The Meat Sweats

by Marinda Kotze

“Today, we’re joined by Dr. Claire Sanchez, the founder and CEO of AlgeaForge—a revolutionary cattle feed that is set to disrupt the beef sector. Dr. Sanchez is seeking $50 million for 25% equity. Dr. Sanchez, welcome. The floor is yours.”

Claire’s hand trembles over the touchpad for a second before tapping the ‘unmute’ button. “G—good morning, everyone. Thanks for inviting me to today’s investor call.” Claire stares into the camera, forcing her most convincing smile. A mosaic of faces stares back at her from her laptop screen. Some look friendly, some look skeptical, others look like they are busy replying to emails on another browser tab.

A bead of sweat rolls down her left temple. She’s got the air conditioning on full blast, but still, it’s so damn hot. She steals a quick look at her face in the corner of her screen. The filter obscures the sweat and evens out her blotchy complexion. A sofa covered in a mess of blankets, pillows, and week-old fast-food packages is just outside of her camera’s view.

Claire adjusts her chair and takes a deep breath. “Red meat forms a major part of the world population’s diet. Yet it’s undeniable that red meat production carries a heavy environmental cost, and, well, we can’t expect everyone to go vegan, right?” Claire lets out a practiced chuckle, but the wall of faces in front of her remains indifferent.

The chuckle turns into a cough. “Ahem. Two years ago, I embarked on a mission. I wanted to find an answer to the following question: How can we increase beef production while lowering its environmental impact? Well, today, after countless all-nighters in my lab here outside Lexington, Nebraska, I stand in front of you with a groundbreaking solution. I call it AlgeaForge—a bio-engineered algae that is nutritionally dense and more palatable to cattle than traditional algae feeds.”

“In addition.” Claire wipes away a slick patch of hair from her forehead. “AlgeaForge is a…it’s a game changer for environmentally sustainable beef production. It improves the gut bacteria of cattle and…and it reduces their methane waste. It, it also grows remarkably well in wastewater, thus sig—significantly reducing the amount of wa—water needed to cultivate it.”

Claire perches herself forward in her chair. Her blouse clings to her back, soaked through and plastered to her skin like wet tissue paper. “But, that’s not…it doesn’t stop there. Charolais steers that are exclusively fed AlgeaForge…they reach maturity in 273 days. That is—that’s, three months faster than other intensive cattle feeds.”

Crash! Something fell downstairs in the meat processing factory below. In between the shouting of factory workers, Claire hears cows bellow and bawl. The faces on the screen don’t seem to hear any of it.

“I—I’m offering fifty million for twenty—no, twenty-five percent share in AlgeaForge.” Claire scratches at the nape of her neck, tracing a trail of sweat with the tips of her fingers. “The money will be used to get final regulatory ap—approval, uhm, expand our operations, and, ah, fund ongoing R&D.” With a shaky hand, Claire reaches for her water bottle. As she tips the opening to her lips, only two drops roll onto her tongue.

“Fantastic!” The coordinator chimes in. “Any questions for Dr. Sanchez?” There’s an awkward silence as the faces on the screen seem to avoid eye contact.

Bzzt. A notification of a new email pops into view on Claire’s phone. Only the top part of the notification is visible. It’s from the lab in town. The subject line reads: “URGENT: Test positive for…”

“Dr. Sanchez?”

Claire jerks her head up. Her office starts to spin. She grabs hold of the edge of her desk to avoid being pulled into the whirlpool.

“Dr. Sanchez, can you hear us?” the coordinator asks. He looks concerned.

“Y—Yes, I can,” Claire says with a fake smile, her eyes half-closed. Her reflection in the bottom corner of her screen looks a little more flustered and ruddier than before.

“Jason Banks from Covenant Capital wants to know if you have any contracts with cattle farmers?”

All the faces on the screen turn towards her. They’re all starting to look alike. Their vacant expressions have been replaced by leering smirks.

