Anna and the stranger stood before them, one regarding the scene with open expectation, the other absolute horror.
The struggle between the conference room and whatever lay beyond it was becoming decisive. The conference room, which represented the now, was surrendering to that which was then.
Cantrell knew what it was as soon as it began to appear. What else could it be?
The Exeter was reclaiming itself before their eyes, taking on its true identity.
The abattoir.
No longer were the trappings of the now visible. In their place were stained brick walls, concrete beams, steel hoists and lifts, dimpled steel floors.
So that they can’t slip in the blood, Cantrell thought.
The industry of death lay before them. Five or six men were working in the room, all clothed in heavy boots and rubber overalls. They walked by the intruders as if they didn’t exist. They shouted commands and instructions to each other. One of them, the stub of a cigar in his mouth, barked orders to “keep ‘em movin, keep ‘em movin!”
The intruders watched the assembly line precision in horrified silence.
From the left, a queue of longhorn steers were being forced forward through a long fenced chute, rising from somewhere below. The sounds that came from them made it clear that they knew—in their instinctive way—exactly what was happening. Exactly what was about to happen to them.
The steer at the top of the chute was forced into a narrow enclosure, open for the moment at both ends. First, the rear door, through which the animal entered, was closed behind it. Then, at the front end of the enclosure, a wooden wall—guillotine-like—consisting of two parts, was brought together, forming an opening around the animal’s neck, isolating and locking the head.
The worker standing before the wide-eyed animal raised his burly arm, striking the steer’s head with the sledgehammer clutched in his hands.
It was a sickening thud, and the intruders could hear the cracking of bone. Su Ling cried out when she heard it, but nobody seemed to notice.
The animal slumped within the confines of the chute.
A second worker, to the side of the enclosure, pulled a lever, dropping the floor at a sharp angle, and opening the side of the enclosure. The sound it made was eerily reminiscent of the wooden report made by a falling trapdoor on a scaffold. The stunned animal quickly slid down the sharply angled wood and slumped to the concrete floor. The man went to his knees, wrapping a blood-stained chain around the steer’s hindquarters.
The worker was a man in his mid-forties, tall and barrel-chested, a large and full mustache adorning his sweaty face. When the old stranger, still clutching Anna’s hand, saw that face, he started and made a little sound in his throat, the first sound they had heard him make. Oblivious to the pervasive violence before them, he stared fixedly into the eyes of this man.
The worker rose to his feet, placing his hands on another chain hanging from above. He pulled hard on it, ratcheting it up a pulley, link by link. The steer began to rise, hindquarters first, high into the cavernous room. The man then dragged the body along a conveyer system somewhere above, pulling it to the side of the room where his workmate waited, glistening knife clutched and ready.
When the steer reached him, the animal—its legs still twitching—was suspended over a large steel-grated drain and lowered to within a few feet of the floor. The third worker raised the animal’s head and deftly sliced its throat with one powerful stroke of the blade.
Blood gushed from the steer’s throat into the drain in a steamy cascade, some of it escaping onto the floor, spattering the worker’s already stained overalls.
When it was finally drained, the carcass was moved efficiently along the conveyor into an adjacent room, where the butchery would take place.
In the chute, the next victim was already prepared for its execution.
“Oh my God,” Su Ling whispered, pressing her face into Cantrell’s chest, as the knife did its deadly work. Cantrell, feeling the bile rise in his throat, held her tightly, looking down at the blood-washed floor.
Anna remained motionless, her eyes open in what might have been shock. But she did not blink nor look away. She stood there, unflinching, holding the hand of the old stranger, facing the horror before them, refusing to retreat in the face of fear.
The routine mechanism of death went on. Another steer was shoved into the enclosure, the chute door closed behind it. The first worker raised his sledge, but hesitated. Looking to his left, he smiled, shouting to the second worker: “Hey Garth! Look who brought you lunch!”
The second worker peered around the enclosure and smiled as his son entered the room through a side door.
The young boy, sandy-haired, dressed in denim overalls, plaid shirt and canvas sneakers, entered the killing floor, standing well to the side, aware that he wasn’t supposed to be here. He smiled as his striking blue eyes regarded his father across the room.
“Thanks, Rupert!” the man shouted. “I’ll be over in a couple of minutes.”
“Okay, daddy,” he said, nodding his head.
The first worker finished what he’d started—the sledgehammer landing its blow. He brought it down hard, like he’d done thousands of times before.
Rupert’s father went into action, yanking the lever that simultaneously opened the side of the enclosure and tilted the floor inside. The animal slid out and lay twitching on the floor. The man began attaching the chains to its hind legs.
But the animal came to. The blow to its head had only stunned it. Blood streaming down its nose, it scrambled to its feet in anger and fear.
“Whoa there!” Rupert’s father cried, trying to calm the animal and warn his fellow workers.
The steer did not heed. It swung its head in a violent half-circle, its long horns whistling through the air. Rupert’s father was just able to jump clear of the deadly thrust, his back slamming against the brick wall behind.
In desperation, he pulled out his pistol—a safety requirement for situations like this—but was unable to take aim. The frenzied steer was quicker than he was, driving its right horn deep into the man’s chest.
He cried out in agony, but could not fall—he was impaled on the horn. The horrified cry of the boy, who was witnessing the whole scene, joined that of his father.
Oblivious to the report of another worker’s pistol, confused and panicked, the boy began to run, tears running down his face, his mouth gaping in a silent scream. He slipped on the bloody floor but caught his balance, and continued running.
Toward Anna. She didn’t move out of his way.
“No!” she cried. “Don’t!”
Somehow, the boy heard. Something in Anna’s voice, something in her presence, made him hear. And listen.
He stopped in his tracks, his eyes meeting those of the little girl who stood in his path. It was the first moment when anyone from the killing floor acknowledged the presence of the trespassers.
Behind the boy, the killing floor immediately froze in place, like a movie frame stuck in a projector. The once full color scene—the dead man impaled on the dying steer’s horn, the gun flying from his hand—now took on a brittle sepia tint.
Su Ling gasped in sudden comprehension: Anna’s puzzle… this was what she was seeing!
And then it began to crack, with spider web fractures, like delicate glass. In less than a heartbeat, the vision exploded into millions of tiny shards. Cantrell and Su Ling threw their hands across their faces, but felt no tiny projectiles strike them. When they opened their eyes, they saw nothing behind the boy but a flat, gray pall.
Unaware of the changes behind him, the boy took a few tentative steps towards Anna and stopped. A soft gleam enveloped his body in a gauzy haze. They could see his youthful face, his sandy hair, his faded overalls, but all in soft focus.