Limbus, Inc. Read online

  As he turned, he caught a glimpse of Jackson staggering over to the cow’s inert body. He’d already taken up the shackles again. Someone touched the Sticker’s shoulder and he jumped. Carl extended his hand for the bolt gun. The Sticker handed it to him, and then took his knife off the ground and returned to the bleeding floor.

  By the time he was set back up, the renegade cow, hanging upside-down in the air by both its ankles now, slid toward him. He stuck the knife just under the jaw and swept across. You didn’t quit, he thought as he watched the scarlet cascade over his mesh gloves and arm guards. I used to value the good fight, sir, but now… look at you. Look where the fight ended.

  He pressed the button and the process line buzzed on, the next cow immediately upon him. The Sticker slit another throat and then kicked some accumulated blood toward the other drain. He was surprised the USDA rep hadn’t had more to say about his workspace. Oh well, cleanliness wasn’t his business. He was just here to do a job and get paid. To live out his wonderful life.

  Divorce papers waited for him at home. He wasn’t going to be dramatic; he’d sign what had to be signed. He never thought he’d deserved Annette, and over time he guessed she’d discovered this truth as well.

  From the time he was seventeen until he was twenty-seven, he’d worked as a sticker. Then he got married and knew that had to change. He got a management job at the frozen onion factory, worked there until he was thirty-one. Five years ago he’d had a plan. He would become a treatment plant operator at Fabulous Onion Foods and take management courses, work up that chain, save money, open a blood sausage facility someday, since there was a surprising demand in the industry. After a paperwork mishap though, the CEO of Fabulous Onion, Trevor Milstead, was the asteroid that destroyed that prospective world and others.

  The unemployment wasn’t enough to sustain his household. The Sticker refused to let their underwater mortgage go into default for the sake of some out-of-state jobs Annette found online. Leaving his trusted territory in the Inland Empire made him uncomfortable, but he didn’t appreciate how much Annette despised that discomfort until it was already too late.

  He went back to his old line of work at a new slaughterhouse, which was a pay cut of twenty-five grand—but he knew this kind of work and he trusted this kind of work. Even if he could hardly afford his dumpy apartment.

  There was nothing else for Annette to admire in a man so quickly neutered. Her husband was a failure, and an ugly failure at that. The Sticker’s crooked teeth were not only unsightly for their angles, but coffee stained. He had bad skin begging for skin cancer, courtesy of his Irish father. And just last week he noticed a small barren spot forming in his otherwise thick blond hair. He’d always called it a cowlick before, but now, no such delusions could be made in earnest. So this was how the hill looked, just as you went down the other side. So much of his life had already passed and yet he’d never felt like it had begun.

  The Sticker’s gaze drifted outside to the long, winding corral where the cows marched. The bends in the line were so they wouldn’t see what they were directly headed for, to keep them tranquil. It was probably the first time the Sticker felt envious of the poor animals.

  *

  Lunchtime wasn’t a refreshing occasion. Despite the sterile interior and air conditioning of the admin building, the walls hummed with the odor of cattle and dirt. The Sticker sat at the plastic table in a daze. He tried to will himself to open his brown sack lunch; he knew he’d be hungry later if he skipped, but with Annette lounging over his brain, always in his thoughts, forever and ever there, with him, it was impossible to think about eating. He could only glance around at the various groups of workers: the steamers, the singers, shavers, the splitters, shacklers, stunners… it was like a conspiracy of language used to reinforce the idea that all jobs here were created equal. And that wasn’t the case. Just ask the shavers and splitters about that.

  Personally, he had always been happiest as a sticker (the term bleeder was frowned upon by the management), because his job involved no heavy machinery or lifting. His body was torn up by now anyway, but more from shoveling waste chambers at the onion plant. The rest of these guys, these younger men, they were popping Advils and Tylenols (Vicodin secretly) and some had bandages chronically appearing on different parts of their body. No way of denying it; the crew was a gruesome lot by day’s end.

