Eats to Die For!

by Michael Mallory

  “Why would they need a top secret lab? Louie asked, then got it. “To make whatever shit they’re putting in the hamburgers! Hannah, we need to see inside that laboratory.”

  “I told you, I don’t have access,” Hannah replied.

  “But you can get us to the infirmary, right?” I asked, and she nodded. “Okay, do that, and I’ll figure out the rest.”

  Hannah sighed. “Elevator. This way.”

  She led us to the elevator, and after a fraught minute of waiting, at any moment expecting another army of angry, probably armed Theotologicians to come swarming over us, the bell dinged and the door opened.

  The elevator car was blessedly empty and we leapt in (well, Hannah, Louie and I leapt; Palmer Hanley shuffled). Hannah hit the button marked U2, which I took to mean either we were headed up toward the second underground level, or Bono was a member of the Temple.

  The doors opened and we stepped out into an empty hallway.

  “Luck’s with us,” I said, which of course signaled Luck to run out faster than a tank of gas in a Hummer.

  The hallway was suddenly filled with an ear-splitting alarm, which I could only presume was meant to alert the uniformed herd that we had escaped. Glancing up, I could see the security cameras dotted along the ceiling.

  There was no hiding now.

  “They’re watching us,” Hannah said. That was when I had an idea. “Mr. Hanley, give me your cane,” I said.

  “But I can’t walk without it,” he replied.

  “Louie, help him. Carry him if you have to. But try to make it looking like you’re forcing him.”

  “What are you up to?” she asked.

  Taking the cane from the old man, I held it like a rifle and pointed it at Hannah.

  “If they think Louie and I are taking the two of you hostage and forcing you to come with us, they might stop to ask questions before opening fire. That’s at least something. Hannah, put your hands up and get us to the lab.”

  “All right,” she said, and I wasn’t sure she fully understood what I was attempting, but she went along with it.

  As for whoever might be watching us, I could only hope that the resolution of the security footage was low enough to mistake a cane for a gun.

  The laboratory was at the end of the hallway and was protected by the kind of metal door that wanted to be part of a bank vault when it grew up. Hannah produced the cardkey from her pocket and quickly opened it, and as soon as we were in, I waved the cane around and shouted: “All right, everyone, get down, now! I have a gun!”

  Hannah immediately dropped to the floor, even though she was not the one I was addressing; instead it was the four people in white lab coats and masks amidst the tables filled with machinery and medical apparatuses, who were startled by our sudden appearance.

  Whether genuinely frightened or simply so used to following orders that it was second-nature, they all hit the linoleum.

  Nudging Hannah with my foot, I whispered: “You get up and get the knock out shots.”

  While she did I continued my act. “Don’t anyone move, or you’ll get it in the back of the head!” I shouted.

  The only reply came from Bogie: Jesus, kid, who writes your dialogue?

  “Don’t hurt me!” one of them cried.

  “Do as your told and you won’t get hurt,” I replied.

  It took only a few seconds for Hannah to stick each of the prone scientists in their butts.

  “Thanks for cooperating, folks, and nighty-night.”

  When they were all under, I asked Hannah to show us the door to the secret lab, but to my surprise, she hesitated.

  “What if I get in trouble?” she asked.

  “Hannah, we’re a little beyond that now!” Louie cried.

  “I’m not supposed to enter the lab.”

  “Hannah, look, you still don’t have to enter it,” I said. “Just show us where it is.”

  “Even if I show you, I told you, I don’t have a key.”

  “No, but one of them might,” I said, pointing at the four prone figures on the floor, now stripped of their lab coats and masks.

  Practically leaping to the closest one, Louie shoved her hand in his trouser pocket. Finding nothing, she tried the other pocket, then rolled him over and tried his shirt pockets.

  “Help me!” she called, and I went to another of the lab workers, but after examining him, I could only find an ID tag and a handful of change. Louie was already onto the third one when it hit me.

  “Look in the lab coat pockets,” I said, and she dashed over to the pile of coats that had been draped across a table. Three of them yielded nothing but a used tissue, but from the fourth she pulled out a keycard embossed with the word RESTRICTED.

  “Bingo,” Louie crowed, and then she returned to Hannah. For a moment I was afraid she was going to use force on the poor girl to get her to show us to the lab, but instead, she smiled and lightly traced Hannah’s face with her hand.

  “It’ll be fine, baby,” she whispered. “I promise.”

  That worked (and someday, if we were all lucky enough to get out, I knew I’d have to ask Louie where you go to learn knowing exactly what to do to get what you want).

  The lab door was at the very back of the infirmary, and unlike the door we had come through, it was nondescript to the point of being invisible. It did not even have a knob, just a push plate and a key slot.

  Louie slid in the keycard and a green light appeared, followed by a buzz signaling that the door was ready to be opened.

  “I hope no one’s inside,” Hannah whispered, though we didn’t have to worry. The large room was empty of people but contained enough tubes, flasks, piping, wads of steel wool and Bunsen burners to fill a dozen Dr. Frankenstein laboratories.

  “Oh, my god, I don’t believe it,” Louie said. “They’re not putting nicotine into the burgers, they’re putting methamphetamine!”

