Imperfect
Page 40
Troop watched a gaggle of scientist stride by him and Chelsa. He checked his watch; three minutes since he last saw Kristi being wheeled away—God, it felt like three hours though.
“Any brilliant ideas on how to get into the East Wing?” Chelsa asked.
Troop shrugged.
A man in a rumpled lab coat came barreling down the hallway. A stack of electro-slates tittered precariously in his arms.
“Careful there,” Troop said. “There’s a person in front—”
Wham!
“Too late,” muttered Chelsa.
The untidy looking man rammed into another man pushing an empty cart. The electro-slates flew into the air rained down onto the ground.
“Aw, crap,” said the man who was carrying the electro-slates
“I see that you’re in a rush as usual,” the disgruntled cart-pusher said.
“I’m going to be late for my meeting.” The man knelt down to examine the dropped slate closest to him. “Thank goodness the glass isn’t cracked. So glad the lab ordered reinforced glass for these slates.”
“Watch where you’re going next time, alright?” The other man booted a couple electro-slates out of his path. “The lab just got a new shipment of supplies, so there’s a lot of traffic transporting the stuff from the holding room.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
The cart-pusher wheeled the pushcart away. Chelsa helped pick up some of the electro-slates and asked the scientist, “Would you like me to help carry some of the electro-slates for you?”
“That would be great.” He picked up the last slate off the floor then said, “Follow me this way.”
The two of them stood up and Chelsa trailed after the man, headed in the direction of the East Wing. Well, she’s figured out how to enter the East Wing. Now it’s just me left.
Troop absent-mindedly opened the black toolbox and rummaged through the contents: a bottle of window glue, a three-in-one tool of some sorts, cleaning acid and a tin of mints. Nothing really useful.
A petite woman rolled a cart with a load of crates on top past Troop, traveling to the East Wing. A few minutes later, a different woman pushed an empty cart from the opposite direction. Troop observed the flow of laden and empty cards, catching on the pattern. Carts carrying supplies were being transported to the East Wing while unloaded carts were being wheeled out.
If I can find the room where all the stuff being carried into the East Wing, I can hide myself in a box and sneak in as well, he thought.
He began to walk in the direction the empty carts were being pushed without appearing too obvious. Troop shadowed a bald scientist for the length of a few hallways, then stopped, watching the man continue on out of sight.
He pretended to inspect a window for signs of damage while he waited for the next empty cart to pass by; he didn’t want to be caught stalking a New Genes Lab employee.
“Hey there, Kenny.”
Troop looked up to see two scientists greet each other, each walking in opposite directions.
“How many loads left?” asked the scientist who wasn’t Kenny.
“Seventy-three last time I checked. Better hustle.”
Troop tailed behind Kenny; Kenny remained oblivious to Troop the whole time. Troop stopped trying to keep track of left and right turns Kenny made after twelve turns. He stayed back when Kenny pushed his empty cart through a set of automatic doors.
Troop didn’t have to wait long before Kenny reemerged with a few black bags piled onto the handcart. Kenny hummed a monotonous tune under his breath as he wheeled his load out of sight.
Another man entered the holding room with an empty cart and exited with it buried beneath bales of hay. Convinced he had found the room he sought, Troop allowed a couple more employees to go in-and-out of the room before ducking inside when he was sure it was empty.
Troop squinted in the weakly lit holding room. He quick stepped over to the nearest crate that appeared to be big enough to fit his body. The crate his eyes were on was long and low. The top of the crate slid off with no problem—no locks or anything.
“Squawk!”
He flinched in surprise and peered down into the wooden crate; five or six chickens milled about aimlessly.
“Hey, guys. Sorry to crash your party,” he said.
Troop laid himself down inside the crate, ignoring the chickens’ clucks of indignation. Then he slid the cover of the crate back in place. The slates of the crate allowed some light to filter through; the gaps created by the wooden slates also allowed him a limited view of what was going on outside.
The automatic door whooshed open and Troop heard rustling and the thud of someone dropping something heavy. A few seconds later, the door swooshed open once more. Troop saw a pair of black dress shoes make their way out the room.
He counted at least five different people come and leave the holding room. I wonder how long it’s going to be before someone moves the crate I’m in. Perhaps I should try a different tactic.
“Let’s see, I have to move box number fifty to Lab N,” said a feminine voice.
The speaker’s high heels tip-tapped across the floor. Please let this crate of chickens be box number fifty, Troop thought. The shoes strode right past him. Okay, once this person leaves, I’m getting out of here and coming up with a different plan.
The automatic doors hummed open again and another person wheeled a cart into the holding room.
“Hi, Jack,” said the woman. “Do you know where box fifty is? I can’t locate it.”
“Check over there,” Jack suggested. “I think it’s beside that really tall box.”
There was a pause and some scuffling noises. “Oh—got it. Thanks.”
The pair of red stilettos click-clacked through the doors and out the room. Troop thought it was a minor miracle that the woman managed to keep her balance on those ridiculously high heels.
“Gosh, this thing’s heavy,” a male—Jack’s, Troop assumed—voice grunted.
Troop felt one end of the crate tip upwards. Finally.
The opposite end of the crate was lifted upwards then laid down until everything was level once more. The chickens fluttered their wings at the movement. Troop squirmed, the prickly straw padding poking into his back. He felt like he was lying in a coffin. A very itchy and poultry-smelling coffin.
The wheels whirred beneath Troop as the cart launched into motion.
“Somebody must’ve ordered extra chickens,” Jack said. “Subject number twenty-three sure is lucky.”
Troop gazed out the slates of the crate, watching a parade of legs pass by him. The chickens at last left Troop alone and stopped pecking at him. The checkered floor scrolled by, momentarily hypnotizing him.
“What do you have there?” a gruff voice demanded.
The cart stopped. Troop gauged the speaker stood a good distance from Jack.
“Chickens,” said Jack.
“ID?” A pause, then, “Alright. Fingerprint scan.”
There was a soft bleep.
“You’re cleared.”
A mechanical lock buzzed to life and Jack pushed the cart into the East Wing. Troop allowed himself a mental victory dance.
“I don’t see why we still need to upkeep subject twenty-three if it’s just going to be put down in a few hours,” Jack said to himself. “Such a waste of resources.”
Jack drove the cart straight down the hall, and then turned into a room branching off the main hallway. From his point of view, Troop couldn’t see any other people in the room aside from him and Jack.
“I have your lunch, twenty-three,” said Jack. “Hope you enjoy your final meal.”
Troop propped himself up with his elbows to get a better look at subject twenty-three, bumping his head against the top of the crate in the process of doing so. He bit back a string of curses.
“No need to get all hyped up, chickens,” said Jack. “It’s not like you’ll live to see another day.”
Troop tilted his head and stared at the larg
e, metal cage directly in line with his field of view. Oh, shit. Why does subject twenty-three have to be a tiger?
chapter forty
[ Kristi ]