FRESH MEAT

A lyrical post-apocalyptic tale of feral children in a drowned city.

Rain lashed the ruins of the abandoned city. Through the crumbling streets came a line of children, soaked to the skin, dressed in filthy rags. Two men led them, dragging them by a chain fastened around their necks. The man holding the chain was massive, over seven feet tall with bald head and denim dungarees. A large birthmark, a port wine stain covered most of the left side of his face. The other man was small and scrawny, grey dreadlocks framing a wrinkled face with mean eyes. Across his back, a rifle, a name carved in script along the wooden stock: Wilson. The road they were following had once been a suburban street but was now little more than a mud track. Tangled masses of brambles spread out from flooded ditches, great thickets tumbling over rusted hulks of derelict vehicles. The remains of terraced houses stood with roofs fallen in, dark interiors open to the rain.

The bald man pointed to one house that still had part of its roof.

Wilson nodded assent. “Good enough.”

They clambered over the remains of the front wall, hauling the children behind them. Inside, the uneven floor was covered in a thick layer of moss. In one corner lay a collapsed staircase. The old man produced a bundle of metal stakes and handed half to his companion. They hammered the stakes through loops interspersed along the chain, pinning it to the ground, trapping the children, leaving them enough room to move but not so much that they were within arm’s length of each other. They growled at the men as they worked but gave them no trouble, all except one—a red-haired male of about seven years. He was rearing back, taking up the slack, making it impossible for Wilson to stake down the chain.

“For Christ’s sake, stay still.”

The other children hissed and spat. This was not the first time this child had caused a disturbance. He’d been caught only a few days ago but was already covered in bites. His fellow captives clearly didn’t like him.

“That’s it. I’ve had enough.” The old man threw down the stakes and went for his rifle. The child stopped, two pink lines running down his cheeks where tears had washed away the dirt. Wilson raised the rifle and took aim at him but the larger man stepped between them.

“Get out of the way, Patch,” Wilson barked. “I ain’t putting up with it any longer. He’s gotta go.”

Patch reached into his backpack, brought out a short length of chain.

“It won’t work,” Wilson told him. “He’s too wild. Now get out of the way.” He cocked the rifle’s hammer, ready to fire. The child was whimpering now, obviously aware of what was about to happen to him. Patch held up the chain, insistent.

“No, goddam it. I said no.”

Patch stood his ground.

They faced each other in silence.

Then Wilson lowered the gun, shaking his head. “Okay, have it your way. But I’m telling you, if he starts up again, I’m putting him down. End of story. Till then, he’s all yours. And don’t come running to me when he bites your finger off or scratches your eyes out because I ain’t gonna want to know. Got it?”

Patch nodded.

Wilson put aside his rifle and picked up the stakes. “Just get him away from the rest of them.”

The child offered no resistance as Patch slipped the chain over his head, removed him from the line and tethered him over by the pile of rotting wood that used to be stairs. The rest of the children settled down, with only a few grumbles as Wilson hammered in the last few stakes.

“Alright… I’ll get a fire going. You feed them.” He handed Patch a hunting knife.

Patch slipped off his backpack and pulled out a large tin with “MEAT” stencilled on it. With the children’s hungry eyes fixed on him, he used the knife to open it, then went along the line scooping out portions onto the ground. One by one the children threw themselves at the meat, cramming it into their mouths. Patch crossed the room and scraped out the last of the jelly-like substance for the red-haired boy.

All trace of distress disappeared from his grubby features. “Ta-ta, he beamed and grabbed the little pile.

By this time Wilson had finished sorting through the remains of the staircase. A pile of the driest wood he could find stood beneath a large hole in the sagging, damp-mottled ceiling. He took a bundle of brushwood from his pack and pushed it into the woodpile, carefully struck a precious match and set it alight. Flames flickered through the mould-blackened timber.

