Consecrated

By Salem Youngblood

There were no windows. Just the dull thrum of machines inhaling in the dark. 

The broadcast started with no warning. No title card. No introduction. No music. Only the stage, so sterile the lights overhead looked like surgical lamps. Fluorescent tubes buzzed above like oversized flies grown fat on decay. The floor was black lacquer, polished so slick with bleach it would slide. 

Blood leaves a shadow, even when erased. 

The camera swiveled slowly. Left. Then right. Then stilled. 

They stepped out of the shadows like a mouthful of teeth. 

White robes draped over their bodies. Flowing fabric sewn with sunbursts and thorns. The thread red, woven by tongues of the indoctrinated. Each man, each woman in line. Each step a measured cadence. Each face a mask of serenity so complete it could only be the result of brutality. 

At the center, the Cardinal. The man who’d taken the name Shepherd of Flesh. His gloves white, stained at the wrists. His eyes reflecting nothing. His steps slow as if he were already embalmed. 

He lifted a hand and the room stilled. Even the machines appeared to hold their breath, half inhaling. 

He began to speak. His voice was not loud. But it was sharp. Slicing, like the last exhalation before the jump. 

> “The beasts have been found guilty. Their meat, cursed. Their flesh, barren. Their blood, made sinful. Disease was the evidence. Pestilence, the verdict. We were warned.” 

On screens around the country, people sat with mouths slightly ajar. Some chewed. Some prayed on rosaries. Some already knew the flavor. 

> “Leviticus 11: ‘Of their flesh shall ye not eat, and their carcass shall ye not touch; they are unclean.’” 

A pause. Reverential. 

> “But man is made in His image. And man, when born clean—when stripped of ego, sin, and soul—is the holiest of meat.”

He gestured. The Offering appeared. 

Six of them. Each naked except for the barcode at the base of their necks. All walked barefoot, in file. Led by chain-collars and tranquilizers. Heads drooped, eyes unfocused. Their skin paled from lack of sun, mottled from injections. The woman in the back was trembling. Not from fear—muscles already began to seize. 

They were followed by handlers. White masks, eyes covered. Vetted by the Covenant, trained in silence. 

The first was a girl. 

Young enough to retain the softness of childhood, old enough to have developed breasts. Her body had been shaved. Fingernails extracted months ago, to prevent infection. Tongue removed during weaning, to prevent her from crying. 

She did not struggle when they strapped her to the slab. She looked at the lights. She did not blink. 

The Cardinal moved forward. Picked up the ceremonial blade from a velvet pillow. It was not clean. Dried tissue had clotted in the spine. He pressed the blade against her thigh, splitting the meat precisely between the muscle groups. He carved. Not quickly. 

She did not scream. She was too sedated to whimper. Only her eyes darted, very slightly, toward the pain. 

The blood that welled was not red. It had been thickened with chemicals, slowed for broadcast. The meat peeled back with a wet sound. 

He lifted the strip of flesh with two fingers. It quivered. 

> “Observe. No pain. No soul. No sin.” 

He bit in. 

A sucking noise, like marrow teased from bone. The flesh tore. 

Blood dripped down his chin. He flicked his tongue to catch it. 

The audience—at home, in churches, in factories—held their breath. Some wept. Some hardened. Some took notes.

> “Taste is the proof. The purity is in the stillness.” 

Her chest rose once. Then did not rise again. No one moved to resuscitate her. 

The Cardinal chewed. Slowly. The grinding of his teeth magnified, like echoes inside a well. Audible. In the front row, people could hear. 

He swallowed. He smiled. Teeth filed to points, had left indentations in the flesh. 

Behind the stage, the mountains had been tarped. Black plastic draped over forms that twitched beneath, when rats passed overhead. Corpses that had not yet cooled. Limbs bent in impossible angles. Infants tossed into bulk bins, heads ruptured from too much handling. 

They called it the Garden. 

Each tree fed on corpses. Blood watered the soil. The air smelled of antiseptic and open belly. Funerals were no longer practiced. No wakes, no eulogies. Just reprocessing. A second girl was ushered forward. A man next. Then twins. 

All silent. All sedated into statues. 

The Covenant sliced from thighs. From calves. From arms. Symmetrical. Always camera-ready. They bit. They smiled. They prayed. 

Behind the curtain, a technician puked into a sink. Then continued testing the microphones. 

At the height of the broadcast, the camera pulled away. Exposed the full tableau: the six bodies strapped like livestock to frames. Some still breathing, scarcely. All bleeding in slow, sluggish streams. 

The choir sang behind them. The hymn had no melody, only a series of moans calibrated to inspire awe. 

The Cardinal raised both arms. His robes soaked with blood from wrist to elbow. > “We have returned to Eden.” 

On-screen, the Covenant’s symbol flashed. A sun with a gaping mouth at the center. Teeth like blades. No tongue.

Off-camera, the sixth Offering broke her sedation. 

She screamed. 

It was not broadcast. But the crew would remember. 

They would dream of it years later. When they couldn’t sleep. When they saw meat displayed at the corner market and couldn’t stop shaking. When they touched their own children and remembered the girl’s voice. 

But only for a moment. 

Then the next broadcast would begin. 

And the meat would be blessed. 

And the knives would be clean. 

And the teeth would be hungry. 

The screen came to life without warning. 

