Contamination
Slothberg scanned his ID on the credential checkpoint. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw something dash across the floor. But when he focused his central vision on the concrete floor beside him, there was nothing to be found.
Slothberg handed his briefcase over to the security guard. The guard asked why Slotherg was at the lab on a Sunday afternoon.
“I’d rather not be here, if that helps,” Slothberg replied.
“That makes two of us then,” the guard said. A few moments passed as the guard zipped open pockets, unlatched folders, and examined a pack of gum from within Slothberg’s bag.
“Do you know if maintenance has a mouse problem?” Slothberg asked.
“Mouse problem? Not that I’m aware of. Why?”
“Just curious.”
Inside the locker room was a safe place. It was one of the last stops before the lab. There was a decontamination chamber that would blow gas all around you that, presumably, killed anything living on your suit. Besides the emergency exits, this was the only way into- or out-of the lab.
Slothberg did his breathing exercises after he finished dawning his suit. He imagined sending golden beams of light, like Zeus atop Mt. Olympus, down to all his loved ones. Each rod would soar through the air, gently arcing towards its target. Then, it’d strike his mother. Or his brother. Or the girl he took to the prom a decade ago. Or his first kiss. From there, happiness would smooth out the wrinkles on their faces, and they’d be left with warm smiles.
When he opened his eyes, Slothberg thought he saw another mass flash across the floor. He jumped up onto the bench in the locker room and surveyed the floor. It looked spotless, practically shining from his vantage. No sign of mice. Slothberg rubbed his eyes. Still no mice.
He put his goggles and respirator on. He pulled the hood over the top of his head and cinched it shut. He moved into the decontamination unit. He started the procedure. A cleansing ritual before crossing the threshold into lab-made meat production. From here on out, everything was clean, new, free of animals, free of suffering, cruelty, exploitation.
When Slothberg opened the door to the lab and excited the decon unit, he almost halted. Before him, millions of cockroaches feasted on Petri dishes of cultured meat. The smell was intolerable, even through the respirator. Slothberg gagged. He doubled over, bending and groping for his respirator but it was too late. He vomited inside the mask. The stuff began dripping down his chin. The bile attracted the cockroaches feasting on the meat. Slothberg retreated. He walked backward as a steady stream of cockroaches began pouring into the drops of vomit just below his feet. What horror.