  The Sticker noticed an employment agency’s flyer hanging from the cork board. Limbus, Inc. read the top banner, and beneath it, a picture of a globe glowed with needles of light. None of the phone number tags had been ripped from the bottom.

  Funny thing to see in this place. Could have used them when I got canned.

  Jackson and Carl rambled on about the immortal cow from earlier. Every now and then they would involve the Sticker in the conversation and he would nod with their assessments. Jackson, right as rain now, had a gash in his forehead like a miniature crimson hockey stick. He was lucky he’d backed up when that hoof lashed out, or he’d probably be on permanent break-time right about now.

  The room went silent suddenly. Gerald Bailey, facility manager, came through the door. The man never visited unless he wanted to ream someone out. Despite not having a manual job, he was always oily. He lived an air-conditioned existence but kept his blue collared shirt open at the top, where puffs of hoary chest hair sprung free. Seeing as everybody had to wear a hairnet and beard-nets, it was a disconcerting sight to say the least.

  “Anybody know why there’s a product with three bolt holes in its brain?” he demanded of the entire room. His eyes roved to Jackson. “How’d you get that forehead smile, Action Jackson?”

  Jackson stammered. “Shackles struck me in the face… on accident. Got it documented.”

  “Be the hell more careful.” Gerald seemed to grow less agitated and his posture slackened. “So nobody knows about the bolts? Any stunners in here?”

  Carl began to stand.

  “Sit son, you’re still on break. I’m just getting details here.”

  Carl lowered back down but his eyes didn’t move from Bailey. “The first two didn’t do the trick, boss.”

  “Didn’t do the trick? Is that your excuse?”

  Carl frowned. “You counseling me in front of everyone, boss?”

  Bailey turned away, muttering something tired and vicious, and his tremendous gut bumped into the Sticker. “Oh pardon—hey you’re the new hot shot that upped productivity that one week.”

  “Two weeks,” the Sticker replied.

  Bailey’s mangy brown eyebrows hauled his weasel eyes up with them. “I know you, don’t I? Yeah. You used to work at the Fabulous Onion, on the cutting floor.”

  “Small world.”

  “It is. You know Trevor Milstead? Hell of a guy.”

  “I know him.”

  Bailey, noticing the conversation’s one-sided tilt, went to leave. He halted at the sight of the Limbus flyer and promptly ripped it off the board. “I don’t know who keeps putting these up, but they’ll likely need to apply at this Limbus place if they keep at it. Any ideas?”

  Nobody said anything. After a moment Bailey marched off like a crestfallen general going to war alone.

  Somebody whispered, “Why does it matter, one bolt, two or three?”

  “Some of the meat is ruint,” another replied.

  “Inhumane,” another guy added.

  Leaving his lunch unopened, the Sticker slid out from the table and tapped Carl’s shoulder. “You still smoke?”

  “Like a chimney.”

  “Good, I want one.”

  “Since when?”

  The Sticker left the break room and a moment later heard Carl push out his chair.

  *

  He admittedly didn’t like the taste, but the lightheaded sensation was welcome right now. In the time it took the Sticker to finish one, Carl had smoked two cigarettes and mistook this as a chance to catch up. The Sticker just wanted to stare off into the trees that lined the parking lot outside t
he processing plant. Just watch their leaves shake with the occasionally breeze… drift… forget this place… forget her.

  Carl ground the butt of his second smoke like he was doing some 50s dance move. “All right then, Mister Talkative, I’ll see you on the floor.”

  He didn’t notice as Carl left. These days he didn’t notice anybody around him. People were just like those brain-dead cows that came swinging up to him. Substantial only that they took up space and had to be addressed in the moment.

  Why? Why was he alone now?

  Well, it was simple to explain but impossible to accept. Annette had wanted a life that began and ended in victory, and he’d always hoped she was patient enough for him to accomplish big things. As good as his intentions were to put away money, she saw the writing on the wall after the onion plant. You couldn’t save what you didn’t have, and when a guy only knew the boundaries of his bubble, finding the wisdom to drop every cent into the right tech stocks was a pretty hard feat to pull off.

