Twice. Twice he had actually puked. He had stopped counting the number of dry heaves, as it had become a constant state instead of a surprise reaction. Bits and pieces had been left to rot in the bottom for nearly a year. No one had bothered to check the bottom; like usual.
Mr. Macell continued to bark orders from the kitchen, and Carl, like the rest of the cleaning staff, obeyed without question -- working through the vomiting, the heaving, and even the one girl who simply passed out from exhaustion and was carted off to god knows where. Carl heard footsteps up to the attic but learned long ago not to ask questions.
One of the less than aware ones, Simon - the best that Carl's bleach and vomit riddled brain could muster -- bothered to ask about the timetable and was summarily dismissed. They had exactly 8 days remaining to completely eliminate any trace of food service from the unlicensed facility before the city inspectors would be coming by to declare the place fit for transfer to the new owners. 8 days to do two weeks worth of work. They were only on day 2 and he hadn't seen anyone get a break yet. They were allowed about 6 hours of sleep, on site, and were nearly always awoken by their relief shifts fucking something up much to the dismay of the owner.
Mr. Macell, or simply "Chef" as they all called him, was a machine. Carl had yet to see him sleep either. Many times the Chef would sit, take a call or two, answer a few emails, but then would be right back to his check-list and inspections. Getting a check in the check-box meant being able to take a smoke-break; and given the intensity of the work, that was a godsend. A single smoke could be stretched out to the full twenty minutes and Carl had learned a system of micro-napping. He was going to get that bonus. This would be the last maintenance job he would ever work.
He pulled out the next panel and puked again. Not, as much, from the smell this time, but from sight of the gelatinous mass covered in mold that oozed out on his hands. He recovered, closed his eyes, and scooped it into the bucket. He sprayed the interior with bleach and got to work. The gore dissolved and soaked into the sponge. Carl had also lost count of the number of sponges he had ruined. Part of the job. He squeezed it out into the bucket and nearly puked again. There, looking up at him through the grey sludge was the clear remnants of an eyeball. That was it. That was all it took. He did puke this time, right into the bucket, and the grey sludge splashed back into his face. The smell and thoughts overtook him. He felt the world spin as he tipped over, spilling the grey masses onto the floor.
Carl awoke in the attic. His stomach ached for food and his arms itched in a way that he had never considered. As his senses returned he reached to scratch the intolerable itch but couldn't move his hands. Sleep paralysis, brought on by deprivation had taken him. His eyes, barely open, saw nothing but a massive blob in the room with him. He struggled to focus but couldn't. A smell of pickled ginger shocked his nose back into use and forced his eyes open. He was seated on the floor. In front of him, Mr. Macell spoke to an obscenely fat mat that Carl did not recognize. He resolved to push himself up and apologize, but when he looked down, he realized he was dreaming. His legs had been removed at the hips leaving only a weirdly bandaged stump on each side. He reached out for them, instinctively, to confirm that they were gone, but found his arms too had been removed. He felt no pain, which only furthered his belief that he was dreaming.
Across the room the large man looked at him. He heard the man speak, not as much in his ears as his brain. He was dreaming. He had to go back to sleep now. Finally a good night's rest for all of the hard work he had done cleaning out the old meat drawer.
