Travelers (Black Autumn, #3)

by Jeff Kirkham

An animal’s body, expertly divided into edible portions, was remarkable in its implicit organization—as if God designed it to be split up and enjoyed by humanity. An animal’s hide pulled neatly away from the meat, a layer of fat smoothing the process. Muscle groups tucked together in sacks of fascia, a plastic membrane that collected and protected them from the oxidizing effects of atmosphere so they could be safely seasoned without hardening prematurely. The organs of a beast and, Sage presumed, a human, were contained in tidy sacks that kept the heart and lungs away from the putrescence of gut and spleen. With a modicum of care and skill, an animal came apart in neat packets for human consumption, clean and efficient; a gift from God to his elegant creations.