Blue Valley Underground - Part 08 - Meat
Isaac can has cheezburger???
Blue Valley Underground - Part 08 - Meat
Above all, there was a pounding in Isaac's head. His skull felt like the anvil beneath a blacksmith's mighty hammer, throbbing with his heartbeat. For a long time, he didn't dare move a muscle or open his eyes. He felt scratchy sheets beneath him. Sprawled on his back, legs dangling off the edge of a bed...Not his bed?
That's right. The brothel.
Isaac warily cracked an eye open. The room was still dim, illuminated only by light beaming from under the door. He squinted at the clock on the wall. 3 o'clock. Day or night? There were no windows--who knew? He could hardly recall why he was here. Why he had such a miserable headache, why his body was sore, why he was lying in such an awkward position...
The soldier immediately shot up when his stomach did a violent twist. He threw a hand over his mouth and tried to stand, only tripping over himself and spilling vomit across the floorboards. He coughed and heaved, eventually dragging himself to his feet and steadying himself against the wall. What was wrong with him? Isaac racked his ailing head for answers. Last night. Rented a room. Refused drinks. Then he...
Isaac dragged a sweaty palm over his face and groaned. He accepted the drinks. It was all falling into place now, and it only got worse with each memory. He let himself get trashed. The bartender...Whatever her name was, took him to this room. He wandered the room as he tried to recall the rest. Something happened after that; he had glimpses of it in his mind's eye, but it was only colors and shapes without a story. He opened what he thought was a closet, but turned out to be a tiny bathroom.
Isaac let his thoughts rest for now and sat in the rusty tub, letting the cold water rain on him. He buried his face between his knees, trying to will this awful hangover away until he began to shiver. He removed the old gauze from his chest and put his shirt and overalls back on, wincing as they chafed the naked scars. His reflection stared back at him through the grimy mirror, looking sickly and disapproving. What a mess.
Stepping out of the bathroom, Isaac winced at the vomit beside the bed and wondered if he should clean it up. He saw his knapsack in the corner of the room beside a bucket that would have been useful earlier. With a sigh, he meandered over and started rifling through his bag. He absently glanced at the bucket and noticed a single piece of trash inside. What the hell was it? He squinted and tried to make sense of it for a moment, then he realized it was a used condom. How revolting, he thought, then froze in horror.
Whose was it? Not...His? Last night started flooding back like an unforgiving tidal wave, destroying all barriers in its path. He remembered the stained ceiling as it framed the pale face of a stranger--no, someone he knew. Someone he spoke to. A friendly face, now a traitor, and they--she--had poisoned him just like the wicked nymph. She dragged him back here in his drunken stupor, she did as she pleased with him while he lay paralyzed, and she betrayed him, hurt him, lied to him as if he had no feelings at all. As if his existence wasn't substantial, like he was a plaything to be broken and thrown away; or rather, left hungover and disoriented in this filthy brothel room.
He meant nothing to her, Isaac realized, and perhaps he meant nothing to anyone. He sank down to the floor, tightly clutching his knapsack. He'd never felt so deceived, so idiotic, so used. This couldn't have happened, he told himself, and desperately searched for more pieces of last night. Turning his bag upside-down, he spilled all its contents on to the floor and sorted through them for answers. Maybe she left something behind; a note, a clue, something. Nothing unusual, so he checked his pockets. Only the iron room key.
Only the key. Where was his money? Isaac frantically felt his clothes, searched the room, around the bed, through the bathroom, poured out his bag three more times and still came up with nothing. What could have--
Miss Krista.
Anger boiled in Isaac's twisting stomach. As if his dignity, trust, and virginity weren't enough, she had to rob him of his ticket home too? Like an insatiable hog! Isaac quickly slung his knapsack over his shoulder and hurried out the door. He winced at the light in the hall, but his health was overshadowed by adrenaline and rage. Retching and writhing in agony could wait; Miss Krista had to be dealt with now.
Passing seedy men and half-naked women in the long corridor, Isaac shoved passed them all and ignored their remarks. He arrived at the bar and squinted through the cigar smoke. Sure enough, Miss Krista was mixing drinks for a gang of sleazy old men. He stormed towards her and slapped his palm on the counter as she poured a drink. Startled, she spilled a little and looked up at him, her expression briefly terrified before settling to false indifference.
