Autoclave

[Cooper]

Hello folks.. Just an early draft.

Autoclave.

Waking at 5.50am Jack waited ten minutes before leaving his bed. He rose, and dressed accordingly for the days work ahead; paper overalls, high-vis. and mask. He felt fresh from a good nights sleep and outside was clear and bright.
Downstairs he carefully cut slices of chicken, ate cereal and boiled water. Work started at 7, he’d have to leave soon, lunch was sealed in plastic. Around his feet Smokie brushed and pushed, smelling the meat above. He looked at Jack all daft and soft.
The roads to the plant were empty, still sleepy from a night of dark. This pleased Jack, stating aloud, ‘no traffic, no sound.’ The drive was short, and in the secluded yard lorries backed to and fro. Jack parked up, ten minutes early and watched from his car.
At 7am Jack introduced himself at reception. Through a small hole in the wall he stated who he was and from where. A lazy looking lady said, ‘Mark will be down in a sec, I hope you’ve got a strong nose!’ To his right a cheap tabloid was laid on table, and opening it his eyes rested on a pair of tits.
‘Hello there you must be..’ the man paused, looking to a sheet. ‘...Jack!’ The way he exclaimed his name was amusing. ‘My name is Mark.’ Jack extended his arm and it was loosely shook.
Mark wore glasses, fairly trendy ones for a man of his age. Black and thick rimmed. His hair seemed a little long, and he brushed his hands through the brown curtains far too frequently.
As he spoke Jack perceived a tick or twitch, and he tilted his head at times of speech. Jack thought of him insane, harbouring some secret. There was a welsh tinge to his voice.
‘Here are your gloves Jack, and don’t worry, we haven’t had a piercing yet. In fact the only case we’ve had, and I’ve been in the business two and a half years, was a piece of glass cutting through a bag. How’s your Lithuanian?’
Jack was led into the bowels of the building through a plastic curtain, the pieces of which slapped together when moving through. It was a dark confined space. The smell hit Jack immediately. Following Mark he passed two employees that made no attempt at acknowledging his welcoming gestures. Their eyes were cold and sunken, their movements shrouded in protective clothing. As the pair moved onward, Mark explained the various regulations and fire exits, the smell growing stronger and stronger, taking hold of Jack’s insides and not letting go. The plant processed clinical waste. Stained yellow bins were pushed around and arranged in rows along every wall. Above, large blue lit grates ensnared and murdered flies. All to the rumbling stench and sound of the autoclave. Jack felt a sense of morbid fascination as he watched the bags carried up the conveyer belt and ultimately incinerated. He watched a man, old and haggard wrestling with a sack, punching the plastic into a bin. For a moment he thought he saw a limb break through the thin barrier, and flop lifelessly onto the floor. The man raised his head from the task and looked towards Jack. His laughter cackled over the din.
Jack was instructed to pull fresh bins off the lorries and weigh the contents. As he was doing so one toppled off, and spilled the insides everywhere. Liquid ominously seeped from the spilt lid, and images flashed through his mind. Rotting wounds and bandages, bodily fluids and human waste. Contaminated sharps, infectious material. The scene amused the other psychopaths. Loud laughter and cries in a foreign tongue pierced Jack, and their eyes continued to burn. As he turned the bin over and began to throw the bags back inside, there was a heavy tap on his shoulder.
‘How long are you to be here?’ The words were spoken with a strong accent, that sounded to Jack like Russian. He replied, ‘One week.’
‘Only one week?’ The voice came again, this time sounding confused. The face remained expressionless. ‘Why only one week?’
‘I’m temporary.’
‘I see, I understand. I shall see you again.’ The man walked off, pushing a great stinking bin before him. Jack thought to himself that this should be the work of machines. Machines are resistant to fucked up thoughts and mental collapse. As the last bag was thrown into the open mouth, something splashed across Jack’s face.
‘This place could fuck with my head.’

[L M Pistola]

Hi Cooper,
Not sure if this is the draft for an excerpt or an entire short story but I don't feel like there's enough going on here to really pull me in to the story.
Obviously there's something strange going on at Jack's new workplace but the piece lacks the mystery to make us ask why. One minute Jack is a normal guy starting a new job. The next there are body parts spilling out and psychos walking around cackling. I'm a little confused whether this is supposed to be a 'normal' clinical waste depot or some kind of demented mad house of horror.
As the reader I'm not sure what is supposed to be going on and why Jack seems relatively undisturbed about his work. I'm not sure about the presence of the Lithuanians... maybe there's a reference I'm missing or information that you're intending to reveal later?
Overall I'm not sure what you're trying to convey with the story but I think you can afford to be more visceral with descriptions and sharper with the pace. Perhaps revealing more information as well as the description of images and events might clarify things.