The Abattoir

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The two Uberchassis pulled up in front of the warehouse with a silent cruising grace. The lights of the parking lot shone down on them, reflected off of their curved black chassis. They stopped at once, no more than ten feet of space between them. Out of the rearmost car, five men in black suits got out, walking towards the trunk.
The frontmost car opened their doors, and four more men dressed in the same kind of pressed black suits exited the car, followed by a man in a blue jacket with a gold trim. He took a puff of a cigarette while the nine bodyguards crowded around their respective trunks, lifting out briefcases from the cars, and slamming the boots shut with loud bangs.
The man in blue turned around and nudged his passenger side door shut with his elbow, motioning to his entourage to space out as they crossed the seven meters from the cars to the entrance of the warehouse. 
The place was run down, nestled under an overpass in the dregs of the city. The slum of slums, there were abandoned tents and smoked-out barrels around the entrance, the only thing missing were the vagrants and refuse.
That’s what gave it away most of all—that, and the eccentric billionaire walking up to the front doors with his own private escort detail. There was no rubbish, no piles of trash, no discarded rags or bottles. No smashed glass on the sidewalk.
There was an aura around the building where it stopped being dirty and full of litter, and started looking more like a reclamation project. The ten men stepped up to the doors, boarded up and uniform in their slovenly appearance.
The man in blue reached forward, pressing down on the intercom button and hearing a buzz. A voice on the other end spoke up.
“Yes? Who is it?” the gravel-rich voice said.
“A buyer,” the man replied, taking off a pair of dark sunglasses, and tossing his cigarette butt onto the floor. “The Butcher is expecting us.”
“No,” the voice said. “No-one here by that name.”
The man rolled his eyes and hit the button again. “Listen, either let us in, or explain to The Butcher why ten million creds just walked off his parking lot.” He folded his sunglasses into a neat bundle and slid them into his breast pocket. “I don’t like playing games.”
Silence descended on the other end, before another buzzer sounded out and broke the silence. The doors swung open, electronic locks clunking. The Billionaire turned, smiling at his closest bodyguard, and motioning for them to enter first.
Three of them did so, followed by the man himself, then the rest of his guards. The doors swung shut behind them with a hiss.
The interior was bright, covered in white panels, and shining self-adhering vinyl tiling made to look like linoleum flooring..They were in a small reception area that took up no more than a few square meters all around, the rest of the building shrouded by drywall partitions that created a look entirely antithetical to the exterior of the building.
A woman behind the counter smiled at them—rather, an Autoserv in the shape of a woman smiled at them. “Welcome,” it said, words stilted as though they were being cut up from old audio files that didn’t quite fit together. “The owner of the establishment will be right out.”
“Creepy,” the man in blue muttered.
“You’ll have to forgive the hired help,” a voice from the side said. The entourage turned to face the newcomer; a short man in a cheap white suit with a flower attached to his lapel.
“They’re not designed for anything more than drinks,” he said, smiling up at the man in blue. “Welcome to the abattoir,” he said. “I will be your guide through these red-tinted halls.”
Grinning, the man reached forward and took a hold of the man’s hand, shaking it vigorously. “Try not to get lost, lest you end up as part of the, uh, merchandise.”
The man in blue smiled, turning around to his bodyguards. “I guess we’re in the right place.”
“We cater to only the most discerning of palettes here, Mr, uh…?” the man clasped his hands together, pointing his two thumbs at the man.
The man drew his head back, straightening his blue tie. “I try to avoid names as much as possible,”
“Of course,” The Butcher said, waving a hand. “I understand, but you should know that purchases can not be finalised without some form of alias.”
The man in blue hesitated for a moment, before smiling. “Suma,” he decided. “C Suma.”
The Butcher said nothing for a while, chewing on his tongue as he parsed the name. He turned to the other men in Suma’s troupe. 
“And payment?” he asked. “I do so prefer to have my money clean, with none of the vulgarities of wire transfers.”
Suma turned, snapping his fingers. One of them men hefted the briefcase with a grunt of exertion, placing it inSuma’s hand.
The billionaire turned back around to face the Butcher, snapping the clasps on the briefcase and holding it open, angled down slightly so the other man could see the contents. In neat rows, stacked as high as the case would allow, were Credit chips each worth one thousand cR.
The Butcher smiled, leaning over at the waist to stare into the contents of the briefcase with greedy eyes.
“One million Creds,” Suma said. “Per case, ten cases, I trust you shan’t force me to open each and every one.”
“Of course not,” the Butcher said. “I understand the value of time more than anyone. Our merchandise does come with a shelf life…” he trailed off, leaning closer to the money and reaching a hand up as if to touch it.
Suma snapped the case shut before the man’s hands could wander too close to the cash.
The Butcher drew back, keeping his smile, but clearing his throat in the process. “Well then, Mr C. Suma,” the Butcher turned to one side, motioning a hand off down one of the adjacent hallways. “Shall we press on?”
Suma smiled at him, swinging the briefcase back into the hands of his bodyguard, then motioning with his hand in an imitation of the Butcher’s own gesture. “After you.”