No sound. No fanfare. Just the image of a stage shrouded in soft blue light, as if grief had been assigned a color and pumped into the air. The camera panned slowly, like the eye of God. Controlled. Clinical. Cruel. 

The backdrop was obsidian. Blank. The floor had been polished to such a sheen that it reflected the silhouettes of those who walked upon it—making them appear doubled, as if their shadows had also been ordained. 

Then came the robes. 

White, billowing, immaculate. Hemmed in red thread pulled from the vestments of saints and the veins of heretics. They called themselves The Covenant, and no one dared speak against them anymore. The rituals were broadcast to every home, every screen, every cathedral now converted into a processing center. 

At the center walked the Cardinal. Not a man, not anymore. A thing shaped like holiness. He moved with a precision so perfect it had to be rehearsed for generations. Hands, gloved in pale leather, hung at his sides like relics. Face motionless, not even the breath moved beneath the skin. 

He stood beneath a halo of surgical light. 

> “The beasts have betrayed us,” he began. “Their meat, cursed by the rot. Their blood, made venomous. Their bodies, unfit for divine consumption.”

His voice never trembled. 

> “But the Book left us a path. Leviticus 11. ‘Of all that walk on paws, they are unclean unto you.’” 

A pause. A breath before the slaughter. 

> “So we return. To Eden. To man.” 

He raised a single hand. 

From behind the curtain came the procession. 

Six of them. 

They did not shuffle. They did not stagger. They walked as though choreographed, like models on a runway built atop a mass grave. Each was beautiful. Frighteningly so. Skin like polished alabaster. Lips a shade too red. Eyes vacant but not lifeless—dimmed, dulled, but not dead. 

Their hair had been washed. Nails manicured. Bodies shaved, perfumed, and oiled. Some had gold rings in their nipples. Others bore silken ribbons around their necks. Each marked with a barcode behind the ear and a tag beneath the breast: GEN-9, PURE, Grade A. 

The handlers wore masks. No mouths, no eyes. Only the Covenant’s symbol etched into bone: a sun with teeth instead of rays. 

The Cardinal approached the first. 

A girl. 

No more than twenty. Full-limbed. Flesh taut, warm, freshly pumped with adrenaline inhibitors. Her body was unblemished, the kind sold at premium auctions. She looked sculpted, like marble just beginning to weep. 

She did not look afraid. She looked like nothing. Like absence wrapped in silk. 

The slab she was strapped to gleamed beneath her. The restraints red velvet. Soft, to avoid bruising. This was a performance, after all. The meat must be beautiful for the cameras. 

He picked up the blade. Not stainless. Ornate. Black iron with a hilt of carved bone. Names etched into the spine—previous Offerings, sanctified through consumption. 

The cut began at the top of her thigh. Slow. Purposeful.

Her skin split easily. Her flesh pink, marbled with the fine grain of youth and clean eating. No disease. No deformity. Only the proof of success. The blood came fast and bright, like a confession. It rolled down her leg in ribbons. The cameras zoomed in to catch the glisten. 

Her eyes flickered. 

Only once. 

Her lips parted slightly, as if to speak. But whatever remained in her mind was crushed beneath the weight of tranquilizers—calibrated just enough to silence the soul, not dull the nerves. Pain was a necessary part of the ritual. 

She was not dead. Not unconscious. She was present. Held open. 

The Cardinal lifted the strip of flesh from her thigh. It dripped onto his glove. A single bead landed on her breast, curled like a tear, then rolled down the side of her ribs. 

He held the meat up. It shimmered. 

> “She feels nothing. For she has been bred without burden. Designed for sanctity. Molded in the cradle of obedience.” 

Then he bit. 

He did not chew delicately. He tore. 

The sound was wet. Audible. His teeth, sharpened to fangs, pierced the meat and pulled through muscle. Blood smeared his chin. He chewed slowly, savoring the taste fill his mouth, the way wine merchants taught their pupils to savor a vintage. 

He swallowed. 

The choir began. No words. Only breath. Moans orchestrated into something like ecstasy, like prayer turned inside out. 

> “She is perfect,” the Cardinal said, voice thick. “Her silence proves it.” 

The girl twitched once more. Her eyes blinked. Just once. 

The audience watching at home gasped. Some cried. Some came. Some kneeled before their screens and wept thanks. 

Another was brought forward.

A boy this time. Smooth-skinned. Lashes long. Castrated before puberty for tenderness. Thighs thick with muscle but without hair. He smiled faintly—programmed to do so when touched. 

He was cut across the chest. A strip carved just beneath the nipple. The meat steamed in the cold air of the studio. The priest who ate him wept openly, then kissed the wound. 

By the fourth Offering, the blood had begun to pool at the base of the stage. 

But the cameras never tilted down. They showed only the faces of the faithful. The beauty of the offering. The teeth of the Cardinal. 

No one showed the back room. No one showed the rows of half-dressed meat, twitching in their cages. All young. All genetically designed for docility. Most with vocal cords removed. All with eyes engineered to shine. Hopeful. Empty. Like newborns taught to never cry. 

No one showed the vats of bleach used to dissolve the imperfect ones. The infants born with too many fingers. The women who refused to smile. The men who flinched during practice cuts. 

Behind the stage, under a tarp, lay the discarded. 

