Story code: ST-000578
Part 1: The Deadbolt
The shrill whine of the automated bone saw was still vibrating in Mateo’s skull as Gaines shoved him hard against the cinderblock wall. Blood pulsed rapidly past the ragged edge of Mateo’s heavy rubber apron, heavy, dark drops hitting the linoleum floor in a sickening, steady rhythm. Instead of turning right down the main corridor toward the bright green cross of the plant’s first aid station, the manager grabbed Mateo by the collar of his uniform, twisting the thick fabric, and dragged him backward into the windowless manager’s office.
The heavy steel door slammed shut. The distinct, metallic clank of the deadbolt sliding deep into the frame vibrated directly against Mateo’s spine.
Mateo sank to the floor, his rubber boots slipping in the fresh, spreading slick of his own blood. He clamped his right hand over the deep, jagged gash on his left forearm, squeezing as hard as his trembling fingers allowed. The pain was a blinding, white-hot static pulsing behind his eyes, a relentless rhythm matching his racing heartbeat. He expected Gaines to tear open the orange trauma kit mounted on the wall beside the filing cabinets. He expected frantic shouting, the blare of the emergency alarm, the immediate demand for an ambulance.
Gaines simply stood in the center of the cramped, poorly lit room. The manager’s pale eyes darted down to the crimson puddle rapidly spreading across the cheap gray carpet, then slowly moved up to Mateo’s face. Gaines was breathing heavily, his chest heaving under his white coat, but his expression was entirely devoid of panic. It was a mask of cold calculation.
Mateo swallowed hard, tasting copper at the back of his throat. He tried to force a word out, to demand a doctor, to beg for a tourniquet, but his throat seized up completely. The edges of his vision flickered with a gray, encroaching haze. He leaned his head back against the steel door, the cold metal providing a sharp contrast to the burning agony in his arm.
Gaines ignored the bulky landline sitting on his cluttered metal desk. He reached inside his stained white coat and produced a small, battered cell phone. He punched in a long string of numbers with his thumb. It was far too many digits for emergency services.
The manager turned his back, pacing the short length of the office while holding the phone tightly to his ear. The ambient roar of the meatpacking plant’s kill floor-the grinding of gears, the shouting of line workers, the hiss of pressurized water-was entirely muffled by the thick, soundproofed walls. That isolation left a suffocating silence in the room. The only sounds remaining were Mateo’s jagged, shallow breathing and the low, indistinct murmur of Gaines’s voice as someone answered the line.
Mateo pressed his skull harder against the door. He focused intensely on the pain, using the agonizing throb to anchor himself to consciousness. His fingers were slipping against his own skin, the blood acting like a thick, warm lubricant. He squeezed tighter, digging his fingernails into his flesh. The numbness was starting to creep up past his elbow, a terrifying coldness that signaled exactly how much fluid he was losing onto the floorboards.
He looked up at the deadbolt. The brass thumb-turn was less than two feet above his head. He commanded his right arm to let go of the wound and reach up for the lock. His muscles refused to obey. The shock was setting in deep, turning his limbs to dead weight. Every time he shifted, a fresh wave of nausea rolled through his stomach.
Gaines abruptly ended the call and slipped the phone back into his coat pocket. He turned around, his jaw set tight. There was no pity in his eyes. He wasn’t looking at Mateo like an injured employee in need of urgent care. He was looking at the young worker like a logistical problem that needed immediate containment.
The manager stepped carefully over the growing pool of blood and walked to a tall metal supply cabinet bolted to the corner of the office. He pulled a heavy ring of keys from his belt, unlocked the cabinet, and swung the heavy doors open. He did not pull out bandages, gauze, saline, or pressure wraps.
Gaines retrieved a heavy roll of thick, black plastic sheeting and a large spool of industrial duct tape. He tossed the items onto the floor directly in front of Mateo. The plastic hit the ground with a heavy, muffled thud.
Mateo stared at the heavy-duty supplies. The pungent smell of raw meat and industrial bleach that clung to Gaines’s uniform seemed to fill the tiny room, choking out the remaining oxygen. Mateo planted his good boot flat on the floor, trying to find some traction, trying to push himself upward against the locked door. His boot just slid backward through the wet crimson slick, leaving a smeared trail on the carpet.
Gaines stepped closer, his heavy work boots leaving sticky red prints behind him. He reached down and grabbed the end of the duct tape, unspooling a long, loud strip that echoed sharply in the small, sealed room. The manager knelt right at the edge of the blood, leaning in close enough for Mateo to see the erratic twitch in his left eye.