  “Are you sure?” I asked. “How do you know what a meth lab looks like?”

  “Didn’t you ever watch Breaking Bad, Dave?”

  Running to the closest table, Louie began searching through the flasks.

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa, what are you doing?” I said.

  “Looking for a sample to take with us,” she said. “We’ll need the proof for the story.”

  “Louie, even if we make it out of here, which is a big if, neither of us has any ID. They’ve taken it. So should the police show up—”

  “Why would they show up?”

  “Because the Temple has called them, maybe? You’re the one who claimed they have influence within the police department.”

  “Okay, so they catch us without ID. Is that a crime?” she said.

  “No, but walking around carrying methamphetamine, or whatever it is they make here, is. Do you really want to take that chance?”

  She fell silent for a second, which I took as the acknowledgement of my argument.

  “But we have to get proof.”

  “We’ll come back,” I said. “First we get out of here, then we get the police and ideally a search warrant, and we come back for the proof. Now let’s go.”

  Reluctantly, Louie agreed. Back in the infirmary I instructed Louie and Hannah to remove the lab coats and masks from the four prone figures, while Palmer Hanley watched with amusement from a stool.

  “You’re pretty clever, young fella,” he said.

  “Only on my good days,” I replied.

  “I take it that we’re going to wear these outfits to get out of here,” Louie said.

  “That’s the plan.”

  “But I don’t think any of these coats are going to fit Mr. Hanley,” Hannah said. “They’re too big.”

  “That’s all right,” I told her. “Mr. Hanley isn’t going to walk out with us.”

  The other three shouted in uniso
n, “But you said—!” and I merely held up my hand for silence.

  “Why should he walk when he can ride in style?”

  Then I pointed to a folded-up wheelchair that was leaning against one wall. It took Hannah less than thirty seconds to unfold it and roll it over, but a bit longer for Palmer Hanley to settle himself into it.”

  “Now come on. Let’s get these coats on and get out of here.”

  We were just about to leave when Louie said, “Wait, why don’t we take their IDs with us, just in case?”

  “Good idea,” I said, picking the pockets of one of the unconscious lab workers, taking not only his Temple ID, but his wallet as well.

  “All right, folks, here we go. If one of us gets stopped, the others keep going. Agreed?”

  Louie, whose face was now obscured by a medical mask, nodded, while Hannah said, “I’ll stay by Mr. Hanley’s side no matter what happens.”

  As for Hanley, he merely smiled and said, “I’m ready for anything.”

  After leading everyone to the lab door I took a deep breath and then threw it open as though I owned the building, and stepped out into the hallway. Two uniformed guards were running the opposite direction, and one of them stopped.

  “Everything okay?” he asked.

  “Yes,” I said through the mask, “though the Master has had a…a seizure. We need to get him up top.”

  Upon recognizing the man in the wheelchair the guard’s mouth fell open and he practically genuflected.

  “Master, this is an honor,” he stammered.

  “Thanks,” Hanley replied, though I could see him mouth silently, for nothing.

  “Do you need any help?”

  “We’re fine, but we are in a hurry,” I said. “You wouldn’t want to be responsible for the Master not getting the care he requires, would you?”

  “No, no!” the guard screamed. “Go on!”

  We dashed to the elevator and waited nervously until the car arrived, and once inside, rode to the top level. When the doors opened again, we looked out onto pandemonium. All manner of people were running around as though there was a fire, and confusion reigned.

  “This is bad,” Hannah said.

  “No, it’s good,” I countered. “Mr. Hanley, keep your head down, okay?”

  Lowering his head, he placed a bony hand over his brow and balanced that arm with his other hand.

  “Hannah, take the lead and run us to the nearest exit, and I mean run. I’ll push the wheelchair.”

  She dashed out of the elevator with the rest of us following and weaved her way through the stampede of Theotologicians, none of whom appeared to give us any attention at all, which was what I was hoping.

  We soon came to an exit door marked Emergency.

  “There’s an alarm on this,” Hannah said, stopping before it.

  “Good,” I said, “more confusion can only help us.”

  Since it appeared as though she was deliberating whether to actually go through, Louie charged the door and pushed it open. Immediately, a siren sounded. She held it open so I could get Palmer Hanley through. But Hannah remained where she was.

  “Coming or going?” Louie shouted.

  “I…I…I don’t think I can leave,” Hannah said.

  “Nothing’s going to happen to you out here,” I said.

  She shook her head. “What if I go back on drugs out there? The world is a dangerous place.”

  “Hannah, it’s time to stop believing your indoctrination,” I said.

  “It’s not that, it’s…look, the security tapes show you appearing to hold me at gunpoint to get you out, so let me stay here and confirm that’s what happened. I’ll be okay.”

  Yeah, okay like Regina Fontaine, okay like Avery Klemmer, the cynical, wheezy voice of Elisha Cook, Jr. said inside my head.

  But there was nothing more I could do.

  “Mr. Hanley is in good hands now,” she said. “He doesn’t need me anymore.”

  There was no time to argue. “Be careful, Hannah, and thanks,” I said, pulling Louie away and letting the emergency exit door close on the young nurse.

