Rain drizzled down steadily. The only light in the area was weak and yellow, seeping from a bare bulb over the doorway where the killer lurked. Arkin's blood pulsed violently. Mouth open, saliva soaked through an old rag that tasted like diesel. He knew he had been drugged, but it was too late. He was paralyzed, slumped in a pile of manure and shavings, something spiky. Hay. Hay and shavings and manure.

He felt it now, pressing up against his neck and jaw, against his body and legs. His legs were oddly stiff. He tried to bend a knee; nothing. But his mind was a prison of utmost clarity. He could see worn splintered wood of a loft above him, and hear the squeal of pigs from somewhere outside while chains rattled in the stalls beside him. Arkin strained his eyes until they hurt, but could see little.

The killer kneeled down next to him, the way one might a child. His pulse throbbed in his throat. He couldn't swallow. The killer smelled like tobacco and leaned his unshaven grizzle beard face so close to Arkin's that he could make out the man's veins in the off-white-tint of his eyes.

"Mama said you'd make a fine addition." The man spat and grabbed Arkin's face, tilting his head from side to side.

He doesn't have time to process this because the man started to undo the buttons of his flannel shirt. One by one the man fumbled each plastic piece out of place. Arkin couldn't move his eyes anymore. His vision was frozen, and engulfed with the man's sun-cracked face. Don't panic. The man hauled Arkin's body forward with a grunt, sitting him up. He slouched forward, his cheek laid heavy on the man's shoulder as his arms were pulled from the sleeves and the rest over his head.

Settling back into the pile limply, he could hear soft moans and whimpers. They weren't animal. He wanted to look towards those sounds. The temptation was great, but his body was unwilling. Instead he was a life-size doll for the man who continued to undress him. A mangled sound of protest was formed somewhere deep within his throat but proved to be useless.

"I gotta get you washed up, boy. Mama don't like anything dirty at her table, you hear me?" The man asked while he pulled and tugged at Arkin's jeans.

After a long uncomfortable seven minutes, he was finally undressed, except for his boxers. He laid there sprawled out and alone as the man had balled up his clothing and disappeared from sight. It was still raining, the sounds of the drops hitting the metal roof sung songs of dread. How many hours have passed? Is anyone even looking for me? He thought, while he tried to move his fingers, his toes, his eyes, even his nose—and nothing. Dammit.

"Get help—" a voice whispered. It came from the stall beside him. Chains rattled. "Get—get help." The voice sounded strained and rusty, like the throat it belonged to had been abused. "Don—Don't eat the—"

Arkin's mouth drooled into the fabric stuffed between his lips. He wanted to ask a thousand questions, but drugs and heavy boot-steps made his heart swell with fear. The man swore and hit something against the stall door that rattled. His figure loomed over him again. He peered down and pulled off his tattered baseball cap and scratched his head.

"Don't you listen to them," he said gesturing to his right. "And well, they ain't gonna be here long anyway."

Them. Arkin tried to wrap his dazed mind around the man's words. Them; more than one ... more than one, what, humans? He flinched as the man grabbed him from behind, shavings and hay fell down over his naked shoulders as the man grunted hauling him upward. Arms underneath his armpits, Arkin was dragged deeper into the barn.

"Mama likes to stock up before winter."

The man's breath was hot against the back of his neck. His heels collected splinters and his head lolled to the side and he saw them. Their hands were chained to the rafters above their heads. Most were gagged and all had thick tubes coming out of their noses. What disturbed him most was their eyes. Bloodshot and wide. Against their pale skin the red stood out, and their sounds were animalistic. Arkin tried to count, but as soon as he got to three he would lose it. His vision would blur and settle, blur and settle.

One, two, three — no, one, two, three — dammit, one, two—

His head and upper back smacked off a hard surface. He slumped down further and the man arranged his legs. He was in a trough. Old red streaks, that he could only assume was blood, bleached the once probably silver steel. His head fell back and he was breathing heavily through his nose. Don't panic. Don't fall asleep. Try to remember everything — remember everything.

A palm brushed dark hair from his slick covered forehead. It was a rough palm, and the man's voice was somewhere behind him. Old rusted metal squeaked as a knob was turned and water sputtered. A couple minutes later the man reappeared and sloshed cold water over Arkin. He gasped into the rag and his heart skipped. If it were possible for his drugged body to move, it would have convulsed. Then another bucket came. This one solely trained on his head.

Grime melted from his skin with the help of the man's persistent hands which started to rub with a scrap of towel. "You're being a good boy," he said lifting one of his heavy arms.

Arkin's eyelids fought to stay lifted. Stay awake. The towel moved from his arm to dab at his face. Pain was there under the man's subtle pressure. Probably bruised, he thought lazily. It was getting harder to focus. Harder to stay awake, until he finally slipped into an unconscious state. The last thing he heard was ...

"Mama will be pleased to have her little boy home." 

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