  Still, his heart wanted him to find a way. That’s why he’d gone on Facebook this morning and sent her a message: Can you just tell me what to do? Come home and I’ll do whatever you want. I’ll be whatever you want. Right away. This minute. This second. Please. I love you so much. I don’t care that you were with Milstead. If you want to come home, none of that matters. I’ll be a different person. I’ll go anywhere. I’ll show you. I’ll show you that I’ll go far away from here. Another state. Another country. Goddamn, another planet! I don’t give a shit anymore. I just need you back.

  Looking back, the message was painfully embarrassing, but he couldn’t wait to get home and go online. See if she’d responded.

  The warning whistle blew then.

  Time to work.

  *

  After a restless night stalking Facebook and staring at his bedroom ceiling, the Sticker shambled from his pickup truck. He closed the door and took a long drink from his coffee thermos. Noticing his shadowy face in the reflection of his window, he leaned forward and started scraping at his bent front tooth. Love coffee, but goddamn. Another face floated into the reflection and he turned quickly around.

  A black girl, perhaps ten or eleven, stood there. Her hair was straightened and fell down her shoulders like a nighttime rainstorm. She had the peculiar, yet smart, outfit of a business woman. The Sticker had never seen such a small pantsuit in his life. To fit her overall stature, her charcoal coat was also stylish. On the lapel the morning sunlight played off a platinum pin that looked like a miniature globe.

  She stuck out her petite dark hand. Her emerald gaze cut into him with intelligence and her smile bent gracefully, powerful with charisma, like a politician’s dream. “Tasha Willing.”

  “You lost from private school, kid?”

  Her smile faded only a bit. “I thought we might talk about a job offering. I work for an employment agency.”

  “That right?” The Sticker took a deeper sip from his thermos. He looked to the processing plant. “Got a job, as you can see.”

  “You can do better than this.”

  “Where are your parents, kid? Your old man work here?”

  “Perhaps we can set up a meeting after work today?” She expertly retrieved a business card from a side pocket in her coat.

  He took it, rather unconsciously and quickly glanced at it. The text on back said: Take a shot and you’ll go far. We employ.

  “Limbus, eh? Well done, kid. Guess you’re the one who’s pissing off Bailey.”

  “Bailey?”

  “The guy who’s gonna be upset if I don’t get in there soon.”

  “Don’t let me keep you any longer, sir. Just give me a call when you decide you’re ready for something better than this.”

  The Sticker chuckled. “You’re a nut, kid. Have a good day.”

  He walked past her.

  “You too, sir,” she said, watching him go.

  He must have completely misread the back of the business card before.

  Your new job is written in the stars. We employ.

  *

  This wasn’t good.

  It was only a half an hour until lunch break, so it was very strange that Bailey would call anybody to his office. He normally waited until break and then pretended he “didn’t want to interrupt.” Reporting to the operational manager’s office wasn’t as bad for the Sticker as it was for other workers though. He didn’t have to walk clear across the plant. Bailey’s office was only twenty feet from the bleed floor, right near the mostly shuttered USDA office. Just a hop over the spill containment berm and he was at the door.

  The Sticker stood in the surprisingly clean, cinnamon smelling office, taking in the glossy wood paneling, the glass paper weight with a scorpion trapped in it, the photo of a boating event on the Colorado River, the framed newspaper of some quad-bike racing event, the recessed lit painting of a country cottage. Everything was lovingly in its own place, and the greasy man with his disgusting public display of chest hair did not fit the rest of the room.

  “Have a seat, man,” said Bailey. His eyes were fixed on a Yahoo news article that featured an unflattering photo of President Obama yelling. He closed the web browser and swiveled around in his seat. He noticed the Sticker still stood. “I said sit.”

  “Hurts my back.”

  “Fine, shit, fine.” Bailey offered a weary look of lifelong annoyance. “So do you know why I called you in here?”