  Hopefully that’s all that would be closing on her.

  Looking around, I had to smile in spite of myself. We were indeed on the lot of a film studio, having just emerged from what appeared to be an administration building. A soundstage stood to our right and another one in front of us, and just beyond it I could see a parking lot.

  “This way,” I said, pushing Palmer Hanley down the narrow street that separated the stages.

  For those who have never actually been on a movie lot, they are a lot like a city whose buildings are shaped like enormous airplane hangars, only taller. A grid of streets run between them, which are reserved mostly for pedestrians, bicycles and golf carts, with very little vehicular traffic. It is extremely hard to get inside your average movie lot unless you have official clearance, but not that difficult to leave.

  Here at Paranoia Pictures, however, it was clearly different. Having made it as far as the parking lot, I could see guards stopping everyone, those coming in and going out. To make matters worse, it was probably us the outgoing guards were looking for.

  “What do we do now?” Louie asked.

  “I tell ’em who I am and we get the hell out of here!” Mr. Hanley said, squirming in his wheelchair.

  “I’m afraid that wouldn’t work, sir,” I told him. “You’d be back in the Master’s Suite before you knew it, and we’d be…well, I don’t know what they’d do with us.”

  The old man shook his head. “Why couldn’t I have become a bank robber all those years ago instead?”

  As we sat there—well, Palmer Hanley sat; Louie and I crouched—I tried to figure a way out of this. Then the solution came rumbling toward us. It was a “greens” truck, a flatbed with high sides containing potted trees used for filming, and it appeared to be leaving the studio!

  “That’s it, right there,” I said. “Louie, take Mr. Hanley. When I stop the truck, get him onto the flatbed and then you jump up there and both of you hide in the plants.”

  “What about you?” she asked.

  “I’ll be right behind you.”

  “How’re you going to stop the truck?” Mr. Hanley asked.

  “Watch. And get ready.”

  The greens truck was not moving very fast which made it easy to jump out in front of it without fear of getting run over.

  “Hey! Hey!” I shouted, waving my arms, bringing the truck to a halt.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” the driver bellowed through the window. “God, buddy, you look like you’ve already been hit by a truck.”

  “What? Oh, right, my…uh, makeup,” I said, acknowledging my swollen nose. “I’m sorry to bother you, but do you know where Stage Six is?”

  “What?”

  “Stage Six. I’m supposed to report there to play a doctor for a training film, but I can’t find it.”

  Peripherally I could see Louie pushing the wheelchair containing Palmer Hanley past the other side of the truck.

  “All the stages are that way,” growled the driver growled, a burly, Teamstery looking guy with sunglasses and a ball cap, and arms of such size and thickness that I hoped I wasn’t making him too angry.

  “That way?” I pointed aimlessly.

  “That way!” he shouted.

  I was already sprinting away when I shouted, “Okay, thanks!”

  As soon as I saw him face forward again in the truck cab, I darted around behind and grabbed onto the wooden-slat gate over the end of the bed and held on as the driver threw the truck into gear again. I was praying that Louie had been able to get over the gate and had managed to get Hanley in, when I noticed their faces peeking out from between the potted trees.

  I had to wait until the driver had stopped at the gate before I
was able to completely pull myself up and over, and join them.

  “I had to pick him up out of the wheelchair and lift him over the tailgate,” Louie whispered. “It’s a good thing I work out.”

  Yeah, great, my nose said.

  Moments later the truck was cleared to leave and we were out of the studio. As we bumped down Santa Monica Boulevard Louie asked: “Now what? Where do you think we are going?”

  “I don’t know,” I replied, “but as soon as it’s convenient, we’ll get out.”

  That convenience came about three minutes later when the truck stopped at an intersection that I knew from experience had very long lights.

  Rushing to the back, I leapt over the gate, careful not to land on the car that was stopped directly behind us.

  “Hi,” I said, smiling and waving to that car’s driver. Louie brought Palmer Hanley to the back and between the two of us we lifted him up, down and out, after which Louie easily vaulted over the gate.

  Weaving our way through the stopped cars, and carrying Palmer between us, we got to the sidewalk a full minute before the light changed and the greens truck drove off to its destination, wherever that was, its driver completely oblivious that he had facilitated the escape of three wanted fugitives from a cult.

  “Whoo-ee!” Palmer Hanley exclaimed, looking exhausted, but also beaming. “That’s the most action I’ve had in three decades. But I need to rest before the next lap. Can we find a place where I can get something to drink?”

  “You mean a bar?” I asked.

  “Just water. Or maybe some coffee.”

  With Louie on one side of him and me on the other, we managed to get him to a fifties-style diner that was a half-block up the street.

  Seated at a table away from a window, just in case, we looked over the menus, while Palmer Hanley drained the glass of ice water the waitress had brought for him.

  “That’s better,” he sighed. “When you get to be my age, a little bit of excitement goes a long way.”

  “Leaping in and out of a truck isn’t exactly commonplace for me, either,” I told him.

  The waitress returned and took an order for coffee and a piece of strawberry pie from Hanley, an ice tea from me, and a kind of cerveza called Victoria from Louie.