Dietary

In a twisted vision of the future, the human race is reduced to meat, primal, animal meat, farmed by the vampire kings that now rule. And yet, through mimicking keepers, a battery-bred O-Negative develops the ability to form thoughs, words. When a slaughterhouse delivery train is cut off, along with the other animals, she escapes. Along with a reluctant vampire royal, and a scavenging scrap of half-bred, she embarks upon a perilous journey to the archives that could save humanity.

1Likes
2Comments
374Views
AA

1. Prologue; Tracks.

Prologue; Tracks.
The so-called train jostles on the ill-fitting track, and the terrible, tortured lullaby of gnashing metal on wrong metal; strident, enraged, harsh, infiltrates the invitingly raised portcullis of my eardrums, voiciferous, mingling with the rumbling, the cries and the acrid stench of unwashed bodies, meat, and blood sweat and salt and stale air and festering wounds. The sounds and smells of torture triumph as they relentlessly attack my nose, my ears. And eyes.
The train is long and stout; a plain, unadorned tube of thinly hammered metal, scratched and scuffed and dented, the exact color of the tins of human feed the keepers used to smear on the dirt ground for us to eat back at the farms. Its walls are stained with sweat and dirt and streaked with blood, dried and fresh alike, side by side. Compatible. It jerks violently non-stop and we rely on one another to stand. We are bound together, standing ten by twenty, chained to one another by the grip of heavy black iron links, rough, jagged and potholed with rust. They have chafed the skin from my ankles and wrists and neck until I am crusted with dried blood over the filth and perspiration, raw flesh beneath tender and dying.
My cheek is inflamed with an exquisite agony of indescribable intensity and power, the entire right side of my face ablaze with an all consuming inferno of razor sharp flames dancing their deathly dance as they devour me. I feel the brand that burns my cheek and neck without lifting a finger. Its the brand of Lumina Industries, in the name of King Chile Roth III.
It'll fester and putrefy if left untreated, so its a blessing we are delivered directly to the slaughterhouse
Aside from the one stop, when Crown Princess Farrah Roth, third in line as heir to the vampire throne, will board this stinking hell to select her own pedigree meals. 
I am a human, the lowest filth on earth. There was a time the keepers said, thousands of years ago when humans dominated the world. When vampires did not exist, or if they did, were in hiding. When humans were intelligent beings, who constructed mighty cities of their own, civilizations, wore clothing and kept farms of their own, harvesting the corpses of pigs or cows or chickens for their tables. When they could speak and think coherently. Absurd. Ridiculous. Impossible. It'd never enter anyone's head - an atrocious fantasy as banal as thinking fish governing worlds on land. More so.
Yet it must be rooted in truth or how do you explain me? I'm a mutant, a freak of nature, I guess. I think, and I think I can talk. If I can coherently think this vampire language, then why shouldn't I be able to verbalise? I practised speaking aloud to myself, back at the farm, in nights muffling cover, imitating the keepers - and through this mimicry retained some vampiric intelligence. Well. Not quite vampiric of course but if I can think like this talk then perhaps I could learn. Not that I'll ever get the chance, but that's not what matters. Nothing matters now. 
The train jerks forth to an abrupt stop, and I cringe to steady myself into an upright position, to avoid crumpling down and being whipped back into submission. I know what's happening. There alone is a single possibility. Farrah Roth is boarding to select her meals. The choicest pedigrees, pure-breds only the best for royalty. I'm no free range human, by a long shot, but I stand aching in the pure bred quality section, that brand upon my skin. If I am chosen the pain will last. In the slaughterhouse I am but a steaming cup of morning O-Neg, or a pre-packed lunch, but royally selected it will last and last and last, as I am refrigerated live, or drunk directly, drained 
When the oval doors wail to signal their opening, I struggle not to drown in the deafening silence that follows.

A/N - More of a prologue, that... So. Please give feedback, constructive feedback. I own full copyrights. I did try not to be too graphic, I swear - that is the worst behind. I am begging you for reviews here. C:

H

Join MovellasFind out what all the buzz is about. Join now to start sharing your creativity and passion
Loading ...