The Process (Lexington Avenue Express Book 29)

The Process (a Lexington Avenue Express short story - 1,450 words) In the winter, the slaughter house floor was always damp, its odor distinctive, pungent. Over the years, Lester Ross had grown accustomed to the texture of the slippery concrete, its surface permanently etched with the signature scent of blood and desperation. Lester had spent his entire life working in this killing place. Even though his victims were dumb, soulless creatures, years of experiencing the sights and smells and sounds of their deaths had somehow made Lester different from other people, less human, less humane. When he was a little boy, he'd watched his father and uncles work there tirelessly. He knew the routine; kill, stick, skin, gut, trim, split, clean, refrigerate. The system was basically the same whether butchering cattle or hogs, except for the skinning. Early on, the little boy was fascinated by the grim process. One by one, each victim was cut from the group huddled in the holding pen and herded into the dark, narrow killing-chute. Once inside, the rear gate was forced shut, trapping the animal there, its head pressed hard against steel bars that blocked further advance. From a vantage point just beyond these bars, one of Lester's uncles would shoot the animal in the forehead with an old .22 rifle. Standing a few feet back, the little boy would cringe at the crack of the rifle followed by the animal's reaction; some would kneel silently to the sloping floor while others would back away emitting a low moan before collapsing. Some would lose control of their bladder or bowels or both before crashing head-first to the concrete, others would clatter noisily backwards lolling their heads from side-to-side as if denying the inevitability of the process. As a child, this first step, the killing of the animal was the only part of the process that haunted Lester. The transformation from life to death mesmerized the little boy; violent yet strangely fragile, it served as the basis for his lifelong, recurring nightmare. The image never faded. ***** With his face pressed hard against the cold, coarsely textured concrete of the kill floor, Lester found himself wondering about his nightmare. He tried to roll over but broken ribs stabbed him with searing pain, followed by a numbing rush of cold. Face down, his hands and feet hogtied behind him, eyes covered with tape, he strained, listening for familiar sounds. A thick, cold chime, the rattle of heavy chains dragged across concrete signaled him as he drifted into unconsciousness. ***** In the span of nearly forty years, Lester Ross had survived his dream thousands of times. He'd become strangely comfortable with it. He'd heard people tell of countless frightening or strange dreams, but he never revealed the details of his life-long terror. He guarded his private nightmare, as if exposing it might in some way betray a trust. It was always the same. The trail of smoke escaping the tiny hole in the fallen animal's forehead stretched toward Lester. As he gripped the bedcovers, the smell of gunpowder and burned flesh married the thin snake of smoke and slowly enveloped and paralyzed him.

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