"You stole from me!" Isaac blurted. The old men fell silent and looked at him. The bartender scoffed,
"What are you talking about?"
"You took my money--it was in my pocket!" Isaac was losing confidence with every second, "And I didn't want to fool around with you! You made me! You poisoned me and used me!"
The old men's faces fell. One of them set his drink down.
"Oh my God..." Miss Krista rolled her eyes and replied casually, "You're so full of shit, it's coming out your mouth! You went on a booze-rampage last night and you're blaming me for it?" she waved dismissively, "Go home, you're still fuckin' drunk."
"No!" Isaac growled, "I know what you did! I was awake, I saw you on top of me! Just..." his voice faltered and he sighed,
"Just give me my money back so I can go home. Please."
Miss Krista crossed her arms,
"I didn't steal from you, Kid, and I didn't fuck you either. I practically carried your drunk ass to bed, and this is how you treat me? You left your door unlocked, you know. Anyone could've robbed you."
Isaac paused, considering that for a moment. She had a point, but...
"No," he furrowed his brow, "It was you. I know it was you! Just give it back and I'll leave!"
"You're leaving anyway!" The bartender scowled. Before Isaac could say another word, he was jerked back by a strong pair of hands. A long-haired mountain of a man roughly dragged him towards the exit.
"Let go! She robbed me! Please--!" Isaac pleaded on uncaring ears as the man kicked the door open and shoved him into the street. The soldier rolled across the sidewalk and into the road, nearly knocking over an old woman and getting trampled by a man on a horse.
"Show your face in here again and I'll tear you a new asshole!" the long-haired man snarled and slammed the door, rattling the opaque windows.
Isaac gnashed his teeth, dragging himself out of the street. He'd fallen on his side and scraped his palms on the cobblestone. A broad purple bruise was already forming near his elbow. Scrambling up to the door, he gave it a couple hard kicks and wailed,
"Thieves! Dirty thieves! I'm a soldier, you know! I'll tell my marshal about this and have you all arrested!" He pounded on it with his fist,
"Fuck you!" with one final discordant cry, he heaved and sprayed vomit on the door. It wasn't intentional, just a fortunate accident.
Isaac panted and spit, glancing back at all the people watching him. They glared disapprovingly, some snickering, some shaking their heads at what a drunken brothel-hopping piece of garbage he must have been. In that moment his anger turned to shame, and the soldier could only slink away like a scolded mongrel.
Even if he had money, it was too late to catch the train now. The sun was descending below the tallest buildings. Isaac slowly meandered down the sidewalk until his body couldn't take anymore--just four blocks from the brothel. He slumped against a grimy brick building and held his head in his hands, massaging his temples, willing away the urge to scream. He watched many legs shuffle by. Ladies passed with their dangling purses on fragile chains, as if holding a steak in front of a hungry dog. Isaac had half a mind to snatch one and run. The door beside him swung open and a man in a bloody apron stepped out. Isaac watched from the corner of his eye as he leaned against the doorframe and lit a pipe, tossing the match into the street.
The man acknowledged Isaac with a simple nod. The soldier quickly looked away. His hair and beard were as red as the blood on his apron, and he had a big round belly that looked more like a pumpkin stuffed under his clothes. His face looked haggard and his eyes were dull. He stood within an arm's length of Isaac. The soldier cautiously stole another look at him. He could see into the man's apron pocket. It was bulging out slightly, heavy with silver coins. Isaac clutched the stone steps with itchy fingers and stared hungrily. Home was just one sly reach away.
"Twenty silver pieces," the man rumbled. Isaac twitched with a start and quickly folded his hands. The man took a drag off his pipe and exhaled, continuing,
"If I find one missing, I'll grind you into a meatball. Hear me?"
Isaac kept his hands folded and replied quietly,
"I'm a soldier, Sir. I wouldn't do that."
"Hm," The man took another drag on his pipe, "I'm a fuckin' prince."
Isaac let out a defeated sigh. The man added,
"The other bums cleaned out my garbage this afternoon. I don't have anything for you."