Women bloated from hormones and abuse. Boys with open throats. Mouths packed with gauze. Elders used as breeding stock until their hips collapsed. None would be televised. Their flesh was unclean. Their stories unnecessary. 

On stage, the fifth Offering collapsed mid-slice. Blood loss. A clean death. The audience clapped. The priest who had been eating him sobbed with joy. 

The sixth was a mother. Barely postpartum. Still lactating. She was the grand finale. Her milk would be collected after the broadcast. It would be auctioned for communion. 

The Cardinal kissed her forehead before cutting her. A kiss that left her skin smeared with gore. 

> “We have returned to the sacred,” he whispered. “To the beginning. The body is the temple. And the temple must be fed.” 

The screen faded to black. 

In the silence that followed, millions of mouths salivated. 

The new world had been devoured. 

And the meat still bled. 

And the Covenant still smiled. 

And the girl’s blood had been fresh.

It started slow. As rotting flesh tends to. 

The animals fell first. Silent, save for the thud of bodies meeting ground. Veins bursting through skin. Spines splaying. Cows foamed at the mouth before halting mid-chew. Pigs screamed until their vocal cords split. Chickens twitched and wept from their eyes. Those who tried to eat of the meat died in moments—tongues ballooning, stomachs splitting, blood frothing in their throats like milk left too long in the warmer. 

The sickness spread too fast to be ignored. No species, save one, that beat with a heart was spared. The news networks called it an enigma. The churches, a reckoning. And the scientists, hanging limb from limb on live feed, were declared blasphemers for their failure to produce a cure. 

Cloned flesh provided hope at first. But it fell apart between the teeth, fibers dissolving to a slurry. It had no texture. No aroma. No fight to it when torn. Like chewing through wet gauze. Even the starving spat it out. Babies wailed as it coated their tongues. Hunger would not be fooled. 

And so it was, the first Water War. 

The fields were next to fall. Wheat shrivelled in the ground. Tomatoes exploded into pulps before they ripened. Lettuce desiccated into ash upon the stalk. All that remained was auctioned. A single carrot could net you a child’s hand. A bunch of grapes, a night’s stay in a home. Soon, even those who had stockpiled in greenhouses found themselves empty. The water became viscous, metallic in taste. The common people forgot the taste of sweetness. The taste of green. Of crunch. The poor drank bleach and called it a sacrament. 

And so the Covenant came. 

Not with rifles. With rhetoric. 

They were calm. Unfurled, in white robes. Their feet silent upon the dirt of the dying cities. Leviticus in their mouths as they walked. The death of the livestock, they said, was a message. A cleansing. God had taken the beasts from man to show him what he must become. 

They scrubbed the word human from all documentation. Said it caused confusion. Led the people to believe in a balance that did not exist, a fairness that rankled against all sense of order. Language, they said, was the seed of anarchy. So they rewrote it. 

The young were bred in sanctified facilities and named Sacraments. Pure. Chaste. Never to be kissed, touched, named. Raised in temperature-controlled pods, fed nutrient slushies, lulled by hymns on loop. Limbs massaged each day to keep tone. Eyelids plucked now and then to keep

symmetry. No one spoke to them. That would only risk memory. Memory invited grief. Grief toughened the flesh. 

Those cast off, those caught in raids, those feral to the eye, were called Offerings. Rounded from raids, or ration lines, or failed riots. Funnelled through processing centers in public displays. Some were slaughtered in front of their families, while mid-prayer. Their final breath a blessing. Their heads boiled and mounted. Their tongues sliced from their mouths, dried and strung into necklaces. 

Heretics were those who clung to the old ways. Those who kept books, or gardens, or refused the Flesh. Their children were taken. Limbs branded. The stubborn skinned alive in town squares. Their hides used for church pews. Their skulls ground into holy ash. To resist was to be reduced. 

The lowest of the low were Wretches. The protestors. The blasphemers who pleaded for something kinder. They were too weak to fight, too far gone to starve, too loud to ignore. Some went on fasts to demonstrate their morality. Most shrivelled until they were dragged by the teeth to the processing line. 

Factories fell next. 

Fabric mills became Skin Refineries. Stripped, tanned, and molded. Used for belts, for book covers, for liturgical banners. Some were gifted to the clergy. The smell of oiled skin, still faintly sweet, was paraded through the streets. A blessing, they called it. 

The mines were repurposed into Game Reserves. Men hunted men. Collars around their necks that would detonate if they strayed too far. The well-off bought exclusive hunting passes. Children learned to aim for the spine. The meat bruised less that way. 

Warehouses became Breeding Farms. Each womb accounted for. Each cervix stalked. Babies harvested before their lungs had time to fully develop, before they could truly scream. Mothers sedated between cycles. Hormones pumped through IV drips. No bonding. Milk collected and stored. Nothing to be wasted. The Covenant said even the tears carried sanctity. 

And the processing plants never stopped. 

There were riots at first. People falling on themselves, begging for vegetables, for water, for mercy. Some set themselves on fire. Some bit their own tongues out as an act of defiance. They were dispersed with hoses, beatings, starvation. Their cries were drowned out under the sound of teeth rending flesh. 

Two more wars followed. The opposition, those who called it what it was—barbarity, obscenity, hell—lost.

Because hunger is not appeased with conviction. 

Because bloodlust does not satiate the belly. 

