Chuter
The smell of death is singularly memorable. We’re not talking the pungent after waft of roadkill happened upon some days gone by. Nor are we deluding ourselves with fresh spilt blood uncorked from behind the crosshairs of a rifle. Even the specific reek of cancer devouring from within doesn’t truly hit the mark. No, I’m referring to death that stalks, the kind that has teeth and that isn’t afraid to use them. I would go so far as to say that encountering that particular stench is scarring and haunting in the extreme.
For all the naysayers of the world, I invite you to work the chute for a few days, and then see if you can ever sleep in the open air again.
The ladder rung flecked brittle rust under Adam’s hand as he took hold in preparation to hoist is bulk upward. The state of the two story stretch of wrought iron was understandable considering both the shortage of functional goods and the surreal hell to which it lead. The fragile shadow of the sturdy metal was not a pleasant harbinger though.
“Hand over hand, junkjockey, before sunup!” the overseer shouted.
Before a swift kick to the leathers followed, Adam plunged up several rungs, rising above the collected heads waiting their turn. An undulating chorus of groans lauded his efforts, but he knew that the airy response was from the overseer’s outburst. He had vowed to stay focused only on his task, but the shuffling sea of shadow in the predawn was mesmerizing. The further he climbed, the more he wanted to watch, to rap his mind around the numbers. Or try to.
A rattle from below hurried him along as another jockey began his ascent. Adam pushed on, knowing the walkway would be even worse. He could see the spidery outline swaying against the backdrop of bruised clouds. He had heard that the northern wall of the corridor had collapsed again, promising a pungent crossing to the compound beyond.
The tiny platform of grated metal, though stable, mocked him as his eyes bulged at the lattice work of cables that suspended a single six inch wide plank of wood across the twenty foot chasm beneath. A safety measure sure, much like the rope ladder at the far end, but one that offered little in the way of comfort when it was time to take the walk. Chasm might be a stretch to a big picture kind of guy, but once the sea of hands and teeth began tracking each and every movement, the twenty foot stretch of corridor beneath the walkway became bottomless.
Adam’s feet seemed to have more balls than the rest of him, because he was almost halfway across before he could pull his eyes from the undulating shadow mass below him. Anticipated groans of pleasure chorused up to him with such a fetid stench, he had to pause, swaying on the narrow bridge with white knuckled fists strangling the guide wires on either side of him.
A retching erupted behind him as the sorry sack next in line emptied his breakfast into the masses. The wet scrabbling responses of delight from below almost set Adam to heaving as well, but he panted heavily to stave off any upchuckery. The shift in attention from the desiccated emboldened him enough to shuffle onward. Stepping upon the platform ahead was surely no less magnificent than arriving upon the threshold of the holy gates themselves.
Without pause, Adam swung on to the rope ladder and started down to the compound below. Catching sight of the pale kid crossing the plank next, he felt a twinge of sympathy.
“Hey, jackasses!” he barked at the sea of heads. Such an outburst was enough to divide their attentions and buy a reprieve for Sir Chucksalot.
Adam dropped the last few feet to the trampled earth before any of the blood seekers could lock onto him. He turned to make room at the base of the ladder when a pair of arms encircled him with crushing force.