"I'm not a bum, I'm a soldier." Isaac insisted, "I'm trying to get back to Rivermere. The lady at the brothel robbed me and..." he shrugged, looking irritated, "If you have any work, I'll take it. I'll do anything."
For a long time, the man looked at Isaac as he finished off his tobacco. Then he asked,
"Wasn't that older lady, was it? Dark hair? Got a face like a leather bag?"
"Her name was Miss Krista. At least, that's what she told me. She's a big fat liar, so you never know." muttered Isaac. The man snorted,
"Miss Krista...Yeah, I screwed that pig too--then she screwed me. Good to know she hasn't changed in ten years. Damn near killed my shop with her bullshit."
"Really?" Isaac perked up, "Did you get your money back?"
The man slowly shook his head,
"She and I have come to an understanding. I don't see her, she don't see me. You should just stay away from her."
"Great..." the soldier leaned back against the wall. Tucking his pipe into his empty apron pocket, the man began to head back inside. He hesitated in the doorway. Turning back to Isaac, he asked,
"You still up for work, Meatball?"
Mr. Callahan flipped the "OPEN" sign in the window to "CLOSED" and untied his bloody apron. He tossed it on the floor behind the front counter, where Isaac sat and enjoyed a free hamburger.
"Ass off the counter." Mr. Callahan told him absently, and disappeared through the steel door into the back room. Isaac hopped down and followed him, quickly finishing the last two bites. He left his knapsack by the front counter.
The back room was covered floor-to-ceiling in blood and chunks of meat. The air was thick with a coppery stench. In the middle were large tables, one of which had the bottom half of a pig lying across it with its legs tied together. Isaac pulled the collar of his shirt over his nose and watched Mr. Callahan gather cleaning supplies from a closet.
"I want this room spotless," the man said, tossing rags into a metal bucket, "You can use the faucet on the wall over there."
Isaac's gaze wandered slowly around the room, over the red splatters on the ceiling, to the rivers of blood on the floor, to the piles of old meat in the corners. He was regretting that hamburger more and more with each second. Mr. Callahan said,
"Cleaners don't last long in my shop. I doubt you're any different. Help me with this pig real quick, then I'll let you get to work."
With that, he lifted the half-a-pig by the rope between its ankles and took it to the giant freezer. Isaac followed, watching as he used his necklace-key to unlock the heavy steel door.
"I need you to hold this door open," said Mr. Callahan, "Fucker closes on its own."
Isaac obediently held the door as the older man brought the pig into the freezer, suspending it on one of many hooks. When he returned, he locked the door again and wiped his hands on his apron.
"Alright," he patted Isaac's shoulder and smiled, "Have fun." And with that, he disappeared into the front room.
This mess was a tall order. Isaac stood around clueless for a few minutes until he decided to start mopping the ceiling. After the first chunk of meat fell on his face, he tied a rag around his nose and mouth. He poured bucket after bucket of hot, soapy water over the tables and counters. It all ran down the floor-drain at the center of the room. The steam made the smell even worse. Isaac stepped into the front room briefly, pulling his face-rag down to take in deep breaths. Mr. Callahan was counting coins in the register. He raised a red eyebrow,
"You're done already?"
Isaac tried to reply, but only gagged. Instead he simply shook his head and reluctantly returned to the butchery. He began to clean the walls, scrubbing spots by hand that were too stubborn for the mop. He finished two wall panels and moved on to the third. This one felt oddly thin and quaked under force. Curious, Isaac gave it a shake and it wobbled loosely, the bottom of the panel rising up a bit. Isaac glanced back at the steel door. He could see Mr. Callahan through the small window, locking the register with his necklace-key before beginning to sweep the floor.
Turning back to the loose panel, Isaac shoved his fingers under the bottom and pulled up. The whole panel flipped open, revealing a long descending staircase behind it. It went so far down, the bottom was shrouded in blackness. Isaac looked back at the sliding door again. Mr. Callahan was still busy. Should he investigate? His curiosity would keep him up at night if he didn't. Isaac was sure he had time, if he hurried. Propping the panel up with his mop, he took an oil lantern off the wall and quickly tip-toed down the stone stairs. They were narrow and slightly uneven, tilting down vertically to almost a 90 degree angle. A fall from here would surely be lethal.