Gaines reached his taped hand directly out toward Mateo.
The shrill whine of the automated bone saw was still vibrating in Mateo’s skull as Gaines shoved him hard against the cinderblock wall. Blood pulsed rapidly past the ragged edge of Mateo’s heavy rubber apron, heavy, dark drops hitting the linoleum floor in a sickening, steady rhythm. Instead of turning right down the main corridor toward the bright green cross of the plant’s first aid station, the manager grabbed Mateo by the collar of his uniform, twisting the thick fabric, and dragged him backward into the windowless manager’s office.
The heavy steel door slammed shut. The distinct, metallic clank of the deadbolt sliding deep into the frame vibrated directly against Mateo’s spine.
Mateo sank to the floor, his rubber boots slipping in the fresh, spreading slick of his own blood. He clamped his right hand over the deep, jagged gash on his left forearm, squeezing as hard as his trembling fingers allowed. The pain was a blinding, white-hot static pulsing behind his eyes, a relentless rhythm matching his racing heartbeat. He expected Gaines to tear open the orange trauma kit mounted on the wall beside the filing cabinets. He expected frantic shouting, the blare of the emergency alarm, the immediate demand for an ambulance.
Gaines simply stood in the center of the cramped, poorly lit room. The manager’s pale eyes darted down to the crimson puddle rapidly spreading across the cheap gray carpet, then slowly moved up to Mateo’s face. Gaines was breathing heavily, his chest heaving under his white coat, but his expression was entirely devoid of panic. It was a mask of cold calculation.
Mateo swallowed hard, tasting copper at the back of his throat. He tried to force a word out, to demand a doctor, to beg for a tourniquet, but his throat seized up completely. The edges of his vision flickered with a gray, encroaching haze. He leaned his head back against the steel door, the cold metal providing a sharp contrast to the burning agony in his arm.
Gaines ignored the bulky landline sitting on his cluttered metal desk. He reached inside his stained white coat and produced a small, battered cell phone. He punched in a long string of numbers with his thumb. It was far too many digits for emergency services.
The manager turned his back, pacing the short length of the office while holding the phone tightly to his ear. The ambient roar of the meatpacking plant’s kill floor-the grinding of gears, the shouting of line workers, the hiss of pressurized water-was entirely muffled by the thick, soundproofed walls. That isolation left a suffocating silence in the room. The only sounds remaining were Mateo’s jagged, shallow breathing and the low, indistinct murmur of Gaines’s voice as someone answered the line.
Mateo pressed his skull harder against the door. He focused intensely on the pain, using the agonizing throb to anchor himself to consciousness. His fingers were slipping against his own skin, the blood acting like a thick, warm lubricant. He squeezed tighter, digging his fingernails into his flesh. The numbness was starting to creep up past his elbow, a terrifying coldness that signaled exactly how much fluid he was losing onto the floorboards.
He looked up at the deadbolt. The brass thumb-turn was less than two feet above his head. He commanded his right arm to let go of the wound and reach up for the lock. His muscles refused to obey. The shock was setting in deep, turning his limbs to dead weight. Every time he shifted, a fresh wave of nausea rolled through his stomach.
Gaines abruptly ended the call and slipped the phone back into his coat pocket. He turned around, his jaw set tight. There was no pity in his eyes. He wasn’t looking at Mateo like an injured employee in need of urgent care. He was looking at the young worker like a logistical problem that needed immediate containment.
The manager stepped carefully over the growing pool of blood and walked to a tall metal supply cabinet bolted to the corner of the office. He pulled a heavy ring of keys from his belt, unlocked the cabinet, and swung the heavy doors open. He did not pull out bandages, gauze, saline, or pressure wraps.
Gaines retrieved a heavy roll of thick, black plastic sheeting and a large spool of industrial duct tape. He tossed the items onto the floor directly in front of Mateo. The plastic hit the ground with a heavy, muffled thud.
Mateo stared at the heavy-duty supplies. The pungent smell of raw meat and industrial bleach that clung to Gaines’s uniform seemed to fill the tiny room, choking out the remaining oxygen. Mateo planted his good boot flat on the floor, trying to find some traction, trying to push himself upward against the locked door. His boot just slid backward through the wet crimson slick, leaving a smeared trail on the carpet.
Gaines stepped closer, his heavy work boots leaving sticky red prints behind him. He reached down and grabbed the end of the duct tape, unspooling a long, loud strip that echoed sharply in the small, sealed room. The manager knelt right at the edge of the blood, leaning in close enough for Mateo to see the erratic twitch in his left eye.
Gaines reached his taped hand directly out toward Mateo.