Post by williemeikle on Jul 1, 2009 17:23:14 GMT
The man in front of me is tall, and his back is broad and well muscled. I can’t tell how long the queue is because, just for the moment, I am unable to move my head and the only thing I can see is that broad back and the coarse weave of the Harris tweed jacket that covers it.
A bell rings in the distance, a tinny, high pitched clang. Long seconds later my feet shuffle forward - I don’t tell them to - I have no conscious part in the process but I have moved a foot closer to whatever waits.
The room is lit in stark white, the source of the illumination far above me - just how far I’m not sure as I cannot crane my head to see.
To my left and to my right there are other queues, moving at different speeds to ours, not tied to the ringing of the bell. The inhabitants of those other queues are different - children on the left, older, much older people on the right.
The old people are streaming forward, almost running. Some of them are red faced and out of breath, others merely grey and staring. But the worst are those in their night-clothes, their bare feet torn and bleeding as the press of the people behind and before them pushes them along towards the head of their queue.
I cannot tell you much about the children’s queue - my head is tilted too far to the right, and I only know that they are children because I can see the lower parts of their bodies from the corner of my eye. They do not move, merely stand still. They are packed close, so close that the toes of each one are touching the heels of the next. I can see the tremors and spasms in the muscles of their ankles and calves, but still they do not move, and they do not make a sound.
The floor is cold. I can feel the chill seeping through to my toes. I am wearing shoes, so at least I am partially clothed. I think I am wearing one of my work suits - there is a hint of grey when I try to look down, and there is no suggestion of a breeze against my skin.
The bell rings again and fifteen seconds later we shuffle forward. I know it is fifteen, because I count them down. And at the same time I time the shuffle - nearly a second. I am less than twenty places from the front.
The mere thought of it causes my heart to beat faster. A bead of sweat runs into the corner of my left eye bringing a sharp stinging pain. I try to shake my head, to clear my vision, but that only brings a different, more violent pain, like a red hot poker in my chest. It only fades when I stand still, trying and failing to ignore the heat and the sting in the corner of my eye.
The bell rings and we shuffle forward. Fourteen seconds.
There is a dull thud to my left. I squint from the corner of my eye and can just see an elderly man. He has fallen from his place in the queue, his thin legs caught up in the tangle of limbs as the crowd behind press forward. A foot catches him in the chest and he gasps, sudden flecks of blood at his lips. He stretches out a hand to steady himself and a heel steps on it.
The sound of his fingers snapping is loud in the quiet room, but he doesn’t scream although his mouth is open and the muscles in his throat are straining for release. A leg kicks him and he is moved forward six inches, then a foot, then a yard as his body is carried forward in the rush of people. He leaves a smear on the floor as he is carried along, a red streak that is picked up by slapping feet and slammed down into crazed patterns, like steps marked on a dance floor.
And just as he is carried away out of my sight he looks straight at me. There is nothing in his eyes but despair.
Tears blind me as the bell rings and we shuffle forward. I have lost count - is it thirteen, twelve or eleven? The bell sounds louder this time and there is a tightness in the muscles of the large man ahead of me, a tightness that wasn’t there before.
Far behind us someone screams and a tremor runs through the queue like a wave. But it quickly passes as the bell rings and we shuffle forward. Ten this time.
I resolve that the next time I will resist, that I will not be programmed like one of Pavlov’s dogs. But when the bell rings, I shuffle forward with the rest. And worse, the thing that brings more tears, is the taste of a sudden flood of cold saliva in my mouth.
I try to spit, but my mouth is closed tight. A spasm in my throat causes me to swallow and I feel the greasy fluid slide to my stomach and nestle there.
And still we shuffle forward to the sound of the bell.
A horn sounds, a long rising note like a call to the hounds. To my left the children move, their feet rasping across the floor leaving strips of flesh and blood behind as they are dragged forward. For five seconds they move almost imperceptibly. And when they stop they have travelled less than an inch.
The bell rings and two seconds later we shuffle forward.
