Back to Official Fiction

Biohazard Symbol Drained Biohazard Symbol


The Northfields sun had etched a fine farmer's tan onto Jerrod Hatton's thin frame. Prairie chickens slunk along in the nearby field, dizzy from the haze, as Jerrod hoisted a coil of thick chains onto his shoulder. His heavily patched boots kicked up clouds of dust that carried far in the irradiated winds, leaving a trail of brown and red in his wake.

As he opened the door to the barn-the one he and his father had built when he was a boy-he took a moment to adjust. The sun's beams invaded the barn through countless gaps and slits in the walls and roof. The light from the open door cut through the darkness like a miner's lamp in a long-forgotten cave.

Jerrod gave the chain a little slack and twirled it for momentum as he stared at the support beam above him. For a moment, he thought of his father.

"Strongest thing in this place is that piece of wood right there, kid," he remembered his father Vince saying. "Took me a month to find this. Grabbed it from an old telephone pole."

"What's a telephone pole?" Jerrod had asked.

Vince had smiled and shook his head. "It's nothing you need to worry about, kid. Just a bunch of old junk your grandfather used to talk about."

Jerrod threw the thick chain over the splintering beam with a heave and a grunt. It landed on the ground with the cold jangle of metal on asphalt, just on the other side of the double yellow line.

Jerrod had never understood why they built the barn to straddle an old road. "For preservation," Vince used to say. "It's my own little reminder that we used to be more civilized." The paint had been shielded from the elements, both natural and nuclear. Pools of old, dried blood stained the yellow lines, a sign that traffic paint was no longer a relevant guide.

Jerrod stood with his hands on his hips and observed his momentary achievement.

Maybe Dad would be proud of me, he thought.

His shoulders sank, and he rubbed the back of his neck to relieve the tension. Jerrod walked to a large metal pan the width of his arms and height of his knee, and pushed it in front of the chain's tight coil. Before he left, he looked back at the hanging chain for a moment.

Having coped with its future function, he left and closed the door behind him.

The front door of Jerrod's house hung stubbornly on one hinge, and slamming it shut was like trying to slam a tent flap. Jerrod walked in, slumped down in his faded love seat, and fished for the flask he had wedged in the cushions the night before. He took a long draw as he removed the frayed straw hat from his matted black hair.

The chair was situated directly in front of the door, with a milk crate in front of it serving as an ottoman. On the left arm of the chair was a bowie knife that Jerrod handled as naturally as if it were part of his hand. To the right of the chair, fully loaded, was a shotgun Vince had given him on his eighteenth birthday.

"Son," he recalled Vince saying, "This is gonna save your ass one day. Hope you got the sense to use it when the time comes."

Jerrod laughed and took another pull from his flask.

"Sense," he thought, "What makes sense any more?"

He sighed and watched the door with heavy lids, waiting for his guests to arrive. The sun was setting, and the horses lay down in the sparse tufts of grass that broke up the dusty monotony of the Hatton farm. The pigs rolled around and cooled themselves in the only muddy area for miles, situated behind the barn, away from the sun's cruel gaze. Jerrod felt a numbness creep over him with the chill of a guilty conscience. He let it take him; he'd need the energy later.

That night, the door creaked open and a gaunt, pale head poked through with great caution. The eyes were that of an albino, sunk deep into the skull. In a heartbeat Jerrod awakened and leveled the shotgun.

"Calm yourself," the white-skinned man said. "Is it safe? Is it ready?"

Jerrod gently massaged the trigger as he considered all the nights he had played his part willingly, without asking many questions. He fantasized about blasting this pale freak in the face and feeding him to the pigs, piece by piece, until there was nothing left but traces of the precious red nectar he and his kin pined for.

"Well?" Sneak said impatiently. "We don't have much time! He could wake up at any moment!"

Jerrod snapped back to reality and lowered the shotgun. He threw back the last of the whiskey with a final toss of the flask, then chucked it casually onto the hardwood floor; the flask's hollow thud echoed briefly through the barren house. Jerrod stood and picked up the bowie knife.

"Let's get this over with," said Jerrod.

The two men entered the barn, which was now filled with the softer, cooler rays of the moon's apathetic eye. Two other men-sun-scarred, dark-eyed novices like Jerrod- had come to assist Sneak, and were busy securing the suspended chain around the feet of a middle-aged naked man.

"His heart is strong," said Sneak. "We will get much from him." He paused. "Our masters are sure to have you join soon. You have served them well these last few years."

"Do what you need and leave," Jerrod slurred under his breath.

Icily, Sneak said, "Mind your tone."

Jerrod lowered his head and kept his eyes to the floor as the other two novices hauled the naked, unconscious man into the air and fastened the loose end of the chain to a support beam. The victim swung to and fro over the pan, and the beam creaked to the rhythm of the body's momentum. One of the helpers rolled up a piece of cloth and tied it around the man's mouth, fitting it snugly between the man's teeth.

"All right, it's time," said Sneak.

Without hesitation, Jerrod grabbed the man's left arm and slit it from wrist to elbow. The man's eyes flashed open. His legs shook the chain violently.

"Hold him still, you fools!" Sneak hissed. "The chloroform has worn off!"

Jerrod ignored the muffled screams of the dying man's pain and grabbed his right arm, repeating the foot-long gash. He grabbed the man by the hair, ready for the last cut-and accidentally caught a glimpse of the victim's eyes.

Wide. Alarmed. ...Innocent.

Flashes of all the eyes that had come before suddenly bombarded his mind, and his cutting hand began to shake.

"Finish it!" Sneak demanded.

Jerrod shoved his private misery back down inside of him, steadied his hand, and plunged the blade through the man's neck, severing both the jugular and the carotid with one swift, precise stroke.

He tried to draw his eyes away from the tub as it filled with blood.

"My, my...that had some skill to it, novice," Sneak murmured. "I don't usually approve of killing the cow, but damn if it isn't a beautiful sight."

Jerrod stepped back and began to wipe the blood from his hands, but the pale-faced man darted forward and slapped him for his insolence. "Fool! Do not waste such things! Use your knife to scrape off whatever remains on you into the tub."

As Jerrod silently complied, his shoulders sagging, Sneak's tone softened. "You should know that we are pleased with you, novice. Next time we meet, you will be our brother. We shall take care of you as you take care of our masters, as we have promised." The white-skinned man sniffed the air, twice, delicately. "You are low on alcohol...we will fix this when we return."

After the body was completely empty, the helpers lowered a specially made, tight-fitting metal lid over the trough and closed the hasps, sealing the vessel. They lifted it slowly and carefully. Sneak took a moment to look the place over before leaving.

"Built this with your father, yes?" He gave the chain a good tug. The victim's lifeless body swayed like a hog on a meat hook. "Fine work. Fine, indeed. Until next time, brother." Sneak bowed, and disappeared into the darkness outside.

Moving out of pure habit, Jerrod placed a tarp under the body and untied the chain. The lump of flesh and bones hit the asphalt with a crack and a thud. Jerrod dragged the body out back and dumped it in the mud pit behind the barn, then walked back into the barn to coil up the chain and place it on his shoulder.

The Pale Ones owned him. He knew it. He had accepted it long ago.

Jerrod Hatton marched back to the house as he had done so many times before, crying, longing for the next batch of booze that would numb his pain.


This story is posted on the FE Forums, click to see the original thread.