The stairs just never seemed to end. Isaac looked back at the tiny yellow glow from the doorway above. It would be smart to return...But he was probably near the end by now. He must have been, a stairway had to lead somewhere!
Apparently, this one didn't.
Isaac stopped on one of the last stairs and held the lantern high, exposing nothing but a stone wall. Not bricks, but solid, natural stone. Perhaps this was meant to be a basement, but it was never finished. Why was it so deep? There was a glint of light near the top right corner of the wall. Isaac noticed a small gold bell hanging from a wood support beam on the ceiling. He considered ringing it. Suddenly he was startled by a sharp "BANG!" from above and dropped the lantern. It shattered on the stone steps and in an instant he was in complete darkness.
Isaac's heart hammered as he scrambled upstairs on his hands and feet. The light from the open panel was gone, nothing ahead but endless shadow. He was sure there was a monster behind him, or a ghost, maybe a wicked fae--something just inches from grabbing his ankles and pulling him down to Hell. Finally he reached the top and barreled through the loose panel, tripping and falling before the leather boots of Mr. Callahan. The soldier panted, rising to his feet. The front of his clothes were soaked with blood and soapy water. The mop was lying beside the now closed wall panel.
"I'm sorry!" Isaac blurted, "I-I thought the wall was broken. I thought I could...Maybe fix it?" The lie was weak. Mr. Callahan stared at him for a moment, then replied,
"Nope, it's always been that way. Some leftover construction from the last owners, I don't know." He shrugged,
"Better stay the hell outta there, those stairs are nasty."
Isaac quickly nodded and picked up the mop. Mr. Callahan looked around and mentioned,
"Nice work, by the way." And then he returned to the front. Exhausted but with a new sense of pride, Isaac returned to his work. Hours passed as he scrubbed, scraped, and scoured every filthy surface of the butchery. Mr. Callahan offered him a roast beef sandwich for his lunch break. After seeing what he'd seen today, Isaac ate the bun, lettuce, tomato--everything but the meat.
There was only one thing left to clean. Isaac returned to the butchery and stopped in front of the pile of rejected remains on the floor. He'd been putting this one off as long as possible. It smelled like it had been sitting for quite some time; meat chunks, organs, bones, brains--most of which had melted into abstract red slime. Isaac secured the rag tightly around his face and held his breath as he turned the bucket over, pulling some of the mess inside with a rake. Just moving the pile was a mistake; the smell it released sent him running to the trash bin to vomit.
Would he still get paid if he quit now? Isaac wondered as he rinsed his mouth in the sink and trudged back to the mess. There was a sharp "crunch" under his foot. Probably a tooth he missed, he thought, and looked down to see a long, bloody...Finger? Isaac crouched down and squinted. It couldn't be. It was too green, too thin, too long--four joints total. But there was a ragged nail on the end.
It was a fae's finger.
Isaac reeled back and slipped on the pile of meat goo. He caught his fall on a rack of knives and scattered large blades everywhere, one nearly stabbing through his foot. The noise brought Mr. Callahan into the room. He spotted all the knives on the floor and immediately asked,
"What happened?"
Isaac looked back at him with wide, horrified eyes as he silently pointed to the finger. The redheaded man crouched down to inspect the object.
Calmly clearing his throat, Mr. Callahan casually picked up the severed digit and tossed it in the trash. He paused, then explained,
"Had a goblin cleaner before you. Idiot lost a finger washin' knives. Ran out of the shop that day, and no one ever found him. Typical dumb shit, you know how goblins are..."
"Oh...I see." Isaac mumbled and relaxed just slightly. It was still horribly unsettling.
"Sorry you had to see that," The redheaded man apologized, "I was wondering where that thing went. Anyway, uh...I see you're just about done here. Looks good. I have one more job for you, then we'll talk about pay."
Isaac cocked his head,
"What is it?"
"I hate asking for help, but my damn back's actin' up." Mr. Callahan led Isaac to the walk-in freezer and unlocked the door, "There's some beef in here that needs to be moved to the front. Just push those carcasses forward." He pointed to the three beef carcasses suspended from hooks in the back of the freezer, hanging among several other animal parts,
"I'll hold the door for ya."
