The Sacrifice
Flash Fiction from New Metropolis
June was a sacrifice. Not to an angry god or a noble cause. This was a far more mundane rite, one which occurred so routinely it generated little fanfare or outrage.
Her chest began to tighten. She forced herself to breathe.
June was fully aware of her role and the futility of resisting it. She was a sacrifice to order. Her death, her tiny death, would nonetheless delay the inevitable entropy of the red-hot machine, add a single second to its cannibalistic existence. But that second, that tiny fraction of an era, was worth her entire life. Her sacrifice was a paradox, both worthless and essential. She knew that, within a week, no one would remember her name.
Somewhere behind her, she heard a man’s voice.
“What is death but a return to the caress of our Eternal Mother?”
Footsteps crunched on broken metal and cracked concrete. The man knelt next to her head and gently placed a folded-up jacket beneath her neck. Although he spoke like a Company preacher, he dressed casually, in paint-splattered jeans and a faded t-shirt.
“I saw what happened, thought I’d make you more comfortable,” he said in a hoarse voice.
“I’d rather be alone,” June replied calmly. “But…thanks.”
Shock had numbed her battered body. Now pain shot from June’s broken legs and the rod wedged into her stomach.
Working for the Company, she knew it would happen eventually. It had happened six months ago to Ray on his machine, also an R49 model. The faulty power assembly sent a charge to the motherboard that fried the automatic safety release, and the machine twisted up on itself—with Ray inside.
A horrible accident. A beautiful sacrifice.
The R49 was a hulking, growling, petroleum-dripping monstrosity. June marveled at how something so cold and crude could manufacture the familiar comforts of modern life. These machines were widely known to cause casualties, but even the suggestion of replacing them would fast-track you to termination. When June’s R49 had begun to shake and shriek, she jumped off the machine, but it was already too late. The metal behemoth crumpled over on itself, pouncing on her, making her its prey—skewering her belly and crushing her legs.
If her team could get her to a hospital, she might live. But that would cost them dearly—lost time, lost productivity, lost loyalty. No, the other workers would simply file a report at the end of the shift, attribute the death to “user error,” and request cadaver disposal from the morgue. That was the ritual. Nothing personal. Nothing at all.
“Who are you, what do you do?” She whispered to the man kneeling before her. Maybe he had money. Maybe he had mercy.
“You can call me Will. And as of yesterday…I’m unemployed.”
She nodded, tears in her eyes. It had been foolish to hope. She wasn’t intended to grow old, to bear children, to live a life outside the moldy barracks. The idea that this was fate, not a crime inflicted upon her, made it easier to swallow. Easier to take to her grave.
June felt the cold hands of their Eternal Mother on her shoulders. She forced herself to breathe.
“Thank you for being here.”
Will smiled, and June remembered. She knew his face. He was on TV just the day before, shouting in the background as the news headline scrolled past.
CONSTRUCTION WORKERS RIOT ON SIXTH DAY OF UNPATRIOTIC STRIKE
“Of course,” he replied. “No one should fight alone.”
June felt herself slipping away, atom by atom.
“I’m not fighting.”
Will looked up, at something behind her. The sounds of creaking metal and a humming engine filled June’s fading mind with fear. Then she saw the arm of a crane swing overhead, clamping down on the machine that had mauled her.
“That’s okay,” Will whispered. “We are.”
He stepped back, and the crane began to lift.
Thank you for reading Every Nook Uncanny. If you liked what you read, please share and comment. The audio version of this story will be available this Friday. You can follow Mae on Twitter.