  “No clue.”

  “Really?”

  The Sticker shrugged.

  Bailey blew out a sigh between his rubbery lips and picked up a stack of papers from his in-basket. He dropped them at the other end of his desk. “What are those?”

  “My paycheck stubs, looks like.”

  “Looks like because they are, smart-alec.”

  “I don’t get it.”

  “Come on, man, don’t play dumb. What’s all this overtime here?”

  “I logged it,” replied the Sticker. “HR didn’t say anything.”

  “You don’t get to make your own hours, buddy. I ask you to work over and you accept or decline.”

  “This went on for a month. You saw me here, you never—”

  “This is abuse. Other people here are entitled to an eight-hour day.”

  “First I’m hearing about it.”

  “No, actually it isn’t. Look down at the comment section on the stub.”

  The Sticker read the note, which looked to be in a different font. Overtime shall be approved per arrangement by management. See supervisor.

  “When did you add that?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “That wasn’t there before.”

  “See, that’s the problem with you direct-deposit folks. Always forgetting your stubs.” Bailey took out what looked to be about a month’s worth of paycheck stubs, sealed in envelopes, a rubber band holding them together. All the envelopes looked crisp and new.

  The Sticker felt his blood catch fire, but he refused to show the man anything. “You and Trevor Milstead must be good friends, for you to go to all this trouble.”

  Bailey’s face went robotically placid. “Finish your day out there and I’ll give your full two weeks pay. Otherwise, you can leave right the hell now and get nothing. Go and have a ball.”

  Regardless of all he wanted to say, and subsequently do, the Sticker walked out of the sanitary confines of the office and back into the plant, to finish his last day in the blood and filth.

  *

  The Sticker leaned against the moist railing of the production line and wondered if Bailey was still in his office. At this point he was of two minds: he could threaten with wrongful termination, or he could just beat the ever-loving shit out of the guy. As he pondered these options, he found himself strolling the walkway, heading for the office.

  No anger, no fear, he arrived at Bailey’s door and pushed it open. The man sat in his chair, head back, snoring, that pubic mound of chest hair rising and falling. The Sticker watched him for a coupl
e moments and then shut the door quietly.

  Security hadn’t come by yet. Those guys were still having their last beers in shipping and receiving probably, but the Sticker didn’t want to chance a diversion from their routine, so he moved fast. It was almost laughingly perfect, as though a plan set weeks ago had now come to fruition.

  He stopped up the drains and set the hidden sump pump in reverse. The tank was so overloaded, the pump wouldn’t make any real noise until the level hit bottom. Curdled, septic, black blood wormed through the grates under his work table and fanned out over the floor. He fought a dry-heave and plugged his mouth with his fist. Stepping around the sludge, he took another moment to admire its grotesquery and happily cringed at the rotten reek. The containment around the bleed floor would not suffice for long. With the pump going full bore, this biological gruel would cascade over the berm in about ten minutes.

  The Sticker hoped it flooded Bailey’s pristine office before the jackass even woke from his nap. It would be a downright crime not to witness that, but he’d stuck around here long enough and getting going was a better idea.

  *

  From the bed of his pickup, the Sticker watched a blood soaked Gerald Bailey trudge out to the parking lot. The Sticker laughed and unfortunately some Scotch went down the wrong pipe. He coughed out through his watering eyes and tried to clear his sinuses. After cursing a bit, he regained himself and scanned the parking lot for another trace of any of the misery he might have caused. Bailey’s headlights went on and he wheeled his truck around in the darkness.

  So much for my fun. Wish I could see the full cleanup effort tomorrow.

  “Well done,” said a voice.

  The Sticker almost dropped his bottle of Black Velvet. “Jesus kid, what in the hell are you doing here? Holy shit!”

  Tasha Willing stood at the very threshold of dusk. Her green eyes shone. “I heard about what happened and I just wanted to drop by to express how angry I am, on your behalf.”