Time stood still as the sound of flesh being tenderized filled the air along with Remy’s garbled screams. The strong sound of the Producer’s voice had long since died away to whimpers and gurgles as blood spilled out of his mouth and ran off his body. Jackson’s nose twitched at the scent of fresh blood and fear. The hair stood up along his spine. At some point, the Stocker switched tools, trading in the bat for a smaller metal rod and then the rod to the brass knuckles.
Then it was over. The Producer was dead. The only sound now was the soft humming of the female.
The facility Guards paced restlessly. One even licked his lips.
“Get him down,” yelled Benedictine.
A Guard walked over to the wall and flipped the switch. Remy’s battered body crumpled onto the floor in a heap as the chain lowered. The Guard flipped the switch again and the machine stopped.
The Stocker revved a chainsaw and then walked over to the corpse and lowered it to Remy’s hip. The humming ceased and a scuffling in the cage drew Jackson’s attention. The female sat huddled in the furthest corner whispering prayers. It would do her no good. There was no mercy to be found here.
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