Artery

1/1

The door swings open; a low grunt, shoes scraping over pavement. Two men spill into the alley, struggling to carry a plastic sack between them. Their backs are bent, and one of them, the taller one, loses his grip on the bag. He curses, as a greenish sludge pours thickly from the exposed corner.

"Come on!" barks the other. He is younger, with broad shoulders and a heavy paunch.

"Sorry," mutters the older man, flicking his wrist in an unsuccessful attempt to rid his fingers of the clinging slime. Together they manage to haul the bag the length of the alley. At the far end, parked at the curb, is a garbage truck.

"On three," says the younger man. The two of them count, swinging the bag up and into the rear of the truck. The older man wipes his hands on his jeans. Lighting a cigarette, the younger man laughs grimly.

"You're gonna want to wash that shit off sooner than later," he says. The older man looks at him.

"What is it?"

"You think I know? Just wouldn't want none of that on my skin is all."

"Thanks," the older man says, wiping harder. "You're a real fountain of insight."

"Come on."

The younger man flicks the end of his cigarette into the street and moves to the front of the truck. The older man follows him, climbing into the passenger seat.

"You're not the least bit curious about this stuff?" he asks.

"I'm too dumb to be curious."

The older man snorts.

"Institute for Applied Research," he says. "What is that?"

"The guys who write the checks."

A cool edge has entered the younger man's voice, but the other presses him.

"No big tech outfit is running experiments outta warehouses like that," he says. "Or paying extra to have their garbage hauled off and burned. Doesn't smell right."

The younger man is looking at him. His face is devoid of expression.

"Since when does a garbage man care about how bad shit smells?"

The older man shrugs, averting his eyes. He can feel the younger man's gaze on him. He clears his throat.

"We going?" he asks. "I'd like a shower before my skin starts crawling off me." Muttering, the younger man starts the engine and pulls away from the curb.

Behind them, a cat has entered the alley. Its orange fur is immaculate, and there is a leather collar with a bronze tag around its neck. With small, indifferent eyes, it examines the puddle of slime that fell from the bag. In the midst of this is a piece of severed flesh; about two inches long, and hollow, it may have belonged to an animal, the artery of a cow, or a ventricle from a human heart.

Lowering its head, the cat bites into the slime-covered thing; there is a pause. The cat seems to shake itself, almost as if it was confused, and then all at once it begins to feed, quickly, viciously, devouring the morsel. On unsteady limbs it totters away.

With a bang, the metal door is thrown open; a figure in a hazmat suit rushes out, and the cat, hissing, darts away. Through his wide, plastic faceplate, the man in the suit watches as the cat disappears through a brick wall.