Flesh House

Logan lurched into a run. The little alcove was full of plastic bins and metal racks: lungs, livers and tongues handing from stainless steel hooks. He slithered on the wet floor, bounced off the wall and round into a foetid recess where three industrial- sized spin-dryers shuddered away to themselves. A stunned woman stopped in the middle of stuffing a cow's stomach into one and watched him stagger past. A door banged shut up ahead. Logan tore through the Den of Dung and wrenched it open just in time to see a pair of pink pyjama legs disappearing at the top of a flight of steps. He hurried up after her, bursting out of the door at the top and into the deep, metallic rumble of the bone mill. The Flesher and Pyjama Woman were scrambling up the stairs to the top hopper - the one they'd found Thomas Stephen's head in. Logan grabbed the handrail, shouting over the grinding noise,'STOP, POLICE!' It never usually worked, but this time it actually did; by the time he'd got to the top they were waiting for him. Oh shit. He went for his pepper spray, but his left arm wouldn't work. Trying to move it was like jamming red-hot knitting needles into his shoulder. He fumbled for it with his right hand, then aimed the canister at the Flesher's face. 'I need you to lie down on the floor. Now.' The woman in pyjamas shook her head. 'You can't.' 'You too: on the floor.' 'Jimmy's only doing it to make us pure.' 'Jimmy doesn't exist, it's ...' And that was when Logan finally realized why she so looked familiar. 'Heather Inglis...? You need to come with me, Heather. It's over. He ... she can't hurt you anymore.' Back to the Flesher. 'On the floor NOW!' And then the Flesher stepped behind Heather and hefted her over the greasy handrail that ran around the lip of the hopper. Heather squealed and grabbed onto it, holding herself in place. Logan risked a quick glance into the big, slope-sided metal bin. It was nearly empty, the last few bones disappearing as he watched - ground into bite-sized chunks and dumped into the next hopper down. He held his hands up, placatory. 'It's over Elizabeth. By tomorrow morning your face will be on every television and newspaper in the country. There's nowhere you can go.' He inched his way forwards, eyes scanning the bone mill's walls. Looking for the off switch. 'Come on Elizabeth. You don't want to hurt Heather: she's eaten the food, hasn't she? She's pure.' The Flesher raised a trembling hand to the mask and peeled it off. It was Elizabeth, but at the same time it wasn't. Her face looked different from before. It wasn't just that her nose was broken, bleeding, or that her left cheek was swollen, it was as if the rubber mask wasn't the only one she was wearing. She threw Margaret Thatcher's face into the hopper. Logan watched it bounce off the far side, then slide down into the rotating metal teeth; they tore it apart like a slice of wet bread. 'Come on, Elizabeth, you don't really want to do this, do you?' There was a long pause, and then,'No.' Heather turned and looked at her, letting go of the handrail with one hand to touch Elizabeth's cheek. 'But I do, Kelley. For you.'