Smiling with satisfaction Wilson lit a stub of cigar and seated himself on a mossy mound of broken bricks. Patch was also settling down. He had opened their last tin and wedged it among the burning wood. The two men stared into the flames in silence, Wilson puffing away while Patch kept an eye on the tin. The red-haired child had withdrawn into the corner as far as the chain would allow. He sat staring at Wilson. But his fear of the old man was not as strong as his hunger, which had been far from satiated by the meagre meal Patch had doled out for him. Soon his attention was focused on the tin as steam began to rise and the aroma of cooking meat filled the air.

“Hungy,” he murmured, drool hanging from his chin, “I hungy.”

A few moans and whimpers struck up across the room. The other children were also taking an interest.

“Shut up, you lot,” Wilson lent forward to peer into the tin. “Looks about ready to me. Knife.” He held out a hand.

Patch gave him the hunting knife and watched him use it to ease the hot tin out of the fire and scoop the steaming content onto two battered tin plates.

“I don’t know what they’re getting so excited about.” He handed one of the plates to Patch. “We ain’t getting nothin’ different from them. Besides, this stuff’s not exactly prime steak.” He laughed. “Man, what I wouldn’t give for some of that right now. Along with a big ol’ plate of veggies. Potatoes, peas, beans, cauliflower, broccoli, cabbage, leeks, parsnips, swede… Hell, I’d even settle for sprouts…” He sighed. “There ain’t no chance of that. Christ, I can’t remember the last time I saw a carrot. He looked down at the meal before him, skewered a lump and held it up. “Now all we get is this shit.”

With only the one tin between them it didn’t take long for them to clear their plates. The redhead child watched from the corner. Patch offered him his empty plate. He dashed out, snatched it and retreated back into the shadows to envious growling from across the room.

Wilson licked his own plate. “You goes too soft on that one.” He yawned. “When we get there tomorrow he goes in with the rest, no arguments. Got it?”

Patch looked at the child working his tongue round the greasy plate.

“Got it?” Wilson asked again.

Patch nodded.

“Okay. I’m gonna hit the hay. You got first watch.” He unrolled his sleeping mat beside the fire, “Wake me when it’s my turn,” lay down and closed his eyes.

Patch sat watching the dancing flames, the rapping patter of rain soothing him into a trance. Over by the far wall the children were nodding off. In the corner the redhead boy twitched and mewled in the depths of a nightmare. Seeing him there, curled up on the damp floor with thumb in mouth, Patch considered how different he was from the other children. He wasn’t anywhere near as wild as they were and could even form a few basic words. Patch felt sympathy for him and despite Wilson’s warning, wondered if there might be some way he could save him. But try as he may, he could think of nothing.

