Riptide (Sam McRae Mystery 3)

The mesh platform we trod provided little protection from the unidentifiable liquid sloshing around the floor. I tried to avoid thinking about what it was.

I’ve always prided myself on being able to stare ugliness in the face and survive. But when I saw those frantic, thrashing chickens being dipped into a tub of water, then jolted with electric shocks—to stun them, Amber said, and make the slaughter “more humane”—I thought I’d lose it. I chomped on my lip so hard, I nearly broke the skin. I thought of birthday cakes and happy kittens to keep from blubbering like a baby.

To distract myself further, I forced myself to converse. “How come it smells so bad?” I croaked.

“The combination of blood, chicken fat, manure, and uric acid makes for a nice brew, doesn’t it?” Amber quipped.

I flashed back to every time I’d had chicken soup when I was sick. I nearly threw up in my mask. Never again!

For a moment, the fumes, the lines of chickens headed toward decapitation, and my thoughts threatened to overwhelm me. I staggered to the wall and reached out for support. My fingers touched stickiness and I yanked them back.

“What the hell?” I said.

“Oh, shit.” Amber took my arm and ushered me to a wash basin. “Here you go. Rinse up and I’ll scrounge up some gloves.” Her voice sounded far away, muffled beneath the mask.

“What was that?”

Amber’s eyes—her only visible feature above the mask—fixed on me. “You don’t want to know.”

I grabbed the soap and washed my hands—scrubbing hard, rinsing, and repeating five times.

While Amber went in search of gloves, I watched the women in their repetitive task. My sight had adjusted enough to make out their features—light brown skin and dark eyes, looking impassive above white masks. Chicken-bearing automatons in an endless cycle of grabbing and hanging frightened birds.

I felt like I was in the world’s worst sci-fi B-movie ever. Like Soylent Green with chickens.

But it’s okay to eat chickens, isn’t it? That’s what I kept telling myself. But those poor, helpless birds ….

I turned away and leaned against the sink, swallowing and blinking back tears. I couldn’t look another minute.

Amber appeared at my elbow, offering the gloves.

“I’m sorry,” I said, sniffling and wiping my eyes. I steeled myself. “Could we take a break?”

Her eyes softened. Placing a hand on my arm, she said, “Sure. Don’t worry about it.”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Once I’d escaped from the dark confines of the plant, I ripped the mask off and gulped air.

“Jesus.” I leaned over at the waist and planted a hand on each knee, trying to regain my bearings.

I could feel Amber approach from behind.

“That was … even worse than I imagined.”

“Yeah. It is kind of gross.”

I took a last deep breath and managed to straighten up. “I’m sorry. I feel like such a …” I struggled to say the word. The one I had in mind was “wuss.”

“Don’t worry about it. Honestly. You aren’t the only one to react this way.”

“Really?”

She nodded. “I’ve brought other aspiring legal interns here. They come with the best of intentions and lots of glowing hopes of doing the right thing.”

“I’ll bet.” I thought of my own initiation into the world of the public defender so many years ago. What a bright-eyed naïve little person I’d been, even after spending part of a hard childhood in Bed-Stuy.

She grinned. “Hey, you made it to the electric stunner. Some can’t even make it through the door.”