The windows were not to be opened. Gordon knew this. And why would he bother? On both sides of the convoy stretched endless barbed-wire fencing, mile after mile, hemming in a restless sea of cattle. Through the dust kicked up by the tires he caught glimpses of them, thousands of blank-eyed beasts, their meaningless lives funneling toward the inevitable slaughterhouse, the final destination that awaited them all. Even through the limousine’s climate filters, the rank mixture of manure and urine forced its way inside. God, the stench out there, Gordon thought.
He hadn’t been thrilled when today’s campaign schedule brought him here, but the workforce of one of the largest meat-processing plants in the state could not be ignored.
*
At the loading hall for the truck bays, the escort vehicles peeled left and right, allowing Gordon’s limousine to glide inside. He stepped out onto a slick floor of white ceramic tiles, his black polished shoes gleaming against the wet surface. The sharp metallic tang of blood struck his nostrils. He knew that scent well, from the days when his father had taught him to skin a deer and gut it clean. He knew it, respected it, and, though he would never admit it aloud, took a quiet, guilty pleasure in it.
Two people awaited him: a brother and sister, the owners of the company. They looked like an odd pair, plump, ruddy-cheeked twins with the same round faces. Broad smiles, firm handshakes. Gordon knew them well: longtime campaign donors who bought favors with strategic generosity. More than once he had secured them seats at glittering galas back in Washington. Now it was their turn to repay the debt, assembling the plant’s workforce so he could speak to them on behalf of his surging campaign.
But he couldn’t face these workers in a senator’s suit. One of his agents carried a large duffel behind him. They showed Gordon to a side room where he changed. Shiny shoes gave way to green boots with yellow soles. The tailored suit was replaced by jeans and a flannel shirt, topped with a white coat. A baseball cap bearing the party slogan - MADE IN USA - completed the look.
Charlie and Brenda, the twins, led him through a vast refrigerated corridor toward the gathering. Sides of butchered animals hung from ceiling hooks in endless rows, their pale flesh glistening under the cold lights. The sight was almost surreal, and Gordon’s face betrayed the thought: Who on earth will eat all this meat?
Charlie caught the glance.
“Senator Longley, allow me a small correction.”
He eyed the pristine white coat Gordon wore. Too clean. Too staged. He turned, seized a hanging slab of meat with both hands, and pressed his blood-slick palms onto Gordon’s coat.
“Do you mind?”
Gordon gave a curt nod. Charlie smeared his hands across the fabric until faint stains marred the spotless white.
“There. Much better. Now you look like you belong. This way, please.”
*
Through the final door waited a makeshift stage and several hundred workers dressed much like Gordon himself. A few began clapping and whistling as he appeared, Brenda had primed them with the promise of a paid long weekend. Gordon waved and smiled at the warm but unmistakably choreographed welcome. The rest of the crowd joined in.
He knew these rallies by heart. Flattery, gratitude, promises, personal humility, this was his native element.
Your hard and honorable work…
Proud of the calluses on your hands…
You feed your families, and America owes you her thanks…
No worker in the world can match ours…
The satisfaction of wiping sweat from your brow… - on and on, the familiar music.
He rode the applause, shifting effortlessly into personal exchanges: And you, ma’am, where are you from? The program flowed perfectly, until his gaze drifted to the very back of the crowd.
A young man stood there alone. His blond hair was tied in a messy knot. A three-day stubble shadowed his cheeks. A greasy white coat sagged from narrow shoulders. In one hand he held a string tied to a single helium balloon, blue, gently spinning in the air.
Gordon’s focus faltered. A coincidence? Maybe the owners handed out balloons? But there were no other balloons. Only this one, and this timid nobody holding it. A faint draft set it turning. First the letter D came into view. Then, slowly, the rest: D - U - M - B - O - ?
He froze mid-sentence. The crowd sensed something was off. Recovering quickly, Gordon flashed a bright smile.
“Excuse me for just a moment, folks.”
He turned toward the Secret Service detail and beckoned one agent closer, speaking low.
“In the back, young man with a blue balloon. Don’t look at him. Approach after the event. I want to speak with him.”
The agent nodded and melted back into the crowd. Gordon turned again to the workers, arms raised in mock surrender.
“I wish to thank you for the kindness you’ve shown me today in this extraordinary facility. Unfortunately, the duties of a senator, your faithful servant, call me elsewhere. Remember to vote for us, because we are...”
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He pointed to the crowd and cupped a hand to his ear.
“MADE IN USA!” they shouted, clapping and cheering.
He waved, heart-in-hand, and left the stage. Moving briskly through the corridors, he felt the agent fall in beside him.
“Sir, the individual has been isolated. Shall I take you to him?”
“Yes. Take me.”
*
They stopped before a large freezer. Frost crusted the edges of the heavy metal door, which stood slightly ajar, white vapor curling into the air. Gordon grasped the handle and pulled. Bright sterile light flooded a landscape of frozen carcasses.
In the center stood the young man, hugging himself for warmth. A bead of clear snot trembled on the tip of his long, sharp nose, undecided whether to fall or freeze in place. Gordon signaled the agent to stay by the door.
“Are you certain, sir? Do you know this person?”
“I’m certain. No one enters until I’m done.”