Then after his watch was over and he lay half asleep beside the fire, an idea came to him. He knew that sometimes children were taken on as gofers, like himself—helpers for those who wandered the wasteland collecting children. It occurred to him that he might be able to arrange something like that for the redhead boy. Immediately he realised it would never work. The only way the boy could become a gofer was if Wilson put him forward as one tomorrow. Considering the old man’s strong dislike of the boy that did not seem likely. Patch put the idea aside for now, deciding to think more on it in the morning. He was tired from the long day and less than a minute later was deep in a dreamless sleep.

~~~

Next morning they continued on westward through the rain, the sun a faint glow amid a sky of angry cloud. Wilson led the way. Patch followed, the children trailing behind and the redhead boy at his side on the separate chain. They were heading into an area where a swollen river curved in from the north. The ground became more and more sodden until they were making their way along a wide silt bank running between marshland and a vast lagoon. Wilson strode on ahead with comparative ease, as the heavier Patch trudged knee-deep through the mud. Behind him, the children stumbled in and out of the potholes he left. The sweet compacted smells of dead vegetation and stagnant water filled the air. The rain eased to a persistent drizzle and hoards of midges began buzzing around their heads.

Most of the buildings in this part of the city had long since vanished, only the larger constructions had survived the encroaching floodwaters. Here and there a solitary building six or seven storeys high loomed up from the slate-green lagoon or hovered over the ground mist covering the marsh. To the west there remained a line of skyscrapers, giants of steel and broken glass that gleamed with reflected light, cutting a sharp outline against the dull sky.

They came to a broad silt flat that sloped upward to firmer ground—a dense mass of bracken and clubmoss, huge fronds metres high. Billowing up behind, an enormous pall of black smoke. There was a greasy odour of burning and a multitude of children’s voices could be heard crying out in terror.

The redhead boy looked up at Patch with fear in his brown eyes. “Bah place.”

Patch tried to console him by ruffling his ginger mop with one hand while keeping a firm grip on both chains with the other. For some time now the children had been tugging back hard, causing the chain to bite into their necks.

“Come on, ya big dummy. What’re you playing at?” Wilson was already at the top, ploughing through the foliage.

Patch pulled the children up the slope, through the ferns and out into a clearing. The smell of burning was stronger here. Wilson was sharing a tattered umbrella with a guard dressed in army fatigues, a sub-machine gun in the crook of his arm. Beyond them, the source of the terrified screaming: a sedate nineteenth-century building at the base of a colossal redbrick chimney from which black smoke was belching. The chimney was an obvious addition, a large part of the building itself having been restructured to accommodate it. The windows were bricked up and three heavy iron doors had been fitted, each enclosed within its own oblong cage. At the rear of each cage, the side furthest from the building, there was a thick metal panel mounted on rails. Behind each panel, connected to its own engine and fuel tank, a mass of pistons sat poised ready to push the panel through the cage to the iron door. Two of the cages were empty. The third was full of children—pallid little empty-eyed figures crammed together in traumatised silence. The source of the tortured howls was the central building itself—the horrors taking place within mercifully concealed from those about to enter.

Some distance away stood a group of five soldiers. Seemingly oblivious to the stench and the screaming, they smoked and chatted, sheltering from the rain beneath the overhanging corrugated roof of a wooden hut. Several of these were dotted about, giving the place the feel of an army camp.

“Yeah well, things have changed,” said the guard, concluding his conversation with Wilson. He gestured with the barrel of his gun for them to move on.

“Ain’t that the truth,” agreed the old man, then turning to Patch, “Come on, you. Let’s get this over with.”

As Patch heaved the children toward the cages he could hear individual cries that one by one rose to shrieks then suddenly fell silent. At last a single wail persisted before being cut off. In the ensuing hush the soft whirr of a fast-moving machine wound itself down to a low hum. Patch was having to keep an especially tight grip on the chain now. The children were trying very hard to get away, digging their heels in, pulling back—throttling themselves. In ones and twos they fell choking to the ground, until they were all being dragged facedown through the mud. The red-haired child made no attempt to escape, however, merely clinging to Patch’s arm, eyes wide.

Seeing them approach, one of the soldiers picked up a brolly from a stand in the hut’s doorway and came over: a lean, angular man in a threadbare uniform, a holstered taser hanging from his hip. Recognising the man and remembering him as being friendly, Patch wondered if he might be able to appeal to him for help. He knew he had no chance with Wilson. Perhaps this man could be persuaded to make the red-haired child a gofer instead of putting him in with the rest.