Isaac stepped in the freezer and shuddered a bit. Giant ice blocks were stacked atop eachother against the walls. He carefully maneuvered through the hanging carcasses, some perfectly in-tact, others cut into pieces. He reached the skinned, legless cows in back and asked,
"These one--"
The freezer door slammed. The only light left was from one dim electric strip along the ceiling.
"Mr. Callahan?" Isaac rushed to the door, shoving the suspended meat out of his way,
"Mr. Callahan!" his hands travelled the door, searching for a handle, a hinge, some way to open it. From this side, it just appeared as part of the wall. He pounded on it with his fists,
"I'm locked in!"
Bashed against it with his shoulder,
"Mr. Callahan, open the door!"
Kicked it repeatedly,
"Help!"
No response from outside. Isaac feared this was no accident. He pushed through the carcasses again, inspecting the back for another way out. There were wooden crates stacked against the wall, possibly hiding a lever or a button. Isaac quickly moved them one-by-one and kicked them out of the way. One stack gone, nothing but a frosty wall behind them. He moved to the next, lifting a crate from the top of the stack. The wood was damp with rot and it was deceptively heavy. The bottom planks cracked and gave way.
Half-frozen red chunks in various sizes spilled across the floor. They were not steaks, porkchops, or poultry. Isaac yelped and dropped the crate when he realized he was looking at the eyeless, decapitated heads of goblins and humans, torsos with no legs, severed fingers and toes...
"Oh god...!" Isaac covered his mouth in horror and lost the strength to stand. He backed against the side wall and stared, unbelieving, fearful that he'd be the next one in a crate. It was all coming together now.
This was not a mistake. He was next.
Despite the cold freezer, Isaac had never felt more uncomfortably hot in his life. He was sweating, his mouth was dry and he couldn't get enough air. He had to get out of here. There must be a way out, he thought, and scrambled to the other side of the freezer. Nothing but ice blocks and meat hooks hanging on a rack. The soldier climbed atop the slippery ice blocks and pounded on the ceiling. Solid metal, just like the walls. His hands were now stinging terribly from the cold.
"Shit..." Isaac slumped to the floor and blew hot breath into his palms. He couldn't control his breathing; rapid and panicked, as his stomach churned and his head spun. He crawled a few feet away and threw up the last bit of his no-meat sandwich. Probably best if everything from this place was out of his system...Not like it mattered now, as he froze to death and got chopped to bits by a maniacal butcher. Logan wasn't kidding--Newell's evil was inescapable. Isaac realized that in less than twenty-four hours of being in this city, he'd been deceived, drugged, raped, robbed, literally thrown out of a brothel, deceived again, and now he was about to be slaughtered like an animal.
Burying his head between his blood-soaked knees, Isaac began to weep. If he hadn't gone into the woods alone, if he had just listened to Evan, none of this would have happened. He would never return to the barracks and see his friends again. Glen, Lukas, Nathaniel--They would never know what happened to him or give him a proper burial. He could see it now, a troop searching the Bluerock River for his corpse and finding nothing, only to declare him a lost body. He'd be nothing but a headstone atop a false grave. His soul would never rest.
Isaac didn't know how much time had passed since he'd been locked in, only that he was very cold, his fingers were numb, and he couldn't stop shivering. He sat against the side wall, hiding between a line of enormous pig carcasses, including the half-a-pig from earlier. Eventually he heard a clunking sound and the door opened just a crack. Isaac couldn't see the door from his position, but he could see the light flood in against the floor.
There was a long silence. Isaac slowly reached for one of the meat hooks behind him. As quiet as he tried to be, they clanked together sharply and he winced, clutching one tightly in his numb fingers.
"Come on out," said Mr. Callahan,
"You've been in there long enough."
Isaac couldn't see the man, only his shadow against the wall. He appeared to be holding a long object. Something to club him with, Isaac figured.
"You're a m-murderer!" Isaac growled, "You're insane!"
"If you hadn't been pokin' around where you weren't supposed to be, I would've let you walk outta here," the other man replied, sounding far too casual, "Now you can stay in here and freeze 'till tomorrow, but I'd prefer to get this shit done tonight. Hurry up, I want to go home."
Isaac hesitated, then quivered violently as he got to his feet.