Because no one listens to the dying when their stomachs are quiet and their hands shake too hard to grasp a blade. You cannot mount a rebellion when you are gnawing your own finger to trick the mind into believing it has been fed. 

The Covenant made this clear. Kneel. Or be consumed. 

And so they did. 

One by one, the cities knelt. 

Mothers turned in sons. Lovers butchered lovers. Friends denounced one another for hoarding carrots, for fermenting grapes, for speaking the old tongue. Language was hunted. Morality redefined. Hunger sanctified. 

The world did not end with fire. But with a sermon. 

The processing plants still churn. The skin still tanned and molded. The Sacraments are still bred in sanitized cribs where lullabies are replaced with lullabies. The Game Reserves host tournaments now. Whole towns come. Children paint the faces of previous prey as masks. The Breeding Farms are at capacity. 

The old words have been purged. There is no more flesh. 

Only Sacrament. 

Only Offering. 

Only what must be eaten to continue. 

And the Covenant preens beneath it all. 

Because they have fed the world. 

And it has learned to thank them. 

The bell tolled once. Then twice. 

The third strike was for the Sacrament. 

It was always three. For the Father. For the Flesh. For the Knife. 

The congregation rose.

The pews smelled of polished bone. The hymns had already begun—droning vowels, sounds designed for worship rather than thought. No instruments. Only breath, forced into cadence. The children were in a row before the altar. 

White. Only white. 

Their suits were pressed, collars stiff to prevent bowing of the neck. The girls had ribbons soaked in purification oil, tied thrice around their wrist. Eyes were wide not with fear but with instruction. They had been trained. Had watched the liturgies on screen since before they could walk. 

Mothers were behind them, proud. Some wept. Some tugged at ties. Some mopped blood from bitten lips with lace. 

Fathers had recording devices in hand. Flashless cameras were now permissible, a recent amendment to scripture. They smiled. Whispered prayers of thanks. Some mouthed the words with the choir. Pins on their chests. My child is Flesh-Bound. 

This was the First Eucharist. Initiation into sanctified hunger. 

The priest moved forward. He did not smile. He did not speak. Gloved hands, hands scented with vinegar, pointed to the slab. 

The Sacrament lay upon it, naked. 

Immaculate. Still. Breathing shallow, but never stopping. Sedative pushed through an IV drip, keeping the heart from racing. Movement would profane the proceedings. Stillness was holy. 

The child nearest the slab stepped forward. A boy. Eight years old. His hands only slightly trembling as he clutched the ceremonial blade. Ivory handle. Teeth cut into the bone to prevent slipping. 

He had practiced. On dolls. On fruit. On stray dogs behind the refinery. Had memorized the hymns. 

The priest inclined his head. The congregation stilled. 

The boy pressed the blade to the Sacrament’s thigh. The skin parted clean. Warm blood came easily. No resistance. 

He carved a strip, thin and purposeful. Just as taught. The flesh curled slightly, sliding from the muscle. 

He brought it to his mouth.

The congregation held their breath. The choir fell silent. 

He chewed. 

No retch. No falter. He swallowed. 

And was made holy. 

The priest set a blood-stained thumb to his forehead. 

> “Blessed are the mouths that open in faith.” 

The boy stepped back. The next child stepped forward. 

A girl, small, mute. She sliced the shoulder. Blade dipped into the deltoid. Chewed slower. Blood dripped down her chin. Mother collapsed in a heap before the altar. 

One by one, they came. 

The Sacrament never moved. Eyes were open, glassed. Breathing shallow. Limbs lax. Designed for this. Engineered to not flinch, to not jerk. 

No children cried. No questions asked. 

The slab became slick with blood. But that had been planned for. A nun mopped between each cut, always clockwise, always with cloth torn from previous Heretics. 

The last child was the youngest. Six years old. A girl missing two teeth. She carved with both hands, needing the pressure. Took a bite of flesh with a visible effort. 

The congregation sighed as one. 

Now they were full. 

Now they were holy. 

The choir resumed. The mothers wept. 

The fathers took photos. A few requested that the priest stand with their child beside the slab. 

One couple clutched each other and kissed, murmuring, she did it, she really did it, like it was a wedding, a graduation, the first steps of a toddler—only cleaner, only sanctioned.

The Sacrament was wheeled away, still alive. 

Would be used again. Until it was not. 

The road was mostly empty. 

Ash drifted over the asphalt like old snow. The convoy had passed at sunrise. The scorched skeleton of a protester’s sign still littered the ditch. The air was still fragrant. A faint, sweet burn. Rubber. Fat. The remnants of fire. 

Inside the car, a woman was singing. 

> “Let it go, let it go—can’t hold it back anymore—” 

Her children laughed in the back seat. Clapped, not quite in time. They were in uniform. Stiff collars. Polished shoes. A little hand reached out toward the window. She slapped it back, not looking. Forceful but gentle. 

> “We don’t touch the glass, sweetheart. It’s a high-risk commute. Remember what we practiced.” 

She continued to sing. The child pouted. Then resumed humming. 

The mother had packed their lunches carefully. Two each. Ham and cheese. Cut into hearts. Fruit strips. A single chocolate square, flavor regulated. Napkins folded into swans. 

Smiling, she said she hoped they made friends. Said the Covenant had opened enrollment this year. Said everything was going to be fine. 