The body in front of me stiffens, the fine hair on the man’s head standing on end. There is a strong smell of burning meat and a sudden flash of light.
I am staring at a white, featureless wall.
The bell rings.
I shuffle forward.
A bell rings in the distance, a tinny, high pitched clang. Long seconds later my feet shuffle forward - I don’t tell them to - I have no conscious part in the process but I have moved a foot closer to whatever waits.
The room is lit in stark white, the source of the illumination far above me - just how far I’m not sure as I cannot crane my head to see.
To my left and to my right there are other queues, moving at different speeds to ours, not tied to the ringing of the bell. The inhabitants of those other queues are different - children on the left, older, much older people on the right.
The old people are streaming forward, almost running. Some of them are red faced and out of breath, others merely grey and staring. But the worst are those in their night-clothes, their bare feet torn and bleeding as the press of the people behind and before them pushes them along towards the head of their queue.
I cannot tell you much about the children’s queue - my head is tilted too far to the right, and I only know that they are children because I can see the lower parts of their bodies from the corner of my eye. They do not move, merely stand still. They are packed close, so close that the toes of each one are touching the heels of the next. I can see the tremors and spasms in the muscles of their ankles and calves, but still they do not move, and they do not make a sound.
The floor is cold. I can feel the chill seeping through to my toes. I am wearing shoes, so at least I am partially clothed. I think I am wearing one of my work suits - there is a hint of grey when I try to look down, and there is no suggestion of a breeze against my skin.
The bell rings again and fifteen seconds later we shuffle forward. I know it is fifteen, because I count them down. And at the same time I time the shuffle - nearly a second. I am less than twenty places from the front.
The mere thought of it causes my heart to beat faster. A bead of sweat runs into the corner of my left eye bringing a sharp stinging pain. I try to shake my head, to clear my vision, but that only brings a different, more violent pain, like a red hot poker in my chest. It only fades when I stand still, trying and failing to ignore the heat and the sting in the corner of my eye.
The bell rings and we shuffle forward. Fourteen seconds.
There is a dull thud to my left. I squint from the corner of my eye and can just see an elderly man. He has fallen from his place in the queue, his thin legs caught up in the tangle of limbs as the crowd behind press forward. A foot catches him in the chest and he gasps, sudden flecks of blood at his lips. He stretches out a hand to steady himself and a heel steps on it.
The sound of his fingers snapping is loud in the quiet room, but he doesn’t scream although his mouth is open and the muscles in his throat are straining for release. A leg kicks him and he is moved forward six inches, then a foot, then a yard as his body is carried forward in the rush of people. He leaves a smear on the floor as he is carried along, a red streak that is picked up by slapping feet and slammed down into crazed patterns, like steps marked on a dance floor.
And just as he is carried away out of my sight he looks straight at me. There is nothing in his eyes but despair.
Tears blind me as the bell rings and we shuffle forward. I have lost count - is it thirteen, twelve or eleven? The bell sounds louder this time and there is a tightness in the muscles of the large man ahead of me, a tightness that wasn’t there before.
Far behind us someone screams and a tremor runs through the queue like a wave. But it quickly passes as the bell rings and we shuffle forward. Ten this time.
I resolve that the next time I will resist, that I will not be programmed like one of Pavlov’s dogs. But when the bell rings, I shuffle forward with the rest. And worse, the thing that brings more tears, is the taste of a sudden flood of cold saliva in my mouth.
I try to spit, but my mouth is closed tight. A spasm in my throat causes me to swallow and I feel the greasy fluid slide to my stomach and nestle there.
And still we shuffle forward to the sound of the bell.
A horn sounds, a long rising note like a call to the hounds. To my left the children move, their feet rasping across the floor leaving strips of flesh and blood behind as they are dragged forward. For five seconds they move almost imperceptibly. And when they stop they have travelled less than an inch.
The bell rings and two seconds later we shuffle forward.
The body in front of me stiffens, the fine hair on the man’s head standing on end. There is a strong smell of burning meat and a sudden flash of light.
I am staring at a white, featureless wall.
The bell rings.
I shuffle forward.