Excerpt: “Minotaur”

(excerpt from “Minotaur”)

There is, no doubt, a murder happening nearby.

That can be said of many times and many places, but here it is most apparent, on this gloomy midnight street in the warehouse district; an obvious choice for a murder, an easy location.

There are many signs. A chainsaw has just cut out for one, puttering to sleep in some sheltered room, but that may not be the most telling mark of foul play. After all, a chainsaw can be used for many things, and there are several things that may sound like a chainsaw.

No, it’s clear from the air itself what has occurred. A red mist hangs heavy under the streetlamps; caught in the rolling fog that forms from the mating of a sweltering summer day and the chill that sweeps through before a midnight storm, it dyes the yellow cones of light orange. If a passerby were to stroll down this street and breathe deeply, he would wonder at the metallic taste on his tongue and find, when emerging into a better light, his skin tacky and stained. There is no stranger to pass, however; the district is silent.

There is the culprit, however, loping out of an alleyway, a heavy canvas bag slung across his shoulder, dripping. He is a beast of a man, huge and muscular. Is he human or monster? From the shape of his head as he raises it into the light, one would assume the latter—the horned head of a bull mounts his shoulders, flies and gnats swarming around it like a dark halo.

He moves to the manhole in the middle of the street, hefts the heavy plate with one hand and props it easily beneath his arm as he swings the bag off of his shoulder, shifting his grip so that the sack tilts and the contents spill into the sewer, fleshy meat slapping into the dark waters in a series of wet plops. He shakes the bag a few times, making sure it is empty, then places the manhole cover gently back in place and folds the wet canvas neatly, tucking it in a deep pocket of his overcoat. He moves off down the street, casual, unaffected.

A rain begins to fall, fat, heavy drops that slice holes in the fog and press upon the red mist until it settles on the pavement like pollen. The blood is pounded to the street with each raindrop and swirls towards the mouths of the gutters in a crimson stream.

~*~*~*~*~

Morning brings with it normalcy. The rain has swept away the red mist and rivulets overnight and has itself departed, leaving only damp streets and clean puddles for the early shift of warehouse workers to splash through.

A truck makes its way through the traffic of the main road and turns onto the side street. It parks in front of the wide doors of a warehouse, and two workers climb out. They pass the time with inconsequential banter, one leaning into the warmth of the grill while the other fumbles with the deadbolt. As the one working the lock finally snaps it open, the other sniffs the air and comments “Jesus, what the hell is that smell? Did they drop a shipment of rotten fish in here by accident or something?”

The men open the doors in tandem and fall back in horror at what they find—posed in the center of the floor is the carcass of a bull, “standing” with the help of some boxes. Human limbs have been carefully sewn on in the place of the bull’s legs, and its head has been replaced with that of a man.

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“Minotaur” and other works (c) 2008, Barbara Steele. All rights reserved.