The adrenaline from the explosive sounds had worn off, and what replaced it was a draining thirst and dragging exhaustion. It hit him in waves, bombarding his senses with trembling limbs, a parched throat, and an inability to keep balance.
I've got to... find some water, he thought to himself as he stumbled through the flower growths.
Unfortunately, all he could see were the flowers, spanning in all directions. The only exceptions were the distant moving shapes of the cyclopes and the farmhouse.
There has to be some water here. I refuse to believe that these plants aren't watered!
So began a search that felt like it lasted a half hour. He weaved through rows and rows of plants, stumbling upon exposed roots and sinking into damp earth. That dampness reinforced his belief that a water source existed somewhere. He just had to find it.
However, he found something else. While weaving through a patch of flowers about one hundred yards from the farmhouse, he discovered what he intuitively felt was some sort of wine press.
It didn't stand tall and was placed in an indentation in the earth, which explained why he couldn't see it over the flowers unlike the farmhouse. The structure was quite wide and resembled a massive, crude press. It was made of thick dark timber beams bolted with pitted iron. A wide, deep-looking basin made of stained wood dominated the center. Large lever-like push-bars extended from the sides, and a sloping stone trough angled away from the base.
It smelled awful. Hillel clamped his good hand over his nose and mouth, gagging. The odor was thick and powerful, a mix of rot and copper.
His stomach churned. What am I looking at?
He forced himself forward, needing to see. When he looked into the basin, deep gouges scarred the wood inside and the lower half was coated in a black, flaking residue. His eyes tracked down the frame to the mechanism beneath. Two massive rollers, fashioned from dull grey metal studded with thick, blunt teeth, sat within the frame. They were coated in the same dark grime, but here and there, Hillel could see small, crimson-stained slivers caught between the teeth. An abundance of fibrous material remained tangled around the axles. Bits of flesh seemed to be connected to the ends of the material. A terrible feeling lodged itself in his chest.
He leaned in closer, gagging again. Amongst the mess, something stuck out—a shape that was oddly familiar.
What is that?
Gingerly reaching out with trembling fingers, he pulled at a portion of the tangled fibrous strands. A crushed fragment fell into his hand, and he dropped it immediately with a cry. It was unmistakably part of a human jawbone, shattered and splintered, stained dark with blood and grime. Bits of teeth were still connected to it, along with the remnants of human gums and flesh.
Hillel recoiled violently, his breath coming in panicked gasps. His mind raced, making connections he desperately wished he could ignore. The beast tamer's cruel words echoed clearly in his memory: "You'd make good flower feed!"
The cold realization twisted in his gut. This press was for bodies—human bodies. He retched, his empty stomach twisting uncomfortably, forcing him onto his knees beside the structure.
Hillel eventually staggered to his feet, legs shaking as he stumbled away from the horrific discovery. Nearby stood several large, covered vats, the same foul smell coming strongly from them. Crude channels dug in the earth led from the grinder's trough towards the vats and further on, towards the rows of crops.
On one of the vats, a label contained text written in bold.
Fertilizer
The truth of the farm hit him fully now, a disgusting certainty. He turned his head away, fighting the queasiness.
Moving unsteadily past the press, he saw several barrels stacked separately from it. These barrels were labeled as well, and when Hillel saw it, relief briefly battled his nausea.
Cleaning Water
His excitement dimmed quickly, replaced by suspicion and fear. Could anything from this twisted place really be safe to drink?
Shakily, he approached the barrels, his fingers trembling as he pried at the lids. They were tightly sealed. He grunted, frustration building until an idea flickered. Summoning the familiar warmth within, he placed his hand on the barrel lid. The heat surged down his arm, explosive and barely controlled.
CRACK!
Wood splintered violently beneath his touch. Water sloshed from the ruptured barrel. He dropped to his knees, ignoring the wood shards now littering the ground, scooping water desperately into his mouth. But he hesitated at the first swallow, his stomach convulsing in protest. The memory of the human remains, crushed and broken, flashed before him.
Is this water safe? What if they poisoned it? Or worse...
He stared at the clear liquid dripping from his fingers. His throat felt impossibly dry, a torture only worsened by the water now within reach. He fought through his revulsion, forcing himself to take a small sip.
It tasted clean. Cool and fresh despite the grim surroundings. His stomach roiled, battling his mind's paranoia, but the physical need won. Gradually, painfully, he forced himself to drink more. Each mouthful was a struggle, the fear of contamination lingering, but his thirst was stronger.
Eventually, he drank in a greedy fashion, ignoring his queasiness, until his body's need was fully satisfied. He slumped against the broken barrel, gasping, feeling strength slowly returning to his battered body.
Suddenly, heavy footsteps shook the ground. Hillel's head snapped up.
Huh!?
Emerging from the misty rows of flowers, a two-headed cyclops appeared. Its pale, wrinkled skin lacked the ink stains he'd seen before—this was a new one. Two more stepped into view, equally clean-faced.
He turned to glance back at the farmhouse, dread pooling in his stomach. Sure enough, the three cyclopes he'd encountered earlier, faces still stained with ink, were now approaching rapidly, their steps sending subtle tremors across the farm.
Trapped between two groups, Hillel's brief moment of recovery vanished instantly.
Hillel, you idiot! You made too much noise!