The school sat where a processing plant had been. The floors still smelled of bleach and marrow. 

Ahead, a checkpoint. Her ID chip blinked blue across the dashboard. The barrier raised. 

Slowing, they passed. Routine lag. She tapped the steering wheel. The children looked out the other window, watching the flag whip in the wind. 

They all avoided looking left. The mother most of all. But she saw.

There had been a gathering of scavengers near the perimeter fence. Protesters. But not Heretics. Unprocessed. Forgotten. Skin too loose. Spines curved from malnutrition. Hands cupped in instinct, not hope. 

The Covenant officers patrolled at a leisurely pace. Predictable. Like men with full stomachs. 

One stepped toward the group. He did not speak. Reached forward. Grabbed the nearest scavenger—boy, or man, or some variation in between—and bit. 

There was no warning. No pause. His mouth found the throat. Skin yielded. Blood spurted. A gasp from the back seat. The youngest had twisted his head at the wrong moment. > “Don’t look,” she said, still smiling. 

But it was too late. 

The scavenger sagged. The others pressed forward. 

Not toward the officer. Toward the body. 

They clawed at the corpse. Stripped it before it cooled. Teeth tore into ribs. Fingers breached the abdominal cavity to scoop the softest meat first. One smashed the jaw and took the tongue. Another snapped a femur for marrow. 

The officer watched. Unbothered. He wiped his mouth with a gloved hand. Gestured for the others to form a line. 

> “Put your seatbelt back on,” she said. “It’s not safe to fidget.” 

The child complied. Quietly. Eyes wide, mouth trembling. A line of vomit already drying on the shirtfront. 

> “You don’t want to get a note home,” she added. “Today’s important. It’s your first day.” 

She increased the volume on the music. 

> “Let it go, let it go—turn away and slam the door—”

The checkpoint fell behind them. 

At the school, another mother unloaded her children. Smiled. Waved. The eldest had a lunchbox shaped like a Covenant insignia. 

> “You saw the blood too?” the woman asked softly, like a passing comment on the weather. 

The other nodded. 

> “They’re always hungrier this time of year.” 

The women kissed their children goodbye. 

The bell rang. 

The gates closed. 

And the day began. 

The sky was edited to be blue. 

The birdsong piped in from hidden speakers. 

The fence had been painted white that morning. The gravel raked and brushed to uniformity. No sign of blood. No stray teeth. Nothing unsightly. 

The camera crew wore gloves. Not for sanitation. For aesthetics. Sweat on skin looked poor on close-ups. So did fingerprints on glass. 

> “We’re rolling,” someone said. 

The man in the suit stepped into frame. Smile rehearsed. Eyes kept wide, to imply warmth. An artificial sincerity. 

> “Welcome to Sanctum Meadows. Where tradition meets tenderness.”

The drone ascended. Panning over the facility. Fields divided into exact squares. Each bordered by fencing and buried sensors. The Sacraments walked in loops, guided by invisible pulses. They wore no clothes. Skin gleamed. Posture straight. Eyes open, but unseeing. 

The narrator continued: 

> “Our Sacraments are raised with care. No hormones. No violence. No trauma. Just sunlight, supervised exercise, and regulated affection.” 

Cut to a technician petting one. The Sacrament smiled, lips parted just enough to show even teeth. The technician pressed a treat to its mouth. The Sacrament chewed. No chewing too fast. That tested poorly in focus groups. 

The drone dropped lower. 

In one pen, two Sacraments slept in identical positions. Heads turned inward. Arms curled. One exhaled and blinked slowly. A halo of butterflies had been digitally added to the footage. The press release would call it pastoral. 

In another, a group ran laps. Their muscles filmed in slow motion. For quality assurance, not lust. The footage would be used in training seminars. Muscle tone was a marker of tenderness. 

> “Each Sacrament lives a life of peace. They are fed a diet of plant proteins, blessed minerals, and filtered hydration.” 

Cut to feeding time. Troughs brimming with pale paste. The Sacraments knelt in unison. Ate without hands. Their chins glistened. No one spoke. They had no tongues. 

> “Our facilities are certified under the Covenant’s Highest Standards of Grace.” 

A woman in robes walked through the center of frame. Held a clipboard. Nodded. Did not speak. She carried a cattle prod hidden beneath her cloak. Not for the Sacraments. For the interns. 

The commercial cut.

Now the nursery. 

Sacrament infants lay in clear cradles. IVs pulsed steadily. A mechanical mobile spun above them. Each arm held a different blessed implement: blade, collar, barcode scanner, sterilization cloth. The babies watched them turn. They did not cry. Their cords had been clipped before they ever reached vocalization. 

> “From birth to blessing, Sanctum Meadows believes in purity. No additives. No memory. Just clean, conscious-free protein.” 

A Sacrament was shown being led to a grooming station. Nails clipped. Teeth brushed. Skin exfoliated. The attendant smiled at the camera. 

> “We treat them with dignity. Because quality is a covenant.” 

The final scene was filmed at dusk. A table set in the field. Families seated under golden light. Children laughing. Parents carving strips from pre-seared Sacrament steaks. A plate of sliced thigh glistened on white porcelain. Garnished with rosemary. 

A mother held up her fork and said: 

> “It tastes better when they’ve been loved.” 

Fade to logo. A sun with teeth. 

> “Sanctum Meadows. Meat you can believe in.” 

