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Chapter 7

           Thomasfollowed,wrinklinghisnoseupatthesuddensmellofdirtandmanurecomingfromtheanimalpens.Graveyard?hethought.Whydotheyneedagraveyardinaplacefullofteenagers?ThatdisturbedhimevenmorethannotknowingsomeofthewordsAlbykeptsayingwordslikeSlopperandBaggerthatdidn’tsoundsogood.HecameasclosetointerruptingAlbyashe’ddonesofar,butwilledhismouthshut.

           Frustrated,heturnedhisattentiontothepensintheBloodHousearea.

           Severalcowsnibbledandchewedatatroughfullofgreenishhay.Pigsloungedinamuddypit,anoccasionallyflickeringtailtheonlysigntheywerealive.Anotherpenheldsheep,andtherewerechickencoopsandturkeycagesaswell.Workersbustledaboutthearea,lookingasifthey’dspenttheirwholelivesonafarm.

           WhydoIremembertheseanimals?Thomaswondered.Nothingaboutthemseemedneworinterestingheknewwhattheywerecalled,whattheynormallyate,whattheylookedlike.Whywasstufflikethatstilllodgedinhismemory,butnotwherehe’dseenanimalsbefore,orwithwhom?Hismemorylosswasbafflinginitscomplexity.

           Albypointedtothelargebarninthebackcorner,itsredpaintlongfadedtoadullrustcolor."Backthere’swheretheSlicerswork.Nastystuff,that.Nasty.Ifyoulikeblood,youcanbeaSlicer."

           Thomasshookhishead.Slicerdidn’tsoundgoodatall.Astheykeptwalking,hefocusedhisattentionontheothersideoftheGlade,thesectionAlbyhadcalledtheDeadheads.

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