Chapter 36
JUSTIN
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“Stupid uniform’s strangling me,” Joel grumbles, tugging at his shirt collar.
“Stop fidgeting,” I hiss, “and try to look the part.”
“What part?” Joel counters. “The two of us, we’re a comedy show—the juvenile and the geriatric.”
“Yeah, well, we fail and it’s not the ratings that’ll go down, it’s us.”
We’re standing in our caretaking uniforms outside the three-story brick building housing the Animal Unit on the South Campus of Werner’s Science and Health University.
The lab-worker-turned-informant came up with the idea to get us inside.
Caretakers on the evening shift are responsible for cleaning and decontaminating the unit by mopping the floors and cages, emptying the fecal trays, and changing any bedding.
Caretaking is outsourced to a company called Clevely Cleaning Services.
Early this morning, acting anonymously on behalf of the university, the informant sent CCS an email canceling their services for tonight.
Unknown to them, an entry team of three AFD members are taking their place.
“You think our whistleblower’s kept his promise to leave the back door unlocked?” Sue asks, chewing on a thumbnail. An attractive third-year philosophy student, she became an animal rights convert after reading Peter Singer’s Animal Liberation.
“I hope so,” Joel replies. “Otherwise, we’re in trouble.”
I glance at my watch. Nine-thirty p.m. “Let’s get the equipment out,” I say, moving to the back of the van.
With false plates and makeshift CCS logos on either side, my old man’s vehicle is unrecognizable.
The three of us haul out mops, buckets, and a service trolley.
Hidden inside the cleaning paraphernalia are tools that have nothing to do with caretaking: field radio, rope, video camera, steel wrecking bar, spray paint, and battery acid.
Sue piles everything onto the service trolley and bends over to make sure towels and terry swabs cover the equipment.
I’m admiring the view when Joel whispers, “You got your eye on the job or the girl?”
“Relax, I parachuted right after I watched her eat popcorn.”
“I’m surprised you managed to persuade her to be a part of this mission.”
“Fortunately, her hatred of cruelty outweighs her hatred of me.” I head to the driver’s side window. “Michael, you all set?”
Michael, one of Joel’s activist friends and an ex-slaughterhouse worker, nods.
A divorced father-of-two still on a hangover from the punk rock scene, he had to remove an impressive number of piercings for tonight’s role.
The piercings were there the last time I saw him, his neck fastened to the steering column of his car, which he parked in protest outside the gates of a research center experimenting on chimpanzees.
“You got the police scanner?” I ask.
Michael taps the scanner. “All set up.”
After testing the radios, I say, “Security patrol is in twenty minutes. The guard is accustomed to the sight of a cleaning van parked outside, but not someone inside the vehicle. Make sure you stay out of sight.”
“Got it.”
“If anything happens, we’ll meet at the emergency rendezvous point.” I clap Michael on the shoulder. “Good luck.”
“You too.”
If Michael has difficulty taking orders from a nineteen-year-old, he hides it well. Joel and I picked a good team. The priority for everyone is getting the animals out, no power plays here.
I rejoin Joel and Sue. After snapping on disposable gloves and pulling our peak caps low to obscure our faces in the event of hidden cameras, we make our way toward the back of the Animal Unit building, passing two large dumpsters and a haphazard pile of broken lab cages rusted by rain.
Joel pushes on the handle of the back door. Nothing happens. “It’s locked.”
Sue swears under her breath. “What do we do now?”
Joel looks shaken. “I guess we try to find another way in.”
“Wait.” I grasp the door handle and shove. The door gives a little. Leaning my shoulder into it, I strain against the door until it finally opens with a scraping sound. Our informant hasn’t let us down; the door is simply swollen from all the rain we’ve been having.
Sue goes in first with the service trolley, huffing a little when a caster catches on the doorframe.
I stay Joel with a hand on his arm, nudging him out of earshot of Sue. “It’s okay.”
“No, it’s not,” Joel replies, and I glimpse how this has thrown him. “I’m a liability, Justin. I’m not as quick as I used to be.”
“And I’m not as clever as I want to be,” I retort. “C’mon, you’re doing fine.” I squeeze his shoulder and he nods, still looking unconvinced.
We step inside. Since the play of flashlights will look too suspicious—and since we’re ostensibly here to clean—I locate the light switch and flip it.
My gaze sweeps the necropsy room, taking in the circular saw lying on a table, the large drum with HAZARDOUS WASTE emblazoned on the outside, and two stainless steel sinks dominating one corner.