The cameras shut off. 

The Sacraments were led back inside. 

The prod sparked once. 

One staggered. 

No one noticed.

The rap wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be. 

Two firm thwacks. Nothing more. The sound of the inevitable. 

The farmer cracked the door ajar, hand still on the knob, as if holding back a gale that had yet to come. He didn’t smile. His breath caught like those with something to conceal. 

> “House is a mess,” he said. 

The agents were silent. 

The taller one raised his tablet. Light from the screen flared against the caps of his canines—silver, filed, ranked. Each tooth signified clearance. The longer ones denoted rank. The sharper, enforcement. These men didn’t kill. They processed. 

> “You’ve failed to report on your herd’s condition for four cycles.” 

His voice was clear. Flat. Accusationless. Like a weather report. 

The shorter agent licked his lips. Habit. His own canines snagged on the inside of his cheek. They had been recently sharpened. 

The farmer scratched at the back of his neck. 

> “Been busy. Meant to submit. They’re fine. All of them.” 

The taller agent tapped the screen. 

> “Exclusively female Sacraments.” 

> “Yeah. That’s right. Just how it turned out. Haven’t had a male in a while.”

They said nothing. 

They didn’t need to. 

Silence bled into the farmer’s posture. He stepped back, less willingly, indicating toward the barn. His hand trembled, just a little. Not enough to report. But enough. 

The barn doors hissed open. The hinges hadn’t been greased in a while. Minor infraction. Logged but unspoken. 

Inside, the Sacraments knelt in line. Twelve of them. All female. All naked. Skin glistening with nutrient oil. Hair cropped. No bruising on visible skin. Nails clean. No weeping from eyes. No trembling. All of it correct. 

The shorter agent moved in circles, taking notes. He checked for tension in joints. Scanned the QR tattoos on the backs of the left ears. Measured vocal response with a handheld device. All normal. 

But they kept staring at the farmer. 

That wasn’t normal. 

They were trained to ignore. To remain passive. To accept touch, sound, even pain. But they kept glancing toward him. Not with fear alone. With something tighter. Taught. Controlled. As if waiting for something. 

The taller agent remained at the gate. His thumb scrolled slowly across the manifest. Cross-referencing breed dates, intake numbers, feeding logs, hormone levels. Then stopped. 

> “Thirteen are listed.” 

The farmer cleared his throat. 

> “One ran. A month ago. Broke a latch. Don’t know how she got out.” 

> “Why wasn’t it reported?” 

> “Didn’t think it mattered. She was a runt. Hardly ate. Thought she’d die out there.”

The taller agent stepped forward. 

> “Don’t,” the farmer said. 

Soft. Weak. 

Too late. 

The shorter agent drew his revolver in one fluid motion. Pressed it to the man’s temple. > “On your knees.” 

The man did as he was told. 

Muttering. Something wet in his mouth. The prayer of the damned. Inaudible. 

The taller opened the pen. One of the Sacraments moved immediately, crawling across the straw. Her knees made soft indents in the hay. Her hands were folded as if in prayer. 

She pressed her face to his thigh. Rubbed her cheek against his belt. Looked up. 

She made a sound. Not a moan. Not a cry. A breathy imitation of seduction. Practiced. Learned. Mouth parted. Tongue barely visible. 

He held her head back with one hand. 

She pushed again. Rubbed harder. Hips arched slightly. A movement too human. He looked at the farmer. 

> “Under Statute 11.7 of the Covenant’s Doctrine of Purity, enforced by the Law of Flesh and Faith: You have defiled a Sacrament. You will be executed for bestial violation.” 

The farmer trembled.

> “She came to me. I didn’t—she started it.” 

> “They are not capable of consent,” the shorter said. “You taught her this. You broke the protocol of sanctity. You treated her like a woman.” 

He slapped him across the jaw with the grip of the revolver. Bone cracked. The man sobbed. > “Where is the missing one?” 

> “Bedroom,” he gasped. “She’s tied. I was going to... I didn’t mean... she’s pregnant.” 

The taller locked the pen. The one that had been rubbing against him crawled backward, disoriented by the lack of reward. She whimpered, mouth still open. No one paid her any more mind. 

The bedroom was dark. The air thick. She was on the mattress, wrists bound to the frame with braided cable. Her stomach was swollen. Her thighs bruised from hands. 

She turned her head when they came in. No fight. No recognition. Her belly twitched. The taller agent sighed. 

> “Meat is tainted.” 

He raised his revolver. Placed the muzzle between her eyes. 

She blinked. 

The shot echoed once. 

From the barn came another. 

Then another.

Then another. 

Then silence. 

The house smelled like skin and blood and dust. 

Only the farmer was left. 

Face down in the dirt, shaking, wetting himself. Sobbing through a mouthful of broken teeth. He would not be processed. 

He would be made into a spectacle. 

Sentenced to public execution under the Covenant’s Decree of Cleansing. Livestreamed. Mass-attended. One of twelve scheduled that week. 

Tickets had already sold out. 

Children would wear teeth necklaces to the viewing. 

Vendors would hand out commemorative wafers. 

And when the rope snapped his neck, the crowd would cheer. 

Because justice, like meat, was best served fresh. 

