It was a crisp morning, cold and quite quiet by New York standards. A brief gust of wind blew down King Street, shuffling the pages of an abandoned copy of the previous day's Post, and giving flight to what looked to be a wrapper from a McSomething-or-other. Sam Kowalski watched the wrapper fly by his storefront window while wiping down his counters in anticipation of another busy day. The neighborhood may have been an older one, borderline decrepit, but a recent influx of city funds had led to some street and park improvements, making it much more sellable. As a result, there had been an overwhelming number of new tennants in the nearby housing projects. They were all low income, but Sam's Kosher Deli wasn't exactly a high-brow establishment. Sam's mere proximity to the buildings had led to roughly three times the business he had been used to in previous years. Life was suddenly very good to him, and Sam wasn't complaining. Merely eight months prior Sam had been considering selling the Deli and moving on before it bankrupt him, and that wasn't something he was looking forward to, the Deli had been in the Kowalski family since the late 30's when his family immigrated.
Sam tossed the rag he was using into the bleach bucket under the counter and headed to unlock the front door, it was time to open shop for the day. Just as he had stuck in the master key, Sam thought he heard something in the back of the shop. His heart skipped a beat and his pulse quickened, Sam went in and out of the back door so much during the day that he never bothered locking it. Leaving the keys where they were, Sam started quietly making his way toward the curtain that seperated his 'employee-only' area from the rest of the shop. The worst kinds of things were racing through Sam's mind as he brushed aside the curtain and peered into the back room; until now he had given no thought at all to being robbed or even killed by the unsavory element that came with all low-income areas in the city. Suddely, Sam was rather fearful for his life, and a light sweat broke out on his brow and under his arms making him quite uncomfortable. Stepping as silently as he could into the room, the first thing Sam did was grab the largest, sharpest knife from the magnetized strip on the wall. Feeling a little more confidence now that he was armed, Sam started to investigate the room, making a clockwise sweep of the walls. He wondered for the first time ever why this shop had to have such odd archetecture, making so many good corners to hide in. Just as he was begining to feel a little silly for being so afraid of what was likely just that mouse he could never catch, Sam clearly heard something from inside the walk-in freezer.
Slowly, and with great trepidition, the deli owner approached the freezer door. Sam passed the knife into his left hand and reached out for the latch with his trembling right. Just as he was about to touch it, the freezer door latch clicked, prompting a sharp, startled cry from Sam. Before he could even think about what to do, the person inside shoved hard on the door, knocking it into Sam, and squeezed through the gap between the freezer door and the wall. Sam reached out toward the wall on his left in an effort to catch whoever was attempting to barge past him. Simultaneously he realized that he was holding something already in that hand, and that it was very warm, wet, and sticky. Sam let go of the knife and pulled his hand back, the knife stayed where it was. The person who was in his freezer looked up from the handle jutting out of his solar-plexus to meet Sam's gaze. He dropped the ham he had under his arm and placed both hands on his stomach, avoiding the knife, like he had a bad tummy-ache. The two stood still for what seemed like an eternity, having a morbid staring contest. He's just a boy, Sam thought, Dear god just a little black boy... So thin, so very thin... he must have been so hungry! Finally, the boy opened his mouth to try to speak, but a throaty gurgle accompanied by a decent amount of blood was all that escaped his lips. The boy fell to his knees still cradling his wounded gut and began to vomit on the tiled cutting room floor. It was apparent from the amount of blood in the vomit that the child hadn't long to live. Sam continued to merely stare in horror as the kid on his floor fell over sideways and curled up in the fetal position, shaking like an epileptic, furiously for a moment, then intermittently, and finally he was completely still. Sam looked down at his left hand and found it covered in blood. Suddenly he felt very Ill.
Sam sat on the restroom floor and wiped his mouth with his clean right hand, suddenly it was very clear to him what he had to do, and he knew he had to do it quickly while the shock of what he had seen was still affecting his conscience. He stood up and walked out of the restroom without washing off his left hand and went back out to the room where the child lie in the pool of blood and bile. Sam took a moment to compose himself, almost running back to the restroom to throw up again, but finally managing to gain complete emotional and physical control of himself. Okay, I'm really doing this, he thought, then walked over to the body, withdrew the razor sharp meat knife from it's abdomen, and went to work stripping the meat from the bone.
Sam was only an hour and a half late opening his store, and just in time for the pre-lunch rush, he did brisk business all day long. Word traveled fast about the incredible sale the deli was having on extra lean ground beef. When the day was over and the store locked back up, Sam did a double bleach mop in the cutting room, sobbing openly the whole time. On his walk home, Sam was understandably more nervous than ususal, jumping at every shadow, and he paused every few steps to check over his shoulder then wipe his left hand on his jeans. Still not clean, he'd think, then proceed to scratch at it some more. His sleep that night was uneasy at best, fevered and nightmarish at worst. He awoke shortly after dozing off with stabbing pains in his chest, and didn't even remember how he was ever able to return to sleep.
The rushing of cold air nearby and a loud repetetive clacking awoke Sam at what seemed an ungodly hour in the morning. The clacking seemed to resonate from beneath him and vibrate into his very bones, and it was very predictable, in a repeating pattern. Like a metronome, he thought, like a... TRAIN. Sam was on a train, in someone else's clothes, surrounded by others dressed like him. He sat up with a start and looked around. They were in a boxcar on a train, a freight car, piled in like cattle. People were huddled over to stay warm, or passed out from exhaustion. Their clothes were all sturdy, but well worn, like secondhand or Salvation Army. "What the hell is going on here?" Sam questioned, and after some puzzled looks, "HEY! Where are we going!"
"USPOKAJAC!" Came the answer, hurriedly, in a low tone.
"What the fuck does that mean, what's going on?" Sam was panicked, trying to stand now, but those around him were holding him down.
"NIE." Someone near him said, and suddenly it clicked, he'd heard his grandmother talk like that. It was the old tounge. No one here could understand him, apparently they only spoke Polish.
"WHAT -" Sam started to scream in frustration until someone slapped a hand over his mouth. A shadowy figure appeared at the head of the car and snapped:
"Hr auf zu reden!" and slammed the gate closed. That was the end of talking, it didn't sound Polish to Sam, and it definitely didn't sound like they were playing around.
By the time the train had come to a full stop Sam had fully come to realize, although with growing horror and complete disbelief, exactly what was going on. The doors of the train car slid open to reveal an industrial complex on a hill, fenced yards, and a lot of barbed wire. It was snowing outside, or at least it looked that way... But it isn't snow, answered the voice in the back of Sam's mind, not with that smell. Sam shuddered to think of what that really was, falling from the sky over his head, but he could see the thick clouds raging up from the 'factory' on the hill, and he sure as hell knew the uniforms of the guards who stepped up now to herd them out of the railcar.
"Schnell! ... SHNELL!" A soldier near him shouted, brandishing his weapon.
Abandon all hope, ye who enter here...