The Butcher nodded and turned around, leading the way down the hallway away from the reception area. They passed through a hanging curtain of plastic sheets, into a colder environment than the one they were just in.
Bits of drywall and discarded plastic sheeting covered the walls and floors. Suma raised an eyebrow, looking at the exposed crawlspaces and concrete supports embedded into the walls.
“Seems to be lots of renovation going on,” he said.
“Our operation is currently enjoying a period of growth and demand that has never before been seen,” The Butcher said, without turning back to look at them. “Rest assured,” he held up  a finger. “The quality of our products has not been affected. If anything, this influx of funding and amenities has only enhanced their longevity and, uh,” he paused. “Distinguished flavour.”
Scoffing, Suma rolled his shoulders. “For ten million creds I would hope so.”
“Ah, for ten million I can offer you five products.” the Butcher turned to look over his shoulder at the man. “I’ll even allow you to pick multiple of the same type, as a package deal for your generousness.”
Suma nodded, flashing a smile. “Excellent,” he turned around to his bodyguards. “Perhaps my next visit shall be with more briefcases.”
“I would certainly be open to that.” The Butcher said, turning back around and resuming his walking.
They came to an intersection and took a left, heading deeper into the heart of the expansive warehouse. Though he had only seen the reception and the hallway, this area opened up into a lounge-type area. Paintings adorned the walls, and a set of locked double doors split the opposing wall.
A pair of guards watched them approach—the first humans Suma had seen since entering the establishment. 
The Butcher snapped his fingers, and the two bodyguards stepped to one side, pulling keycards out of their jackets, and simultaneously running them across the sliders. The doors hissed, the locks parted, and they swung inwards.
The Butcher approached the doors, pushing them open and entering the space beyond. 
Suma stepped through the doors first, this time. He let out a whistle, his breath condensing in the air in front of him. 
They found themselves in a cold square room, display cases lining the walls. In the middle of the room was a table and lounge set up, spread out on the table were plates of bite-size foodstuffs, as well as bottles and glasses of champagne. 
Behind the cases adorning the walls were more Autoservs, uniform in their appearance and stilted in their movements. Nut the contents of the cases were what piqued Suma’s interest.
“Voila,” the white-suited man said, spreading his arms wide. “Welcome to la charcuterie.” 
Cuts, strips, and slabs of meat adorned the interior shelves of every case. Some were purple, some were green, but all of them were displayed equally. Signs were placed into the wooden boards they were displayed on, denoting weight and type of cut. They were all labelled as some form of terrestrial meats, but the colour and marbling said otherwise.
“Please,” the Butcher continued, “take your time, enjoy your stay, and do help yourself to the samples we have prepared.” He motioned to the lounge area. “If you have any questions, please consult our Autoservs, or myself.”
The bodyguards spread out among the room, while Suma stepped over to one of the display cases, staring down at the meat within. This case appeared to hold ground meats of every colour, from rich cobalt blue to deep vermillion. 
Humming to himself, Suma turned to one side, looking over at the Butcher. “Five products for ten million,” he said. “Means two mil per product.” He stuck a thumb out at the meat in the case with a grin. “Pricey for five kilo of ground beef, no?”
The Butcher pursed his lips, stepping over to the case and slotting his hands together. “This is not any ordinary ground beef, Mr Suma. The cardiovascular system of the, uh,” he cleared his throat. “The Cattle, engorges when subjected to periods of extended stress. The resulting meat is juicy, tender, and flavourful.”
Suma cast his eyes back down towards it, rubbing his chin in thought. “I assume simply making this into garden-variety patties would be doing it a disservice.”
“It is not for me to dictate how you prepare your meats,” the Butcher said, “I can simply make suggestions.”
“For this meat, then?” Suma asked, arching an eyebrow.
“Any sort of simmer or slow-cooking method will bring out the best in this product,” the Butcher said with a smile. “And gives you the best dining experience.”
Suma nodded, looking back around the room. 
“Oh!” Something in the case over caught his eye, and he clapped, motioning his hands towards it. “Now this, this I like the look of.”
He walked over to the case, and the thick juicy slab of rich purple meat held within. Taking up an entire top shelf, the sign next to it was written in french. The board it rested on was decorated with parsley leaves, and a well-used knife lay next to it for aesthetics.
“Ah, you have a discerning eye, Mr Suma,” the Butcher laughed a slow laugh. 
“Tell me about this product,” Suma said, resting his hands on the glass and leaning over at the waist to get a better look at it.
“A fifteen pound brisket of purest, marbled meat.” The Butcher kissed his fingers. “For this, I will personally vouch for a seventeen hour smoke in honey and mint glaze.”
Suma looked over at the man with a smirk. “I assume you’re not going to let me walk out of here with five of these.”
“Ah,” the Butcher placed a hand on his chest. “Alas, we have limited stock. This one is the last.”
“Cattle giving you trouble?” Suma asked. “Maybe you should grow in-house.”
“We have considered it before,” the Butcher said, sighing. “However prices would rise as the maintenance of such equipment is costly.”
“There’s just one more thing I want to know.” Suma said, pushing himself off of the glass and stuffing his hands into the pockets of his pants. 
