PROCESSING

POSTCARD #27 • Knock, Knock, Knock

Bessie sits atop the cart, whistling, reins held loosely in one hand, a clipboard in the other. She’s a big woman. Stout. Strong. Dependable. Bessie squints at the number over the door, compares it against the clipboard, and pulls back gently on the reins.

“Whoa, Nelly!” The cross-eyed nag comes to a rest and whinnies. The sound resembles grinding bones more than neighing. The poor old beastie can’t help that the noises she makes are as ugly as she is. But a workhorse doesn’t need to be pretty, just needs to get the job done. And Nelly’s as good a worker as any and better than most—even if she is uglier than sin with her inbred mouth and useless extra legs trailing behind her.

Bessie sets the clipboard on the seat beside her and grabs the railing. Her foot finds the first rung and she lowers her enormous girth to the ground. She dusts off her hands on an apron covered with questionable stains and walks to the door.

She quick raps. “Processing!”

A few seconds later, a small woman opens up and ushers Bessie inside. “He’s back here.”

Bessie follows through the tidy house. The burning sage doesn’t cover the smell of sickness completely, but it helps. The woman stops at the threshold of an interior door, but doesn’t cross. Bessie goes in alone, looks the scene over, steps back out. “I’ll be out of your hair in a few minutes, just need to grab a few tools. Back in a sec.”

The woman nods and goes into another room, leaving Bessie to her work.

Ten minutes later, the deed is done and the heavy woman is climbing back to her perch and easing Nelly onward. The cart is a little heavier than before, much heavier than it was this morning, but nothing good ol’ Nelly can’t handle. The woman watches from the doorway, dabbing at red eyes with a handkerchief. Bessie gives a slight wave as she and the nag pull away from the house.

Two more stops. The next is two miles away. Bessie whistles and watches the burn-scarred landscape for signs of ambush. There’s a lot of hungry people out there, but if anybody wants the prize she’s hauling, they’ll have to go through her to get it. Last time anyone tried that, Bessie finished her rounds with an overflowing cart and a trail of blood three miles long behind her ending in a quite a puddle in front of the processing plant—the rain still hadn’t washed the last of it away. She’d earned her bonus that shift.

No one ambushes her today.

Forty minutes after leaving the last place, Bessie parks at the next address on the clipboard.

The roof needs shingles, the walls are crumbling, weeds are too tall, and the place stinks. A half dozen children run wild in the yard, dirt on their faces, their mud-caked overalls have holes in the knees. Bessie rolls the cart into their midst. Nothing to her if they don’t get out of the way in time—more than enough room in the cart. Anything over quota earns her a bonus for the day. The kids scatter. Bessie shrugs.

A couple greets her. Next load is a double, but they’re both half-size, so it’s a wash. Bessie brings them both at once, one over each shoulder, and gently places them into the cart. She thanks the family for their contribution to the cause, and prods Nelly on to their last stop.

Sun’s still got a few hours when the nag pulls into the drive at the final stop of their route. Bessie thinks she might finish up early. That’d be alright.

She puts a little tick mark next to the last address on the list and steps down from her perch once more.

Three quick raps with her knuckles. “Processing!” Bessie waits, but no one answers. She knocks again. “PROCESSING!” Louder this time. Still, no answer. She tries the knob, finds it unlocked.

“Oh,” she says when she sees the scene inside. He must have done it shortly after he made the call for the pick-up. Bessie gets the tarp from the cart. This one’s gonna be messy.

She tosses the load on top of the others. There’s nobody around to object to the rough handling, so she drops the pretense of politeness.

“Well,” she grunts to Nelly as she climbs back into her perch, “That’s the last one on the schedule. Looks like we’re gonna have an early night. Get a move on you ugly nag!” The teasing is good-natured. Bessie’s never thought of herself as much of a looker either.

Back at processing, Bessie helps unload the bodies, then collects her pay. She takes most of it in cash, the rest in feed. The butcher hands her two packages wrapped in white paper, and she heads home for the evening, leaving earlier than usual. Plenty of time to clean up and start cooking—she’s having a man for dinner. That takes a little preparation.

Bessie picks a sprig of rosemary on the short walk home, delivers Nelly to her stall, then goes inside for a long bath. She soaks until her muscles loosen and the water starts to cool, then she dresses and heads to the kitchen. She stokes the fire beneath her cooking pot. While it heats, she chops onion and garlic, then carrots, potatoes, and turnips and sets it all aside.

Bessie reaches for the packages. She puts the one marked FEMALE 34 into the icebox for later. Then she opens the one marked MALE 52 and cuts the meat into one inch cubes. The butcher had set this one aside special for her. Just one of the perks of the job, she thinks.

Her mouth waters as the kitchen fills with the scent of browning meat.

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