Cattle March

[DYSTOPIAN] It's my turn to feed.

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[671 words]

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Oh, fuck me.

Forty names scrawled on the whiteboard in the Director’s loopy script, and mine stares back at me from the dead center. It’s my turn in the rotation—it’s my turn to feed. Dread twists my stomach as I lift the grease-soaked cardboard box from underneath the board: unlabeled and weighing no more than fifteen pounds.

Rainbow specks of light refracted from ornate chandeliers decorate the labyrinth of precious rugs and abstract art pieces indistinguishable in color and style. Not a single one out of place. Not a single spot of dirt. The halls are fussed over three times a day with dusters and cleaners that make the place smell sterile—an easy type of sterile quite unlike a hospital—save for intermittent clouds of colognes and perfumes thick enough to choke on.

Two fat little boys no older than five or six shove past, tumbling and snatching the rug from right under my feet. I stumble and slam my hip into the corner of the hardwood case. Sturdy, at least. The Director’s kids’ awards from before the Collapse—mostly sports but some academics—hardly budge. I massage the pain from my hip with the heel of my hand, watching the boys dash off with shit-eating grins and mischievous giggles.

Fuckers should control their goddamn kids.

I take a breath and shake my head.

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Wind howls from the other side of the heavy exit door. No latches; fully automated. Eye-bleeding yellow flashes from above it, reflecting from the tile floor and marble walls. No escape—a reminder of what lies right on the other side. Sweat beads on the back of my neck, and I don’t know if it’s from the anxious nausea or the heavy gear. The mask, at least, fits snug. I shake my hands out with a heavy exhale.

What a load of horseshit.

Sirens blare, and I brace myself against the violent gusts funneling through the walls surrounding the complex before the door slides open. It’s deafening now. Heavy chains rattle. A dark mass writhes from within the red wall of sand, dust, and ash. I squint. The Vile are already prepared, nude bodies huddled around the guide chains and gripping until their knuckles turn white. Bones protrude from skin thinned from malnutrition. There are no children.

They look at me with envy. With pain. Hatred.

They’re disgusting.

Unsteady feet thrum along the dry, cracked ground, far too slow for my taste. The chains clink. Men shield women from the storm. A chorus of wheezing coughs and heavy breathing erupts from behind. I wish they would shut up. This damn suit is too hot, too heavy, and I curse whoever’s choice it was to make this walk one goddamn mile.

Waste had smeared in streaks of almost-black from overfilled pit latrines lining the walls. Dark smears and splats cover the concrete. Fucking animals. I can’t smell it, but I know they can by the way they choke and gag. But I have no clue if it’s just the waste, or if it’s the dead, too. Just off to the left, in a fifteen-by-fifteen area past a break in the wall, bodies—too many to count—lay haphazardly discarded upon a mountain of ash.

The Stable looms on the other side of that break. It’s longer than it is wide and stands at only eight feet tall. Sand carried by the wind had eroded at the wood, and cracks and splinters riddle the beams. There are no rooms. The Vile are given straw to sleep on that’s supposed to be changed once a month, though I have seen no one take care of it in at least three.

Finally. The Vile huddles just beyond the gate, buzzing—not from excitement, I’m sure—as I look over their current situation. Murky water stands in a sandy barrel. I nod. Good enough. And starting from the left, I deposit the table scraps, now reduced to slop, into the rusted troughs.

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Thank you for reading! There’s not much to say about this one—I hardly even know where the idea came from, LOL. But, genuinely, I hope you enjoyed! :)

Keep it weird! <3