The man walked past Patch and spoke to Wilson, offering him shelter beneath his umbrella. “Sure has been a while since we seen you, old man. Don’t tell me it’s taken you all this time to round up this sorry-lookin’ bunch of tiddlers.” He nodded to the children gasping like beached fish amongst the puddles.

“Yeah well, you know how it is. Pickings are slim.”

“I heard that. We ain’t put nothing but one load in all morning. Mind you, reckon your little bunch here might just round off load number two. How many you got there anyways?” He looked back along the line, “…eight, nine, ten…” His eyes stopped on the redheaded child clinging to Patch. “What about that one? You keeping him?”

Before Wilson could answer, Patch stepped forward. “Shut up you,” Wilson snapped at him. “Just keep out of this or you’ll be going in with—”

“Now hold on there,” cut in the man. “May as well hear what he’s gotta say.” He turned to Patch. “Go on, big fella, don’t be shy.”

Patch pointed to the red-haired child then to himself, trying to make the man understand that the boy could work as a gofer.

“Sorry. Not getting you.”

In desperation Patch continued pointing back and forth.

“Ignore him,” said Wilson. “He’s just a big dummy. Gets these crazy ideas…”

The man shrugged. “Well I suppose you know him better than anybody. How long you had this one anyway?

“Oh, I’d say about seven years now.”

“Has it really been that long?”

“Time flies.”

“You got that right.”

A thought occurred to Patch. Opening his mouth wide he pointed inside to the stub of his severed tongue and again, pointed at the boy.

“Whoa now,” the man exclaimed. “Don’t you worry about that, we’ll get you all sorted for meat soon as we’re done here. Same as always.”

Shaking his head, Patch repeated the motion—first pointing to the stub of his tongue, then at the boy shivering in the rain at his side.

The man frowned, watching Patch’s urgent gesticulations until at last realisation dawned. “You’re sayin’ you want that kid made into a gofer, like you.”

Patch nodded, grinning.

“Well, what do you think about that?” The man asked Wilson. “You got room for another?”

“Christ, no! I gets more than enough trouble from this one.”

“Like that is it? Well, you can always trade him in on this little one here. Won’t take but five minutes to top and tail him. Couple of quick snips and he’s all yours.”

Wilson regarded the thin, pale child for less than a second. “Nah. I haven’t the patience to tame the little bastard. Besides, I’ve gotten used to this one.” He nodded to Patch.

“If you’re sure?…”

“I’m sure.”

“Okay then, let’s get to work.” The man turned to the cage, drew his taser and aimed at the children within. Snapped out of their lethargy by the sight of the gun, they reared back, crushing themselves against the opposite side of the cage flinching in fear. The man grinned a mouthful of rotten teeth. “Works every time.” He laughed, stepped up to a small wire mesh door in the cage, pulled out a bunch of keys and unlocked the heavy padlock.

The two men began hauling the children out of the mud, one by one, removing the chain from their necks and dumping them into the cage. Patch would normally help but today he stood by with one hand on the boy’s shoulder. When the time came to hand him over, Patch just couldn’t do it.

“Okay,” said Wilson, “let’s have him.”

Patch stayed where he was.

The old man’s face reddened. “Come on, give him up.”

Patch was resolute. There was no way he was going to surrender the boy.

“Alright then. Have it your way.” He turned to the man, “Think you better stun him.”

“My pleasure,” the man raised his taser.

Patch didn’t move a muscle. There was no point trying to get away. Where would he go?

The man fired.

Icy agony exploded in Patch’s chest. A great force squeezed his ribcage. The ground sprang up and smashed into his face.

“That’ll learn you,” he heard the man’s voice from far, far away, while across a black gulf he saw the two men lift the struggling child between them.

“Nah-nah-nah!” the boy screamed as the men threw him into the cage and slammed the door.

Just as the darkness was folding over Patch, he saw the boy reaching out to him from inside the cage, his pleading face wet with tears. The last thing he heard was the sound of an engine spluttering into motion.

~~~

He came to with a blinding headache. Wilson and the guard stood over him, both out of breath, having lugged Patch the fifteen or so metres from the cages.

“Boy, he’s heavy,” said the guard.

“He’s a pain in the arse,” replied Wilson before delivering a hard kick into Patch’s ribs. “Come on, you. Get up.”

Patch dragged himself to his feet, the pack on his back heavy with tins of meat.

“Now move.” Wilson shoved him from behind. “Who do you think you are, showing me up in front of everybody like that? Don’t you ever do anything like that again. Do you hear?”

Patch stumbled forward, his aching head swimming with the sound of screaming and the reek of butchery. Without looking back he made his way as fast as he could through the giant ferns and down to the drowned city beyond.