Food for thought

Jason felt the wind on the back of his neck as the boat pulled slowly into the dock. He hadn’t been home in too long; would it even feel the same?

The horn sounded, the wind whipping it away before it could damage the ears of the passengers stood on deck. There weren’t many, not with the slight drizzle that had started some minutes before. Jason glanced around: it was a mix of young professionals, just like him. They were the people that had left when times had been bad and now, just like him, they were returning to see if their sins were forgiven.

Jason wondered how much had really changed. Kiko told some tall stories, many of which Jason couldn’t truly believe. Now, he had the chance to see it all for himself – to see whether Kiko was telling the truth. Some of the earlier stories had made Jason scared to return, but slowly they had lightened to the point of being laugh out loud funny.

Jason, you won’t believe what is happening here, you are so lucky to be out of it, Kiko had written. They are taking the young and placing us in tanks. They are breeding us, Jason; they are creating food for the masses from the young. Stay away. I am trying to come to you, please don’t forget me. Your friend, Kiko.

Jason had been worried. He had tried to call Kiko, but there had been no reply. About a week later he had received another missive. This time Kiko had admitted he was lying, had excused his rampant imagination and sorry if he had worried Jason in any way. He had only been joking. Ha ha, how funny it was.

A smile had crossed Jason’s face. He was reminiscing about Kiko, his friend.

The boat was docking, people were milling around on the deck, staring out towards the quay, squinting to see their loved ones waving back across the water. Jason could see no one he recognised.

An alarm sounded and the tannoy crackled to life. Passengers were being asked to return to their cabins for disembarking. One by one, they moved off, making their way down below deck. Jason followed the crowd back to his own berth.

As Jason grabbed the last of his clothes and packed them away into his suitcase, he heard the lock of his cabin door click shut. Thinking little of it, he continued to stuff shirts and jeans into any spare space he could find in his luggage. After a brief fight with the zipper, Jason was ready to leave, ready to see his friends and find out what had changed since he had left all those years before.

He moved towards the door, grabbing the handle with his free hand. It wouldn’t budge. Jason dropped his suitcase on the floor and tried to turn the door handle with both hands but it was still stuck fast. He hammered on the door with his fists, a dull clang ringing out. It was answered by a hundred other similar bangs. The noise was interspersed with the sound of people yelling for help. They were all trapped.

Quickly, Jason ran to the porthole window, his face filling up the small aperture. He peered out, hoping to see what the problem was. They were close now, the dockside was clearly visible.

It wasn’t lined with well-wishers, friends or family: it was lined with trucks. They all carried the same signage: Kiko’s Slaughterhouse, feeding the nation with fresh, young meat.