"I'm coming." He replied, the meat hook tight in his grip. Slowly, carefully, he made his way around the carcasses, stopping to peek around them every so often until he arrived at the door. It was wide open and Mr. Callahan was gone.
"W-where the hell are you?" Isaac grumbled and held his place just inside the doorway. No response. Then it dawned on him:
"I need you to hold this door open. Fucker closes on its own."
Mr. Callahan had to be behind the door. Isaac made a dash, slipping out of the doorway as far from the hinges as possible. Mr. Callahan bolted out and reached for him, missing his arm by an inch. The soldier ran for the steel door to the front and smacked into it. It was locked.
"I knew you'd pull some shit." Mr. Callahan breathed heavily, standing before Isaac with an aluminum club raised. Isaac raised the meat hook and backed to the other side of the room as the redheaded man advanced to him.
Mr. Callahan had a much longer weapon; Isaac would never be able to get a hit in before he did. The knives were picked up off the floor, and in fact were not even in the room anymore. The bucket of meat goo, however, was still present.
"Drop the hook." Mr. Callahan told him. Isaac ignored him and made his way to the bucket. He kicked it at Mr. Callahan, spreading its filthy contents across the floor. The older man flinched, but simply kicked it away and snarled,
"Drop that fuckin' hook now!"
Isaac picked up the nearest object that wasn't bolted down--a steel cutting board--and threw it at him like a shuriken. The redheaded man blocked it with his club, but it struck his fingers and he let out a howl, nearly dropping his weapon. Isaac frantically picked up the next nearest object--a wooden tenderizer--and chucked that at him too. He missed the man's head by mere centimeters as Mr. Callahan rushed him. Isaac meant to dodge to the side, but slipped in his own meat-goo trap and fell on his ass just as his foe swung at him, striking a counter instead.
Mr. Callahan tripped on Isaac's leg, staggering, then he too slipped in the meat slime and fell on his back. Scrambling towards him, Isaac grabbed the club and tried prying it from the man's hands. Mr. Callahan jerked his knee up and hit Isaac in the groin, casting the boy to the floor with a yelp. Isaac curled up and gnashed his teeth as the butcher struggled to stand in the bloody ooze. Just as he got himself steadied, Isaac drove the meat hook into his calf. It pierced through fabric, thick fat and muscle, and Mr. Callahan screamed in pain as he fell down again.
The club clanged as it hit the floor. Isaac left the meat hook in his foe's leg and reached for that instead, but was tackled down before he grasped it. Mr. Callahan had at least one hundred pounds on him, crushing his wrists as he dragged them both to their feet.
"Fuck you!" The older man snarled, spraying saliva on his face, "Couldn't make this fuckin' easy, could you?"
He slammed Isaac into the wall,
"I just wanted to go home early!"
He slammed the soldier back again. Isaac winced as he struck his head against the panel. The sound was strangely hollow.
"I hope you're happy, you little prick!"
Mr. Callahan was red in the face as he angrily smashed Isaac against the wall with all his might. This time, the false panel cracked and caved in.
The redhead let go of Isaac and almost caught his balance, but the younger man clutched him by his key-necklace, dragging him down, and they both went tumbling forward. Isaac managed to stop himself ten stairs down, but between Mr. Callahan's weight and momentum, the butcher kept rolling until he was lost in the darkness. After a few seconds, the crashing came to a halt. There was only silence.
Quivering, sore, out of breath and bleeding, Isaac slowly crawled back up the stairs. He lay on the bloody butchery floor for a moment. He then realized he was holding Mr. Callahan's key in a tight, shaking fist. The thin rope had snapped. Whether the fall had killed the man or not was a mystery to him, and he didn't care to find out. Isaac hurried to the steel door and unlocked it, stepping into the front room. The blinds were drawn and he could hear the sounds of typical nighttime riff-raff outside. It was like he stepped out of madness and back into reality in the blink of an eye.
His knapsack was still sitting by the front counter, just under the register. Isaac picked it up and almost left, then stopped at the door. He turned back to the register. Was it wrong to steal from a man, even if that man had tried to murder him?
...No, he decided, and unlocked the register, dumping every last coin into his knapsack until it sagged and jingled with every step. As far as Isaac was concerned, he earned this fair and square today.