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©2002 Carol MacAllister
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 "Not again," Wade hollered, hands cupped over his ears. "Stop! Stop!" Insane sounds of pig squeals and thuds of falling heads riddled his waking thoughts.
When he had worked on the line butchering swine, he learned the meaning of the pigs' subtle gestures. He saw the wide-eyed terror in their eyes as they headed for the guillotine, heard their cutting squeals of panic as they moved to the slaughter. And, Wade was their executor, paid to end their existence, partner to the sale of their flesh for profit.
He had slowly bonded with the pigs. Sleep grew restless. A bizarre haze crept from his nightmares and riddled daytime thoughts as he worked.
"Something has to be done. These creatures are intelligent, emotional. They have families and lives." Their condition etched deeply into his being. He decided, "I'll do it myself. Anything to save the pigs!"
He made flyers, passed them out at work and was immediately fired. Picketing in protest across the entrance of the processing plant, Wade's placards drew little attention from co-workers in the small town. "Try alternatives," Wade hollered. "Cheese, vegetables, fruit, legumes."
"Git outta here, Wade!" screamed the men. "This is our livelihood. The town will collapse, if we shut down!"
"It's them or us!" workers hollered back.
With no support, nor acknowledgment, Wade's mounting concerns billowed into an obsession that plummeted him into depression. He moved into a vacant building in between the processing plants.
One evening as he passed a group of factory workers, someone hurled a severed pig's head at him. He carried it home and placed it on a chair. Its beady red eyes drew him close. A concern of wonderment bolted through his body. He picked up the severed head and carefully cut the outer skin off the skull.
He put the fleshy head over his own, as if were a mask. Then, he sat down on a three-legged stool and stared out through the eyeholes across the huge workroom of the abandoned factory he called home.
Voices whispered softly. An understanding grew within Wade. He repeated the ritual several more nights. One evening, as he listened to squealing whispers from the beyond, sudden inspiration flooded his thoughts.
"Yes. Yes. I understand," his words muffled off the block walls. He felt like Aunt Martha and Cousin Emma when they received that sudden rush of spirit at Lester's tent meeting. "Finally! I'm chosen. I will be the instrument, the builder, the one to right the injustice to swine."
Each time Wade placed the pig head over his own and sat silently on the three-legged stool, he heard voices guiding him.
His evenings of roaming through alleyways turned into a frenzied harvest for pig bones. He broke into his old processing plant and rifled through the bins of bony remains that waited for the pulverizing teeth of the grinding machines.
He climbed into the metal containers and routed through skeletal parts, sorting and selecting. Reeking odors of the damp storage area and rotting carcasses no longer gagged him.
"Ah," his voice quivered excitedly when his hand touched just the right joint or limb. With religious fervor, he stuffed severed parts into his canvas satchel. When he'd gathered what was needed, Wade scurried home through the alleyways, dragging his bag of pig bones.
Breathlessly, he spread his pickings on the concrete floor. Using pliers, saws and wire, he sculpted bony remains back to life, trying to breathe a new existence into their fleshless frames.
The assemblage of pigs grew over several weeks. They stood like an army of skeletons, many misshapen beyond recognition. Every night, Wade sat before them on the three-legged stool, wearing the severed head. Unspoken squeals from the bony collective rattled through his thoughts: "You must save our future generations from the slaughter."
He stared out thoughtfully over his growing number of charges. Raising a clenched fist, he hollered "It's time for action." His thoughts resounded with their squeals of approval.
Honing his firewood axe to a fine edge, Wade announced, "One at a time!" Wearing the pig's head and clutching the axe, he hid among the shadows near the dumpsters.
The winter evening's darkness provided cover as he watched the late-shift workers leave for home. He recognized the men who had worked next to him slaughtering swine. One straggler stopped to light up. Wade bolted from the shadows. Wearing the pig's head, he swung the axe. Snap! The man's head fell from his body and rolled into the shadows.
Wade ran down the alley to the safety of his building and hid.
"The first," he announced to the waiting swine. "One less pig murderer."
Flashing lights and droning sirens pulled Wade to the window. Police walked the area shining their lights, scouring for clues. Soon, the alleyway returned to silence and Wade took off the head and rested.
The next evening Wade repeated his attack. Again, he got away cleanly and watched from the building as the police investigated.
"One a night," Wade boasted to his charges. "It won't take long. Anything to save you."
The third night, as Wade hid in the shadows, he glared at the stockyard pens filled with pigs. "Yes!" he said to the guiding voices. "I can free our brothers and sisters."
He chopped at the wooden enclosures, and the sound of splitting wood cracked through the dimly lighted yards. Gates to the pigpens crashed open.
"Free! Free at last!" Wade shouted. Swine bolted into the alleyways, scurried through the streets.
"Yes!" Wade hollered. He darted around wearing the pig head. Factory workers armed with ropes forced the animals back into the pens. Wade swung his axe, cutting through in the din of confusion.
Someone grabbed him.
"Good Lord! A demon!" the startled man yelled. "A pig demon! It must've let 'em out!"
Another saw Wade's axe and yelled, "It's the killer. The head chopper!"
Distracted by the loud confusion of squealing pigs, people ignored the men's shouts.
Wade pulled away. Squatting with the pig head still over his own, he hid among the swine. The men shoved the animals back into the pens where Wade intermingled with the pigs.
A voice directed, "Send them hogs inside. These pens are gonna go again."
The huge herd of swine pushed into the staging area of the factory. Wade ducked down and moved with them. Workers locked them in the factory for the night.
When the morning shift arrived, Wade squatted down with the pig head on and continued to hide among the swine. Voices neared. Wade peered out. Police had flooded the factory.
"They're after me!" He stayed low.
Workers cut a small group of animals from the rest. Wade, crouching among them, had no choice but to crawl forward. Suddenly he realized they stood on the moving conveyor belt, traveling down the slaughterhouse butchering line. Wade tried to jump away, but electric prods snapped him back. The squealing voices of panicked pigs increased. Pigs packed tighter, crowding into each other, trapping Wade among them.
The sounds of the approaching guillotine echoed. Slash! Snap! Thud! Severed heads fell. Wade glared at gushing carcasses lifted by grappling hooks, swinging rhythmically as they bled on their way into the coolers.
Wade tried to stand, but pigs pressed too tightly. He cried out. No one heard his voice from under the smothering mask.
Suddenly, a man called, "I see a plaid shirt!"
"Yes! Yes!" Wade's muffled voice screamed. "Over here! Turn off the machines!"
"Lookie!" the voice snickered, "Somebody dressed up one of them pigs."
Everyone laughed.
The conveyor continued to move forward. Wade heard the humming of the machinery, the slicing of the guillotine. Steel arms of heavy machinery forced Wade down. Positioned for the final blow, he heard someone yell, "What the hell is that thing?"
Through his mask's eyeholes, Wade saw old co-workers, the slaughterers, crowd around him.
"Stop! Stop the machinery," a man called. "That ain't no pig. Them's hands and feet. It's a man!"
The snap of the released blade cut through the din of voices. As it fell, panicked workers grabbed Wade, but the machinery pinned him firmly in place. Some pulled his arms forward; others pulled his legs back. His body stretched taut across the chopping block.
The blade continued to fall. Panicked workers kept up their struggle to free Wade.
Slash! Snap! The huge blade cut Wade in two, along with the arms and hands, shoulders and necks of his co-workers: those who butchered livestock at Slaughterhouse Swine.
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