Carcass, Rotting [Part 1][Short Story][Adult Content].
Can a town be inherently evil? Was its history responsible for its future? Hello there, visitor. Welcome to Carcass.
Welcome
The heavens open up entirely by January and seemingly, all the powdery white crystals in existence are dumped upon our isolated, rural township. It is way off the tourist trail. It is a misery that does, however, attract the occasional “dark tourist”. I live in a place called Carcass. It doesn’t sound weird to me because I’ve heard the name my whole life, but to outsiders who hear of it, the place sounds repugnant and deathly. Like the names of most places, our place was named after the man who settled it. Samuel Carcass was bullied mercilessly as a child, but went on to make a name for himself. To spit in the face of those who tormented him (but who had already moved on with their lives long ago), named the town after himself. As many who are bullied do, he mirrored his oppressors, becoming a tormenter himself and controlled the settlement, originally proposed Fairview, through fear of his wrath, committing unspeakable acts. Mostly to women. The town’s isolation meant moving was difficult back then – especially if you weren’t of means or resourceful. The inevitable fate of Samuel Carcass was sealed when he was said to have fallen through a hidden crevasse while deer hunting. While Samuel Carcass might be long gone, this place has been stained by a wretched darkness, gagging in a repulsive, perpetual stench.
Skeletal Remains
The town’s central backbone, High Street, bisects eight short perpendicular laneways. The sight would give passing crows flying overhead the impression of a hunched corpse. Up close, however, a pulse is evident. Faintly. Carcass possesses the basic amenities a town needs to survive. A police station with a faded sign out front, a weathering Anglican church and a school round the bend at High street. High streets in England might denote places of prestigious business, where fine goods and quality services could be obtained from the most expensive vendors. The history of High Street in Carcass is a little less pleasant. The corner exists as a remnant of the past. An enormous tree with a low, prominent branch jutting directly out from the trunk – smooth as a steel pole, once stood on the corner, creating the need for the bend in the road and marked the beginning of the township. During his days of terror, Carcass made good use of this fit-for-purpose tree and would publicly hang community members up High o’er there for fabricated crimes such as murder or child molestation. There were true victims of course, as a body is the best evidence of a crime. However, it was Carcass himself who perpetrated these crimes. The scapegoats were the husbands, fathers and brothers of women who he most desired. Blonde curls and womanly curves were his preference, but younger boyish features were never dismissed.
The Red and White
The mill is the heart of Carcass, while the abattoir is the blood and guts, in a manner of speaking. Every other establishment or service exists because the people that work the paper mill or the abattoir need them. The truth in any economy, be it the entire country or a small town, is that everyone really depends on everyone else. In the absence of a supermarket, the inhabitants of Carcass would all have to travel great distances for groceries and a new overcoat for the winter. And without the mill or the abattoir (the white and red as the locals call them), no one else would be prospering, if you could call it that. A controversial politician once suggested Carcass should be used as a test site during the development of the first nuclear weapons during the ravages of the Second World War as a symbolic act of purification. Everyone condemned such a consideration but privately, most people that had spent any time in Carcass would have thought this area of land needed a thorough nuclear cleansing. Even the residents themselves. In 1942 it was the Jornada Del Muerto desert that was chosen. Many considered it a missed opportunity.
Bluff’s Mill
Woodchips become pulp, digesters separate lignin from the cellulose fibres, and byproducts, like the separated lignin are used as biofuel. Tear a piece of paper and look closely at the edge. You’ll see the fibres wriggle out at all angles as if threatening to jump.
George Bluff’s family has owned the paper mill for generations. The property is a series of browning warehouses containing complex machinery, vats, pipes and chemical reservoirs. A lengthy, pitched-roof warehouse adjacent to the main buildings serves as a workshop for the machining and storage of parts in the event of mechanical breakdown during the process of paper manufacture. Industrial sized cans of grease, huge lathes, belts, chains and meticulously arranged boxes on shelves ten metres long occupied the space. Atop the central warehouse is a control centre bursting with computer screens depicting graphs and numerical data revealing the current operational status of the plant from pulping to bleaching. It was an enormous task for any dedicated, highly trained team to maintain. While George had neglected to keep up with computational technology over the years, he did have the foresight to employ those with knowledge and skills to do it in his stead. Give him a shifter, a pair of pliers and a can of spray-on lubricant and he’ll get even the most stubborn gears moving again. He was a “doer” in the most literal sense of the word.
The hinges on the front gate enclosing all those brown sheds have never been oiled. They haven’t needed it. They’ve been so active over the years, there has never been an adequate opportunity for rust to form and develop any swing resistance. The thing is, George has had a hard time retaining his workforce. As soon as the gates open to fill new positions (as he envisions expansion in the warmer months), a screaming match ensues and another man slams the door behind him. The continual ebb and flow of employees is as predictable as the inevitable arrival of the next winter. It’s actually a wonder that those gates haven’t fallen off. People still reply to those advertisements, though. They just keep coming.
Click here for Part 2.
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All content is original and belongs to @nickmorphew [18 May 2019].
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