What are they looking at?

“No. Not, yet.” Claire scratches her forearm under the table—a thick layer of greasy sweat clumps together under her nails.

Four more questions follow. Claire answers them in a haze. Promises of follow-up calls are made. The meeting adjourns.

Claire clicks on the email tab of her browser. One email sits in bold letters at the top of the digital pile. She taps on it, leaving a filmy splotch of sweat in the middle of her laptop’s touchpad.

Her gaze darts across the email. A wave of nausea overwhelms her. She catches brief phrases: “gut bacterium”, “produces a highly stable misfolded protein”, “rapidly self-propagates”, “prion-induced neurodegeneration”, “systemic inflammation”, “overactive sebaceous glands”, “spreads through contact with sweat”, “paranoia”, “unstable gait”, “sensory hypersensitivity”, “aggression”, “the authorities…”

The words become a swirling mess, and the bright light of the screen starts to hurt her eyes. Claire closes her laptop and stands up from her chair. Her knees buckle underneath her, but she manages to grab her desk just in time to avoid a fall. She stumbles to the glass wall that separates her first-floor office from the rest of the meat processing factory on the ground floor below.

Red and white power failure lights provide just enough light for Claire to view what lies below. Carcasses, in various states of processing, are strewn all around. Two factory workers wrestle each other on the bloodied floor. Strings of bloodied flesh stick to their torn white overalls. A gigantic bull is trampling a worker in the harvest module. But most people, and animals, are fighting over the freezers and coolers. The cold is the only thing that helps stop the sweats.

A sudden surge ripples through the humans and animals below. As one, they stop what they’re doing and look up. Their glistening eyes find Claire’s fragile frame in her glass office above them. Their limbs twitch, and beads of sweat drip down their foreheads and hides, but they keep their eyes fixed on her. They know what she did. They know that this is all her fault.

A guttural call echoes from the carcass drawdown coolers. As one, they start to run. They push and trample each other as they hurtle towards the grated wrought iron stairs. Claire can feel the vibration through the floor as they scramble up the steps.

The first to make it to her office is Jack, the harvest supervisor and a father of three. Jack’s eyes are bloodshot, and a film-like sweat drips down his arms and face. He starts beating the glass wall with clenched fists. Thick, sticky, yellowish sweat smears are left behind on the glass after each blow. Others join him, butcher Kyle, packers Tanya and Martha, break and cut processor James. They twitch and lunge as they attack the glass with unquestioned rage. They shout at her, but their words dissolve into moans and grunts. Their panting breath forms blotches of condensation against the glass.

A thin crack shoots through the glass wall. The world starts to spin around Claire once more. She sways backwards and collapses to the floor.

Screech! The unmistakable sound of the loading bay doors opening echoes through the factory, followed by the rumble of a refrigerated truck idling in the parking lot outside.

The distributors. They’ve come to collect…

A blinding shaft of light pierces through the factory. The bright light is almost too much to bear. Both beast and man recoil and hide themselves in dark corners, as if ashamed for being found. None of them has seen the sun in days.

The elongated silhouettes of two men slice through the light. Their footsteps resonate like drum beats on the tile floor.

“Oh my god, what’s that smell?”

“Hello?”

A crisp breeze blows through the open doors behind them.

Groans and wet snorts begin to rise from the darkness.

Claire feels a stirring in her body. A primal call from somewhere deep inside her. She tries to suppress it. If only she could…

Her legs start to spasm. She lets out a cathartic grunt. She crawls to the door and pulls herself up by its handle. She clambers to her feet, unlocks the door, and staggers down the stairs.

She gropes at the railing. But the muscles in her legs won’t stop contracting.

She must…

join…

the rest…

of the herd.

Twitching, lurching and stumbling, they scramble for the open doors, together in a frantic race.

The sun shone brightly that day, but at least the air was cool and fresh.

© Marinda Kotze, 2025

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