The massive coliseum, once a stadium for games, reeked under banners splattered with doctrine. The metal bleachers groaned under the weight of bodies, who had come not to watch but to worship. They had come wearing cloaks branded with the names of butchers embroidered over their spines. Children waved plastic facsimiles of cleavers, foam axes drenched with synthetic gore, as their parents corrected their grip. 

Merchants weaved between the aisles, hawking meat pies and blood-spattered, sugar-drenched confections made in the shape of severed hands. The speakers crackled. A woman’s voice boomed through the system to welcome them to today’s Redemption Offering. Fireworks exploded in the sky—purple, gold, red—each color approved by the Covenant to stand for repentance, renewal, and the wrath of the flame. 

The crowd stood to their feet. Not for a minute of silence. Not for reverence. For spectacle. The gates ground open with the shriek of rust and salt. The convicted were led in barefoot and shackled. Some of them limped. One pissed himself. Another muttered the name of her child.

They had broken the laws. They had sold contraband meat. They had spoken against the clergy. They had refused the breeding edicts. One had kissed the wrong mouth. Another had written a poem. 

Their crimes were recited from a ledger in a voice like silk through a serrated throat. The headmen were ushered out and arranged in ceremonial order, their names printed across their chests in thick black letters. Some of them smiled. Some of them performed stretches. One kissed his blade. 

When the Cardinal appeared, the silence collapsed over the crowd like ashfall. White robes trimmed with sacred crimson, he shuffled forward without looking at the blood already dried into the arena’s floor. He spoke the words of absolution, not to the convicted but to the crowd. They bowed their heads. They mouthed the verse. 

Let sin be cut. Let flesh be shed. Let the soul be freed by steel. 

The executions began. 

One by one. No flourish. No delay. Necks struck and heads kicked into baskets woven by orphans. The bodies slumped, spasmed, expelled final things—air, urine, sometimes words. None were heard. 

The crowd roared. A wave of arms lifted in praise. Merchants threw more fireworks into the air. A child vomited from the stench and was applauded. 

Outside the walls, vultures circled. The bodies would be hauled through the west gate and dumped into the carrion pits. The animals would be fed. The blood would leech into the dirt. The dirt would grow the grain. The grain would feed the people. 

No one ever asked why the meat of the convicted was not eaten. 

Only that it was unclean. Only that the Covenant forbade it. Only that the faithful obeyed. 

They called it labor training in the reports. Not slavery. Never slavery. That word was forbidden. Filthy. As if the act itself could be sanctified so long as the language remained clean. Farmers in the outer provinces—far from the Sanctum raids, far from the Cardinal’s scent—began with small things. Tying the sacraments to pulleys, teaching them to pull carts. Then the more ambitious ones brought out the old manuals, the hidden ones, sealed in plastic beneath floorboards, pages warped with dampness and mold. Illustrated guides from the forgotten era: how to break a body without breaking the spirit, how to extinguish will but preserve obedience. 

They experimented. Chained the sacraments to plows and stripped the skin from their backs when they stopped. Wired their genitals with shock cords. Starved them until they wept for kitchen scraps, then rewarded them with hollowed bones filled with broth. One farmer broke the

legs of every newborn sacrament he bred, let them heal wrong so they’d never run, so they’d learn crawling first, humility second. 

They never taught names. Names were for the dead. Instead, they used brands. 1A, 4F, 11C. If the brands faded, they carved the numbers into the soft flesh above the spine with shearing hooks. Some of them sang hymns while they did it. Said it helped the pain mean something. 

One woman taught hers to clean the blood gutters. Said they needed to know their place. Said it was good for them, to work before dying, that it gave them purpose. When questioned, she quoted scripture about the dignity of labor. She’d hung crucifixes over each pen, wiped the sacrament mouths with holy water before feeding. She had a child help, told him it was play. 

They dressed some in uniforms. Simple canvas tunics dyed the sacred black-and-white of the Covenant. Not to dignify but to identify. A working sacrament. An obedient offering. A pre-cut laborer. One of them, named Beetle, was photographed kneeling beside a broken transport cart, hands clasped in silent apology as a man pissed on its face for denting a wheel. The photo circulated for weeks, until the Covenant issued a decree. 

It was swift. Unyielding. Absolute. 

Labor is a heresy. 

Work before death invites corruption. It reawakens the illusion of worth. The illusion of soul. 

The contradiction bled through the parchment and still no one dared speak it aloud: that skinning was sacred but sweeping was sin, that cleaving a thigh from a living body was divine, but making that same body dig a trench desecrated the holy order. 

Raids followed. Torchlight. Screams. Farms razed not for flesh crimes but for labor crimes. One man was discovered with a ledger listing daily chores. Each task had a reward system. A meal, a petting, a song. His punishment was flaying by fire. Not killed. Just flayed. They strung him in the center of his own field like a failed scarecrow. His sacraments were made to watch, then 

burned still breathing. 

The Sanctified News reported it as a victory. A triumph of morality. A defense of tradition. The anchor wept tears of joy when recounting the eradication of the so-called work camps. 

In private, the whispers continued. 

A black market emerged. Quiet auctions in slaughterhouses. Sacraments for hire. Not for cutting. For lifting. For holding a brush. For warming the feet of rich clients while they slept. They were muzzled. They were kneecapped. They were punished for learning too fast or too slow.

The Covenant turned its eyes elsewhere. A new scandal. A Cardinal caught drinking the wrong wine. A breach in the northern wall. The news cycles rotated. The meat grinders kept churning. 