He stepped closer. The balloon now floated against the ceiling, abandoned. The young man looked harmless, frightened. Gordon circled him, stopped beside a hanging slab of meat, and yanked the hook free with a sharp metallic clink. Holding it loosely, tapping it against his thigh, he asked in a flat voice:
“Who are you, and where did you get that balloon?”
The young man stirred and answered with surprising readiness.
“My name’s Toby. I work here, live down by the trailer park near the farm. Nice to meet you.”
He slipped a hand from under his arm and extended it with a shy smile. When Gordon didn’t take it, he let it fall back. Clearing his thin throat, he continued, eyes downcast:
“This morning, before work, a courier came to my door. Strange, right? I live alone. Nobody sends me anything. But there it was, a small package and a letter. Want to know what it said?”
He grinned, showing uneven yellow teeth, as if expecting a dialogue.
Gordon remained silent, eyes hard, the hook tapping faster.
“Man, it had a hundred-dollar bill, the balloon, and a note. Plus a little box.”
“What note? What box?”
“It said you’d be visiting today. Said you love balloons. Told me to inflate it and you’d notice me. Nailed it, huh? Then it said I should give you a gift, and I’d get another hundred if I didn’t mess up. And here it is.”
He fished in his pocket and produced a small package wrapped in decorative paper, topped with a bow.
“Swear I didn’t look inside,” Toby added quickly. “Not my style. What isn’t mine, stays shut.”
Gordon needed no further proof of the boy’s role. A disposable messenger. He took the package between two fingers, feeling its weight.
“Thank you for the gift. Have a pleasant day, and don’t forget to vote for us.”
He gestured toward the door. The agent let Toby out. Gordon remained alone.
*
The wrapping depicted a cheerful winter scene: snowflakes, a smiling snowman with a carrot nose. He tugged the ribbon loose. Not a bomb, he thought. Too much trouble for something so crude. And the balloon, it didn’t fit the logic of an explosive.
He lifted the lid. Inside lay a device he had never seen before: a cube of graphite fiber with a small dark display. He turned it in his hands. It had no obvious seam. The tiny rectangular screen bore faint ridges, like a fingerprint. He pressed his thumb against it. A soft hum, a single click, the lid released.
Inside rested only a folded sheet of white paper. Blank. Four neat folds. What the hell is this? He held it to the light. Nothing. He examined the box again and finally noticed small letters printed on the bottom:
KEEP IN A FROZEN PLACE
Medication usually carried a similar warning, keep cool and dry, but this… Holding the paper, he glanced around. This freezer was frozen enough.
He pressed the sheet against a hanging block of ice-cold meat. Slowly, as if awakening, letters began to emerge in elegant cursive:
Dear Senator Longley,
Allow me to express my admiration and respect. Only a man of clear purpose and firm resolve is willing to do certain things, unpleasant perhaps, but always necessary. I say this because I understand you. You and I are made of the same substance. For that, I value you beyond measure.
Permit me to offer my support in your ascent. I would be most unhappy to participate instead in your downfall. Understand that such cooperation must, by its nature, be mutual. A synergy of power, that is the path to a better tomorrow. Rest assured, your secrets, though they may leave the occasional scar upon the soul, are safe with me.
Kindly consider my words with the seriousness they deserve. I will be as loyal to you as you are to me. To confirm our agreement, I ask that you take up a certain project known as Meteor.
What I desire is simple - eliminate him.
Sincerely,
L.
The paper grew damp, the letters began to blur, then dissolved entirely, leaving only a faint dark stain across the sheet.
Gordon stared at the now-blank page. A threat? An invitation? Both, it seemed. The word scar gnawed at him. He knows. God, he knows.
He covered his face with both hands. A surge of adrenaline burned away the cold. What now? His mind howled like an animal caught in a steel trap.
A voice at the door broke the spell.
“Everything all right, sir?”
“Yes… yes, everything’s fine. I’m coming.”
*
The convoy rolled away from the farm. Gordon sat in the back seat, lost in thought. He pressed a button, raising the glass partition from the driver. From his pocket he drew the graphite cube, turning it over in his hands. It had responded to his fingerprint. Someone possessed that print. Someone had used it as the key.
Not only that, this L. knew his schedule, his movements, every detail of his day. Worst of all, the stranger had anticipated that Gordon would meet Toby in a place where there would be ice, the only way the message could be read.
That detail left Gordon no choice. For now, he would follow the instructions. At least until he understood what kind of enemy he faced.
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First of the Sanguine
Progression & LITRPGDark FantasyMultiple POVsThe First Vampire
Worlds merge. The System devours the old rules. Living Monuments rise—crowns for those brutal enough to claim them.
Raised in the slums of Carrick Cahir, Pale buys food with his fists until the killing fields begin. Captured by zealots who feed blood to a mountain altar, he fights to live long enough to steal their -- and carve shelter for the few faces he still remembers.
What to expect
- Progression with a cost
- Brutal, tactical combat
- Crunchy Monument politics
- Culture-blend worldbuilding
Starring
- Pale — fist-born survivor chasing a Monument
- Ronan — blood-scribe who makes fate flinch
- Orla & Socks — conscience and shield
Irish ? Aztec ? Nordish ? Roman echoesDaily-ish updatesCharacters will die
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Blood, vows, and Monuments. If power has a price, Pale will pay it.