was the only one here with a mind of his own.
Turning to face the dark, he made it one step before a cold hand clamped around his calf. He jerked away on impulse, panic surging down his spine like frozen slush forced down a hosepipe, and twisted to find the face of the dead thing staring up into his, teeth grey and
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