Running To Slaughter

The cracking of whips spurs the creatures on powered mills to gallop. These creatures are hungry and tired. To earn a break, they are required to work a certain number of hours, producing a certain amount of whatever it is they produce on those mills. None of them know. They only know the cracking of the whip and the reward they receive after their work.

They argue among themselves, because they are tired and irritable, because another has more food than they have, or because they feel that another of the creatures is hindering their ability to get food or to have more comfort. Sometimes there are violent outbursts among them. When injured or killed, the creatures’ bodies fall on the mills and their brethren keep running as if they don’t see. They can’t stop working. They can’t stop running, because it is the working and running that gives them food and earns them those few moments of comfort.

Late at night, the creatures make their way to their habitats, exhausted and barely alert. Some stumble on the way and often die from the fall or from being trampled. Those who make it home settle down to the best food, toys, and bed they can earn on the mill.

This night, as one creature stumbles on the way back to its habitat, it gets pushed by the mob of other desperate creatures scrambling for solace. In the skirmish, the creature has no awareness of what is happening to it, merely sensing a jumble of pushes, grabs, and shouts. When it finds itself no longer being moved, it discovers it has accidentally landed in an unfamiliar area.

It notices the sounds of fighting are gone. The air in this place is cooler and fresher. The walls are bright and clean. There is the sound of voices, and the creature follows the sounds.

In a room, before a desk, these beings whose voices it heard stand two-legged, long-limbed, and standing upright. The two beings don’t know it is there so they talk freely.

“Voting day again, is it?”

“Yup.”

A machine is lowered down into the main room with the creatures and the lost creature can see it through a window. The machine has two buttons on it, one red and one blue.

“Why do we still have it? Both candidates are going to keep these creatures as labored and poor as they are now.”

“Because as long as they think they have a choice, they can be controlled. If they believe those buttons have power to change their lives, they’ll muster all their strength to press those buttons and then feel blindingly frightened, angry, or victorious depending on the result. If they wish to revolt, they’ll turn against their fellows, blaming the poor choice of the opposing side for their misery.”

The creature can look down through the window and see all his brethren walking en masse to the buttons. Some of them hug the control box with the buttons. Some attack others who press the opposing button from them. Some of them are too tired to make it to the button, falling on the way.

“So, what choices do they have this time?”

“The one behind the red button gives them food that while unhealthy, is pleasing and they can have more of it at a cheaper cost. The one behind the blue button gives them food that costs more but is better for them.”

“Sounds like they are having a say.”

“Yes, it does. Until you remember all the aspects of their condition that aren’t represented. They will go on living in these conditions indefinitely at this rate, because no choice we have given them in their lifetimes does more than change the aesthetics of their prison.”

The creature backs away with such force that it almost falls down. It collects itself, being thankful that it hadn’t drawn their attention with its scuffle. It turns back to look for the path it took before, thinking all the while that it must find the others, to tell them… something. But what?

Down the hall, the creature sees something shine, and it skews the perception of the room. It’s a pane of glass, and as the creature pauses to look into it, it sees another two-legged, long-limbed, and upright creature like the ones talking about the vote. This one is dirty, with drooping shoulders, and shaggy in both clothes and appearance, but obviously the same type of being. The creature recoils, assuming this is one of those beings and that it means it harm, but the reflection recoils also. The creature realizes it is the being in the glass. It and its brethren have always been so huddled, exhausted, and ragged and so used to feeling these ways that it may not ever have realized it is the same as these fresh, cool beings in here if not for this chance perspective.

The creature stands with its head hung for a time, then distractedly begins to walk down the hall. What can it do? It wants to fear, to run, to strike those fresh people in that room, to lay down and cry. What will it tell its brethren? It has to tell them. Will they listen? Will they believe? Will they do anything but beat it for sharing this frightening message?

It walks on, the fear making its steps slow and clunky. There is a door that looks different than the whole rest of the hall. Said door is dark and imposing and recessed into a cubby in the wall. The difference between this door and the rest of the room tells the creature this was the way back to where it came from, a hidden-away place where the greatest distinction can be made between the working creatures and these fresh, controlling beings.

It takes one last breath before the door and realizes, though it has no idea how to do it or what to do afterward, it has to get its brethren to see the beings behind those buttons.