The Butcher nodded. “Anything.”
“I want to know what I’m paying for,” Suma said, his face hardening. “I want to see it with my own eyes.”
The Butcher paused, his fingers twiddling in the air as he considered it. “This I cannot allow, at least,” he cast a hand over the rest of the room, “not with so many of you here.”
“Oh,” Suma shook his head, looking over at the lounge chairs. Most of his bodyguards were seated sampling the less-risky looking foodstuffs laid out before them, all were holding glasses of champagne. A few trailed the edges of the room, looking at the products they could never hope to afford. 
“I think my boys are a tad too busy sampling your hors d'oeuvres,” Suma said. “They won’t even notice we’re gone. C’mon,” he folded his arms, stepping to one side beside the Butcher and nudging the shorter man with his elbow. “Quality assurance means so little to so many companies nowadays, just a quick peek behind the curtain.”
The Butcher sighed, turned to face the other man, and nodded. “For you, Mr Suma, and you alone, then. Please, follow me.”
“Boys,” Suma spoke loud enough to get the attention of everyone in the room. He motioned a finger at the table. “Set down the briefcases somewhere. I’ll be back in a bit.”
----
The swivel-doors opened at the Butcher’s push, and they found themselves up in a viewing room that looked out down on a hundred holding pens. This was the back-end of the Warehouse, where the staff worked to corral the ‘Cattle’. A hundred pens, each holding a hundred aliens of various types.
The stubby aliens known to Humans as Grunts were among the most numerous. Jackals inhabited the next spot up, followed by the tall, imposing forms of Sangheili. They were in squalor, straining against the bars of the pens and constantly being jabbed by cattle prods.
There was a noise and a stink unlike any other, and the worst part was, beyond the catwalks and the doors he could see another set of locked double doors leading away into an unknown area of the Warehouse once more.
This was not even the full extent of this shady, underground business. Suma could barely stomach the sight of it, let alone the smell of rot and disease.
“As you can see,” the Butcher said, coughing into a handkerchief he had pulled from his jacket. “Our Cattle are expertly tended to so as to ensure the best quality meats. Sustainably sourced, nobody misses the disappearance of vagrants, especially not the Sangheili.”
Suma balled his fists in his pockets, nodding at the words. It took every ounce of his strength not to wheel around and cleave the man’s skull apart with his fists, but he refrained from doing so. He was there to purchase, after all. 
“Indeed,” he managed to seeth out through gritted teeth, then covered it by taking a deep breath in. “I’ve seen enough,” he said, turning around. “I only wanted to see if you were selling what you claimed to be selling.”
“I trust you are not disappointed?” The Butcher asked, taking the handkerchief away from his face. 
Suma forced a grin. “Not at all. Let’s get back to my boys, before they drink all of your champagne.”
----
They spent the walk back in silence, coming back to the ‘showroom’ in short order. Sure enough, at his request, his bodyguards had relocated the champagne and the food to the display cases around the edges of the room, placing the cases they had each carried in on the table.
Suma came back to the lounge area and wasted no time in popping each of the cases open, revealing their shimmering contents for the Butcher to see.
The man himself stood off to one side while Suma made a show of counting the stacks of plastic chips in the frontmost case. 
“I assume you’ve made your choices then, Mr Suma?” the Butcher asked.
Suma smiled, not looking away from his case as he counted. “Oh yes,” he said. “I believe I have. All the talk of cooking made me hungry, and eager to consume these delicacies.”
“Fantastique,” the rat-faced little man said. “And what will you be leaving here with, today?”
Suma stopped his counting, sighing and looking up at the roof. The only doors to the showroom were the ones leading in, and the ones leading deeper into the facility. 
“I’m thinking,” he said, reaching into the case to his left, underneath the stack of chips arranged just well enough to hide the M7 concealed within it. 
“I might walk out of here with a little bit of everything,” Suma said, revealing the gun and turning to the Butcher, aiming directly at his beady little eyes.
The Butcher had just enough time to register the gun with shock and fear before a burst split his skull in two, ripping off his left cheek and a good portion of his forehead.
The body slumped to the ground.
Suma turned to his bodyguards, who were each hefting their own M7s out of the cases.
“Secure the doors,” he said. 
Three men moved to each doorway, pushing them open and loosing rounds down the corridor. Panicked cries and shouts came from all directions, gunfire being exchanged from both sides. 
Suma raised a hand to his ear.  Nest team, this is Firehawk. Go secure.”
“Secure confirmed,” a voice said back. “Status?”
“Shots have been fired,” Suma said. “Time for the cleanup.”
“Solid copy. Units dispatched,” the voice in his ear said. “May wanna stay out of the thick of it for this one, Chief.”
Suma lowered his hand and scoffed. “Not a chance.” He walked over to the door that led deeper into the heart of the warehouse, tapping one of them men on the shoulder. “You three,” he said, “with me. We’re getting the cattle out of here.” He paused, turning towards the corpse of The Butcher, sparing a second to spit at it. “Even if we have to carry ‘em.”
The four men moved deeper into the heart of the Abattoir, guns at the ready.
Category:Stories
Category:Short stories
Category:The Weekly