The Veils of Civilisation - a short story (Patreon)

It was the miller's daughter who drew the next lot, and she did not go gently. Though she had been there when this was all voted for, and had gladly participated in the sacrifice of the others before her, she spat, screamed and protested, fighting every moment of the way when her own turn came. The others, as always, only sat on the ground, averting their eyes from her, as if the sacrifice already no longer existed. It nearly took three men to drag her to the veil. When her screaming stopped, the return of the oppressive silence of the collapsed room was almost welcome.

There were now twelve of them, sitting trapped in this makeshift tomb. There was no way to track time here, the building had collapsed on itself during noon, but here, it was pitch black no matter the hour. The remaining walls were solid, and the only doorway filled with rubble, but there had to be some cracks in the walls to let smoke out, as they had not yet all been poisoned by the smoke of the little light they were capable of keeping. At first they had only burned rags, ripped from the clothes of the deceased, before someone had found two bowls, and the old widow cautiously suggested that one could be fashioned into a lamp. The fat of the sacrifices made passable enough lamp oil.

There had been nineteen people in the room when the dust had first settled. Twenty-one if one would count the two who had died in the collapse itself, and the miller who had died of his injuries soon after. He had been the first to be eaten, and his daughter had gladly joined in. They ate in silence, passing the bowl of blood from hand to hand, drinking with a hurry but cautious not to spill a single drop. The stench of death no longer disgusted any of them. It had become welcome, a promise of nourishment.

Some time after the meal, another one of the captive survivors stood up, and headed behind the veil on the opposite corner of the room. No-one looked up, there was no need to wonder what business he went for. This veil had been the first one they had put up, during the first few days of their wait for a rescue. It had been a curtain or a bedsheet, perhaps, a sufficiently large sheet of fabric that they had propped between two walls to mark the lavatory. The filth and waste that they left behind remained there, of course, seeping and mixing into puddles on the floor that spread a sickening stench, but it was still a small mercy and dignity to be allowed to relieve oneself in a semblance of privacy.

Most of their time, the remaining survivors simply sat in place, in silence. There was no use in trying to do much else. They had nothing to talk about, no point in trying to discuss anything else that they could, perhaps, do. It had been agreed from the start, as soon as the initial chaos of the collapse was over, that there would be no hope of breaking free. Their hope would be in remaining calm, remaining alive, remaining civil with each other and waiting for rescue. If rescue was ever coming. The only child among them - a girl of seven - had been among the first ones sacrificed. Her mother had volunteered her, and herself immediately after - she had been the first to lose all hope of rescue.

So they sat between the two veils - a stench of blood and death enemating from one side, and the stench of shit from the other. After the first man had been silenced, no-one had bothered to question the use of these veils. It did not matter that all knew what happened behind each one, it was modest and decent that they did not have to see it. They kept the survivors calm, kept them orderly, kept them seated and waiting for rescue, like civilised people. Whether rescue was coming or not did not matter, they could do nothing to help it.

 All that mattered was that they waited for it in proper order, protected from both sides by the veils of civilisation.