the women and men of the night had obviously been busy plying their trade. A minefield of used condoms were splattered everywhere, mimicking a post-paintball fight. To make matters worse, bloody spillage from the slaughterhouse mingled with the condoms and other unmentionables.
‘Shit!’
he uttered, accidentally walking into the collateral damage of dead sex and animal leakage. Gingerly, he began shaking away the sticky sheaths from the sole of his shoe. ‘What a fucking mess.’
Outside the abattoir gate, he gazed over the building, taking in its Gothic-like appearance. It was a mammoth, grey cement structure begging to be demolished. Grim was an understatement. Dull lights peered dimly from behind numerous frosted-glass windows. The smell of rainy ozone on tarmac floated heavily in the air, at once familiar and strange, and for a very brief moment Karl felt the specific sensation of everything being unreal.
‘Creepy fucking place…’
Dove-grey smoke drifted upward from a massive industrial chimney, like a ghost, formless yet controlled. There was something eerily unsettling and intimidating about the place, a chill that caused the hairs on the back of his neck to stand on end. A sensation Karl always dreaded.
Above, the evening sky had become menacing.
‘What the hell are you doing here…?’
he mumbled, seconds before entering a decrepit office furnished with a laminated table, two battered yellow chairs, one occupied by a middle-aged man, and a couple of metal cabinets diseased with rust spots. On the table sat a bust of a severed pig’s head, its languid tongue resting between yellow and bloody teeth. The place reeked of confinement , with the added unattractiveness of a post-war kitchen. Dying fluorescent tubes flickered overhead, spitting annoyingly.
‘Hello, there. Are you the owner?’ asked Karl, tapping at the door, looking directly at the man.
The man had skinny streaks of grey hair, yellow moustache and the bluest eyes Karl had ever seen. He seemed engrossed in a newspaper. An ancient pipe rested in his mouth, despite the large ‘No Smoking’ sign spiked against the far wall. The stench of burning tobacco was everywhere.
For a few seconds more, the man continued reading the newspaper , before placing the smouldering pipe in a filthy ashtray nailed to the table’s top.
‘No, I’m the manager. John Talbot’s the name. The owner, Geordie Goodman, is over at the pens, taking stock, and very busy right now, Mister…?’
‘Kane. Karl Kane,’ replied Karl extending his hand. DespiteTalbot’s face being mottled with age, Karl quickly discerned that the old dog still retained a greatly part of a once-formidable build, and that his bite would be a hell of a lot worse than his bark. ‘Everyone calls me Karl.’
‘How can I help you, Karl?’ asked Talbot, standing, shaking Karl’s hand. Talbot’s grip felt like cold iron. He was Karl’s height, about 6-3 or so, but stooped. Across the shoulders, he was two of Karl.
‘I’m a film scout, looking for a good location for Channel Four. They’re making a horror movie, about zombies. I hope you’re not easily insulted, John, but this place looks perfect to use for the film.’
‘Zombies?’ Talbot suddenly released a howl of laughter. ‘You’ve come to the right place. Most of the so-called workers in here
are
zombies!’
Karl joined in the laughter, some forced, some appreciative.
‘I’ll have to remember that one, John, when I go back to the studio and file my report.’
‘You’d have to see the boss for the final say, of course, but I can give you a quick tour of the place, until then. That’s if you’re up to it?’
‘Would you? That’s terrific.’
‘Think nothing of it. Here. Put this on,’ said Talbot, handing Karl a battered hardhat, red in colour. ‘Ready?’
‘Yes.’ Karl squeezed the hat on. It was a right fit.
‘Come on. This way,’ nodded Talbot, walking towards the door. ‘I should warn you, though:
‘Shit!’
he uttered, accidentally walking into the collateral damage of dead sex and animal leakage. Gingerly, he began shaking away the sticky sheaths from the sole of his shoe. ‘What a fucking mess.’
Outside the abattoir gate, he gazed over the building, taking in its Gothic-like appearance. It was a mammoth, grey cement structure begging to be demolished. Grim was an understatement. Dull lights peered dimly from behind numerous frosted-glass windows. The smell of rainy ozone on tarmac floated heavily in the air, at once familiar and strange, and for a very brief moment Karl felt the specific sensation of everything being unreal.
‘Creepy fucking place…’
Dove-grey smoke drifted upward from a massive industrial chimney, like a ghost, formless yet controlled. There was something eerily unsettling and intimidating about the place, a chill that caused the hairs on the back of his neck to stand on end. A sensation Karl always dreaded.
Above, the evening sky had become menacing.
‘What the hell are you doing here…?’
he mumbled, seconds before entering a decrepit office furnished with a laminated table, two battered yellow chairs, one occupied by a middle-aged man, and a couple of metal cabinets diseased with rust spots. On the table sat a bust of a severed pig’s head, its languid tongue resting between yellow and bloody teeth. The place reeked of confinement , with the added unattractiveness of a post-war kitchen. Dying fluorescent tubes flickered overhead, spitting annoyingly.
‘Hello, there. Are you the owner?’ asked Karl, tapping at the door, looking directly at the man.
The man had skinny streaks of grey hair, yellow moustache and the bluest eyes Karl had ever seen. He seemed engrossed in a newspaper. An ancient pipe rested in his mouth, despite the large ‘No Smoking’ sign spiked against the far wall. The stench of burning tobacco was everywhere.
For a few seconds more, the man continued reading the newspaper , before placing the smouldering pipe in a filthy ashtray nailed to the table’s top.
‘No, I’m the manager. John Talbot’s the name. The owner, Geordie Goodman, is over at the pens, taking stock, and very busy right now, Mister…?’
‘Kane. Karl Kane,’ replied Karl extending his hand. DespiteTalbot’s face being mottled with age, Karl quickly discerned that the old dog still retained a greatly part of a once-formidable build, and that his bite would be a hell of a lot worse than his bark. ‘Everyone calls me Karl.’
‘How can I help you, Karl?’ asked Talbot, standing, shaking Karl’s hand. Talbot’s grip felt like cold iron. He was Karl’s height, about 6-3 or so, but stooped. Across the shoulders, he was two of Karl.
‘I’m a film scout, looking for a good location for Channel Four. They’re making a horror movie, about zombies. I hope you’re not easily insulted, John, but this place looks perfect to use for the film.’
‘Zombies?’ Talbot suddenly released a howl of laughter. ‘You’ve come to the right place. Most of the so-called workers in here
are
zombies!’
Karl joined in the laughter, some forced, some appreciative.
‘I’ll have to remember that one, John, when I go back to the studio and file my report.’
‘You’d have to see the boss for the final say, of course, but I can give you a quick tour of the place, until then. That’s if you’re up to it?’
‘Would you? That’s terrific.’
‘Think nothing of it. Here. Put this on,’ said Talbot, handing Karl a battered hardhat, red in colour. ‘Ready?’
‘Yes.’ Karl squeezed the hat on. It was a right fit.
‘Come on. This way,’ nodded Talbot, walking towards the door. ‘I should warn you, though:
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