And in the dark corners of the land, the sacraments still scrubbed floors and hauled barrels and repaired broken gates. No words. No rights. No names. 

The old world, they said, had slavery. 

This was different. 

This was sacred. 

Forks were aligned. Napkins were pressed. Meat was sliced in perfect identical portions on white plates rimmed with Covenant-approved gold. No music. No words. Yet. Only the low scrape of knife on bone as the husband hacked into the steaks with the solemnity of a priest holding up relics. 

The mother gave thanks aloud, hands folded, eyes on the table centerpiece, a candle shaped in the likeness of a screaming head. Mass-produced. Blessed. Wax blood pooled around its base. 

They bowed. They sliced. They chewed. 

Save for the small wet sounds of mastication, the room was silent. The daughter, only eight, knew the rules. Did not speak with food in her mouth. 

It was only when the boy stopped chewing, face twisted, a strip of yellowed fat shoved to the side of his plate, that the performance was broken. The father’s knife paused mid-slice. He turned his head slowly. 

“What is that?” he said. 

The boy said nothing. 

“You think you’re better than the blessing?” 

The boy mouthed no, but his eyes said yes. Said please. Said I can’t swallow it again. 

The mother shuffled in her seat, spine straightening, lips tightening. She would not speak. It was not her place. Her place was to cook. To iron. To bleed once a month and thank God for the privilege of her station. 

The father rose. Crossed the table. Stuck the fat into his son’s mouth with fingers still slick with juices.

“You eat all of it,” he said. “Every part. That’s what the Covenant teaches. To waste is to blaspheme. To blaspheme is to rot.” 

The boy chewed, slowly. Gagging. Tears ran down his cheeks and into the collar of his Sunday shirt. The fat didn’t break down. It clung. It coated his teeth. His throat seized. 

“Swallow it,” the father said. 

The boy obeyed. 

The grandfather huffed, low and dry. Thumped his fork against his plate. The portion was thicker, cooked just right, a perfect rare. The fibers sliced clean, no remaining nerves or veins to catch the knife. He chewed slowly, with relish. Had been one of the last to taste cow before the Transition. Carved his first bovine at twelve, on a field trip to a failing farm. Watched the species go extinct with a certain satisfaction. 

“Human’s sweeter,” he said. “Richer. More honest.” 

No one argued. 

The daughter stabbed a forkful to her mouth. A clean square of thigh, grilled with rosemary. Did not blink. 

The mother asked if anyone wanted more. Offered the bowl of marrow gravy, heavy and thick. The husband nodded. The boy did not. 

“He’s full,” the father said for him. 

The candle burned lower. The wax head began to deform, sagging into itself, mouth open in mute scream. 

They cleared the dishes in silence. The father flipped on the Sanctified News. The mother scraped the blood from the plates without soap. The daughter licked her fingers. 

The boy sat very still, belly churning, praying he wouldn’t vomit the fat. That would be a sin. And sins had consequences. 

I swung. Not much. Just enough for the chain to creak. Just enough to remind myself I was still meat suspended from a hook. 

My mouth moved. I knew it wouldn’t make sound—my vocal cords were gone, seared out weeks ago, a standard procedure meant to quiet the undeserving. But I tried anyway. I shaped words

out of air. Pleas. Warnings. Memories. Anything. My tongue scraped against broken teeth. I mouthed I know. I remember. I am here. 

They didn’t look. 

Hooks pierced my ankles, driven through the soft tissue just above the bone. Missed the center on the first try, had to shove the metal through already-torn flesh. The pain had come and gone. What remained was pressure. Wet warmth. A constant drip that slid down my spine and into my 

eyes. One of the tendons had curled inside my leg like a dead worm. Every sway yanked something else. 

There were too many of us for them to care. Twenty sacraments per worker. Five hundred workers. Ten thousand offerings processed before dusk. My body was a fraction of a quota. A number chalked beside a name no one spoke. 

I tried again. 

I twisted my wrists. I blinked in time. I moved my lips slower, as if that might make them understand. I knew. I was aware. My body was theirs, but I was still in it. 

A boot passed close. I flinched. 

That was the mistake. 

He noticed. 

“Still twitching?” the worker muttered. I could read the disgust in his eyes. Not fear. Not guilt. Just inconvenience. Like a faulty latch or a clogged drain. 

“Cull it,” someone behind him said. “It’ll spoil the line.” 

The worker didn’t argue. Just stepped forward. The blade wasn’t blessed. It wasn’t sacred. It was steel, curved, already slick with the fat of those before me. He didn’t wait for stillness. Didn’t ask permission. 

Just slid the hook up under my chin. 

No ceremony. No hesitation. Just function. 

It pierced up through the roof of my mouth and into the soft place behind my nose. My body spasmed once. Heat poured from my chest. My throat convulsed. 

No scream. Just air.

I remember thinking this is how it ends. 

Not with fire. Not with mourning. But with meat stripped of its noise. 

I sagged. The chain carried me forward. 

I didn’t feel the conveyor jolt. Didn’t feel the machine ready to flay what was left. Didn’t feel the sorting or the slicing or the tagging of my parts. 

But before all of that, I remembered: I had tried. I had told them. I had said I’m still here. And no one had listened.

By Salem Youngblood