He was palpitating with terror. The knife in his palm was smeared with warm sticky blood. It wasn't his blood, nor was it Cain's—the victim laid fallen forward, his head hanging over the troughs side, blood still secreting from a slit throat. The others were lined up, hands bound, sitting on their knees, awaiting the same fate.

Cain had gone first, he wanted to be sure Arkin knew how to do it right. Said it was easy, said they didn't feel a thing, said it was the humane way. The first victim had convulsed when he slumped forward, a warm spray squirted out in jolts becoming a quiet symphony met with each dying heartbeat.

The others, four now living, struggled, shook their heads and sobbed uncontrollably. The woman cried the most, because she was next. Cain gestured to Arkin. They were both dressed in heavy muck boots and clear red stained aprons. Arkin's was too large and the bottom hit against his shins when he hesitantly shuffled forward.

"I never got to teach you before you left us, Abel." Cain said, that hammer from the night before hung loosely in his grip.

Arkin numbly nodded and flinched under Cain's heavy hand. He squeezed his shoulder tight, leaning down, their faces mere inches from each other. The blonde woman sobbed on her knees in front of them.

"They're gonna make you better again. Make you feel real good." Cain lifted the hammer for Arkin to see. "I'll give 'em a little tap then you finish her off, yeah?"

He flexed his wet fingers around the knives handle. It would be so easy to reach across and sink the blade into the soft stomach of this man. To watch him die. To save these others—but then what? While walking out of the house after dinner he hadn't seen a phone and the mother said they were the only house for miles. Miles and miles of wilderness. What if he missed an organ and it didn't kill him? What if—

Thud.

The sobs stopped. The hammer was fresh with red again and the woman hung limp, staying upright underneath Cain's clenched fist in her hair. Arkin stood mouth ajar. It had happened so fast. So easily. He stumbled forward towards Cain's beckoning hand. He tipped the woman's head back, displaying her long pale slender neck.

"Just like I showed you. Pressure and pull."

Arkin's hand trembled when he lifted the knife to the unconscious woman's neck. He knew she was still alive, her chest barely rose and fell, but the gaping hole in her skull suggested she was closer to the side of death. You're doing her a favor—He pressed the knife to her throat, swallowing hard.

Cain nodded encouragingly. "Go ahead. Be quick, boy, don't waste her."

Don't waste her .... Arkin shut his eyes, held his breath, and drew the blade across her throat. He wasn't even sure he cut deep enough, though it didn't seem to matter as blood released. It spilled out into the trough gathering with the other man who died before her. The blood was thick and moved slowly before sinking into the drain and emptying into a bucket beneath.

The rest of the morning was dedicated to processing the last three. Cain constantly praised Arkin for a job well done. Kept calling him a natural for all the wrong reasons. I'm not a killer. I'm not a killer. I'm not a killer. Those words were on repeat, yet were the least convincing as he hauled a bucket of spare parts out of the barn.

A hand. An arm. Feet. Skin—

It stank. Raw meat and bitter iron drenched him. He lugged the buckets across the farm towards the pasture. It housed pigs. Big nasty pigs that should have been butchered themselves many seasons ago. They squealed in excitement when Arkin came into sight.

"They'll be wanting their lunch," Cain had said.

Dropping the buckets to the ground between his boots, Arkin pulled at a leather glove he had found on a rack and reached into the bucket. He couldn't tell what part of the body this slippery piece was from, but it didn't phase the pigs. As soon as it slapped the mud they were there. They ravished the buckets and covered their snouts in red. He clasped his elbow to his nose to stunt the stench as he watched with a disturbed mind.

After a long few minutes of watching the pigs feast, he collected the buckets, his eyes wandering around the farm. The barn was behind him, the house in front of him, and pines were everywhere else. A rusted pickup truck, with a plow mounted on its front, sat off to his left. His first thought was, were the keys in it? He glanced around. Cain was still in the barn and there was no movement in the house window's.

Taking the buckets, one in each hand, he walked briskly. Needles and dried leaves crunched underneath each of his boots, he was close. So close that he could make out the symbol on the tailgates center; Ford. He came up along the driver's side, dropping his buckets to cup his hands on the glass to see in. Keys? He didn't dare to risk opening the door, though he visually searched the seat, the shallow cup holder, the ignition, and nothing.

"What do you think you're doing?"

A woman's voice; mother. Arkin pulled away from the window slowly, trying to muster a smile. She seemed to like it when he smiled—but that was last night—right now her face was grim and in her parkinson riddled hand swayed a cattle prod. Long and thin, the U tip sparked with power.

"My Abel wouldn't ever leave me," she cried. "You're just like the rest of them!"

Arkin shook his head, lifting his hands. "No, I wasn't leaving. I wouldn't leave–"

"Liar!" She jabbed the cattle prod outward, catching him on his thigh. In that instant his muscles contracted and stiffened and an overwhelming stimulation of pain overcame him. When he didn't fall to the ground after the first shock, the mother shocked him again until it brought him to the ground. She shouted at the top of her old lungs for Cain, pulling the cattle prod away. Arkin laid there, spasming uncontrollably. Unable to think or react properly to shield himself from the descending wrath of Cain.... 

Darkness ensued. 

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