Chapter Text
Dust rolled across the dead and dying lawn squared off in front of the little government-allotted house, evidence of the lack of rain in the recent weeks to months. Children who once ran and shrieked in their play now, if they were outside at all, merely sat in what shade was available and squinted suspiciously at passers-by. Adults congregated in small groups to do much the same, with or without beers, grumbling about anything that would come across their minds. Weather, government, government-controlled weather. How jobs were becoming impossible to find or keep in that town and, if there were jobs, then they were at the factories who generally preferred to bring in outsiders anyway who would do it for less. Town was dying, was what they said. The town was dying and no one cared.
Inside one of those small houses, windows wide open in a desperate attempt to catch a breeze, a male figure made gaunt by a lifetime of malnourishment sprawled upon a threadbare and broken-down couch with an arm over his eyes as if to block out the heat and sun that baked and oppressed without thought to the lives it was supposed to nourish. Thoughts of a shower crossed his mind almost wistfully and just as quickly disappeared. The water would never be on at midday; the government ration mandated use only between 7 and 8 PM. Supplies were limited, too, so one had to be standing in the shower with their hand on the knob at 6:59 with any hope of getting any refreshment that week. Daily showers were a fairy tale.
Sighing softly, the young man moved his arm to stare instead at the ceiling with its sharp stucco ceiling that cast abysmal shadows like a desert hellscape A faint smell of blood lingered around his home with its focus in his room where his precious few clothes were hung. Everything smelled of blood in that home thanks to his precious, precious slaughterhouse job. Privately, he couldn’t stand the job, hated it with all that he had, but it paid and that was all that mattered. It paid enough to keep the rationed water coming, what food the stores had on his table, and the flickering and dim electricity powering his home. He was fairly well-off, really, in comparison to his neighbors, though high-poverty was still poverty.
Speaking of that hell, it was time for him to be getting ready for work. Night shift started at three and, in that time, he had to get dressed and walk across town to the meat packing plant. With a soft sigh that spoke of unending exhaustion, he rose and shuffled to his room to pull on his coveralls. He inspected them carefully for holes and missing buttons, then where his name patch was sewn on. “Duo” was sprawled in black across the white background with traces of blood spattered across it, the patch itself sloppily sewn on in preparation of Duo not being at the job very long.
Duo, for that was what the young man called himself,slipped into his coveralls and boots before tucking his long and messy rope of hair down the back of his shirt and heading out the door. Immediately, the heavy and judgemental stares of his neighbors weighed down upon him. “Scab” was whispered more than once and not exactly in a manner to keep it hidden. Duo let it pass by with the knowledge that it was untrue and happy in the knowledge. He hadn’t broken a strike because there wasn’t one. He hadn’t been fired because he still did his job and didn’t bitch about the pay or the conditions like he wanted to and everyone else had. it would have been nice had he received a raise since there were fewer employees to pay now, but management had apparently seen fit to keep that money themselves. Not Duo’s business.
The heat from the sun pounded mercilessly upon Duo as he walked. Sweat beaded and ran down his neck and made his shirt and hair stick to him something fierce, making him uncomfortable and wistful that public busses still ran in his neighborhood. Rumor had it that they flitted about the rich areas still, but those people all had their own cars and no need for public transport. It was probably just a way to make them feel good about their city, like there was something to be proud of there yet.
Duo passed a church that had its doors wide open to try to lure in parishioners to the dark interior with the illusion of cool shade, but people knew better. It was just as hot in there as the rest of the town, without the benefit of wind. Jesus wouldn’t cool you off anymore than a baptist minister who only spoke of fire and hell. What had jesus done to improve the economy, anyway? Nothing but make the sun hotter and jobs fewer.
Just twenty minutes before his shift, Duo walked through the metal gates of the meat packing plant, a wisp of a man among the burly immigrants who didn’t speak any English whatsoever but instead Spanish, Russian, Lithuanian, and other languages from the Balkans and Eastern European regions. These were the men whom the plant was importing to replace people like Duo, and were doing it very well. He couldn’t hate them, really, they were just looking out for their families and trying to make a buck just like he was. Besides that, they were pretty decent men. Some of them even tried to teach Duo their languages, but how was Duo to double check if “byk” meant bull or bastard? He just had to take the men at their word and, if anyone sniggered when he said a word, just hope it was because he mussed up the pronunciation.
“Privet,” Duo nodded at the men, who nodded and replied in kind as they queued up to punch in and grab their helmets. The heat was even more oppressive in the massive building despite the fans whirring several feet above them, the blood smell pungent if familiar. The men could already hear the cattle lowing in their pens, waiting for whatever fate they held, but some would inevitably know if they caught that blood smell. It got damn frustrating when they would panic and refuse to move, forcing the workers to all use their electric prods, which the company found far too expensive and would berate them all for. There would typically go a day’s pay.
Punching in and grabbing his helmet, Duo fastened it on and grabbed a rubber apron before making his way to the killing floor. The cement was tacky still with remains of blood from the last shift as well as the bits and pieces that weren’t cleaned up right. Duo took his place on the hog line with a grim look; he hated killing hogs especially since they were far more apt to refuse to move than cows. That meant more electrical prodding, more loud squeals, and damaged meat.
Sometimes he really did hate this job.