I depress the talk button on the radio. “Testing, one, two, three.”
“All clear,” Michael’s voice crackles back.
I thumb the volume control. From now on, we maintain radio silence, breaking it only in an emergency. “Let’s go.”
Earlier today, the three of us hunched over smudged building schematics and plotted our route.
According to the informant, the beagles are housed on the second floor.
We locate the elevator bank, our feet tracing the path in our heads.
Sue’s staggered breathing and the nervous grinding of Joel’s molars compete with the hum of the elevator as it lurches upward.
We step out onto the second floor, a long corridor stretching out in front of us, closed doors on both sides. The air is warm and humid, typical in an animal unit. Attached to the wall next to each door are timers to switch the lights off and on every twelve hours.
As we walk the length of the corridor, my pulse is tripping like I just snorted a line. I find myself snatching glances at Sue. She seems way too jittery, like she’s ready to run at the slightest setback.
“According to the university’s web site,” Joel says casually, breaking the silence, “they chose beagles for the nicotine experiment because a dog’s respiratory system resembles ours.”
“What a load of crap!” Sue responds heatedly. “As if it isn’t obvious animals metabolize drugs and react to them differently than we do.” She continues her diatribe while Joel nods and makes encouraging noises.
I smile inwardly. Joel is purposefully distracting Sue in an effort to ease her nervousness. You still got it, old man.
Outside the fifth door on the right, Joel keys in the four-digit number we received from the informant.
The door opens and we enter the outer room.
With Joel breathing down my neck, I push open the double doors to the inner room where the beagles are housed.
The smell hits me first, sneaking past the Vicks I smeared under my nose.
The room is silent, only the odd whimper and scuffle fracturing the darkness. In the corridor, Sue fiddles with the timer, and light chases away the gloom.
Six beagles huddle at the back of their cages, watching us with wary eyes.
Despite their pregnant state, they look thin and sickly.
Not surprising, since they’re inhaling the equivalent of two packs a day.
When I spot the spattering of vomit and feces staining the slatted steel floors of their cages, I’m not prepared for the rage roaring in my ears, the pity clogging my throat.
In a grim voice, Joel says, “Take the photos and video so we can get them out of these cages.”
After Sue films the dogs, we unlatch the doors, hunker down, and call softly to the beagles, who look fearful and indecisive. Finally, one of the beagles responds to Sue’s crooning and creeps toward her, tail tucked between her legs.
“You’re safe now,” Sue whispers, stroking the quivering dog.
With some encouragement, the others follow suit, and I can’t help grinning as six heavily-pregnant beagles swarm all over us, tails wagging.
Joel stands. “Let’s get the leashes on.”
I radio Michael to back up the van to right outside the necropsy room. Sue and Joel will each take three dogs to walk down and load into the van.
“I’ll do what comes naturally,” I say, “and wreak as much damage as I can.”
As soon as Joel and Sue leave with the beagles, I pick up the wrecking bar and start with the smoking chambers, trying to keep the noise level down. To corrupt the data on the lab computer, I remove the casing and place a large, powerful magnet on the hard drive.
When Joel returns, he surveys the damage and murmurs, “Not bad, but we still have five beagles with tracheotomies to rescue.”
My face grows hot with embarrassment. In my eagerness, I forgot a cardinal rule—animals first, destruction later. Stupid. I follow Joel down the corridor while Sue stays behind to collect our equipment.
“What’s going on here?” an aggravated voice echoes behind us. “What was all that noise?”
We freeze.
I close my eyes. A conscientious employee working late. Of all the rotten luck.
Joel tugs his cap down and turns around. “Sorry if we disturbed you, sir. We were cleaning and had to move equipment around.”
“It didn’t sound like equipment being moved. It sounded like glass breaking. Did you guys break something?”
I force myself to face the guy, keeping my chin tucked into my chest as if in sheepish apology. “That was me,” I mumble. “I dropped a glass container. I’ll report it. It’ll come out of my pay.”
Don’t come out, Sue. Stay in the room.
“I don’t know,” the man says, his voice still laced with suspicion. “I don’t recognize either of you. Are you guys new?”
“First time on the evening shift,” Joel says, “but I’ve been with CCS nearly three years now.” His hand grips my shoulder, a warning not to react. “Keagan is new, second day on the job. That’s why he’s so clumsy.”
I don’t like this. The man doesn’t seem to be buying our bluff. And he’s too close to the elevators.