By contrast, the liquor store beside it was completely trashed. The plate-glass windows were smashed and inside, Blake could see toppled shelves and the shine of broken bottles. It smelled sickly sweet, like margarita mix and simple syrup. Someone had even ripped the door off the hinges, which seemed pointless with the gaping broken window, but maybe the door had come after they’d broken into the store and had partied like an early 2000s spring break. Minus the sunscreen.
Alvarez held up his fist, and Blake dragged his attention back to the vet clinic. The door was still locked. He was surprised to see it was Beaumont who stepped forward, slinging his gun over his shoulder rather than give it to Blake to hold—which was rude, but fair—and pulled some lockpicks out of his pocket and got to work.
Behind him, Alvarez scanned the empty lot, gun trained and finger resting on the trigger. Blake just stood there holding his backpack straps, trying not to mouth-breathe too loudly.
The lock clicked. Beaumont pulled the door open, and Alvarez smoothly stepped into the dark lobby. Blake took the door so Beaumont could follow.
“Clear,” Alvarez called out, and Blake stepped into the clinic.
With the light coming in from the front window, it was easy to pick out the details of the lobby. A set of uncomfortable looking chairs lined up along the back wall beneath a corkboardfull of flyers for missing pets, various animal related services, and an advertisement for a cookout benefiting the local shelter. The front desk was just inside the door, cluttered with papers and an open laptop that had long since died. Blake touched the gleaming hooks fastened into the desk, worn smooth from years of leashes from excited dogs.
Alvarez walked through an open door at the far wall. “The rest is clear. You have less than five minutes.” He didn’t wait for Blake to answer, moving toward the front desk to begin rifling through drawers.
Blake tried to swallow, but his throat was dry. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had anything to drink. That was probably something he should have thought about before jumping in the truck for a mission of indeterminate length, but he couldn’t risk dousing his bravado high with things like logistics. And now he was too afraid to look like a wuss in front of Beta Team.
You can take the boy out of high school, but you can’t take high school out of the boy.
Blake retraced Alvarez’s steps and tried to focus. He only had a few minutes and couldn’t waste time with indecision. The door led to a narrow hallway with exam rooms on either side. At the end of the hall was a larger door marked ‘X-Ray,’ and directly across from that was a concrete room with kennels. He doubted there would be any medication there.
A big treatment area opened up in between the exam rooms. An office led off what he could only assume was a surgery suite. The big treatment area had a central, stainless steel exam table and a set of cabinets along the wall with a fridge. Blake started there.
He was a bit careless as he wrenched open drawers and cabinets. He scanned the boxes and bottles of medication quickly. Anything he recognized went right into the bag.
“Are these okay?”
Blake looked up to see Beaumont holding out a handful of dark blue pill bottles. The labels were smudged, but he stepped closer to read them.
“Not these.” He tossed some meds he thought were for mange to the floor. “But these? Yeah. Anything with ‘cillin’ at the end is good. Or ‘mycin.’”
Beaumont nodded and threw the rest of the pills into Blake’s open bag.
They went through like that, Blake trying not to second-guess himself as he chose what to keep versus what they didn’t have room for. He saved the fridge for last. He told himself it was practical—the less time the meds were out of the fridge, which might be insulating them even a little bit, the better. But really, he was just scared they wouldn’t be there.
When he finally got to the fridge, he didn’t allow himself to hesitate. Bottles in the door clinked as he yanked it open. It was jarring not to see the light blink on, but there was enough ambient light to read the bottles.
And there, right on the top shelf, was what he was looking for.
Blake almost cried when he saw four bottles of insulin. His hands shook as he grabbed them, twisting the label toward the light. He didn’t recognize the brand, but he knew a lot of veterinary insulin was human recombinant; human genetics were involved in the manufacturing process—even if it was meant for a non-human host. That had to mean it would work.
He stuffed all four bottles into his bag and checked the rest of the fridge. The bag was heavy when he carefully slid the straps back over his shoulder. He’d tried to separate the glass bottles with the plastic and cardboard boxes, hoping it would protect them; he didn’t want to take any chances.
“All right, times up. We’ve got to go.”
“I’m done.” He turned to face Beaumont when he saw something move in the surgery suite. He took two steps toward the room when Beaumont grabbed his wrist.
“Hey, we’ve got to?—”
The room shook with a titanicboom.
Blake was flung forward, slamming his shoulder into the exam table. He collapsed, curling into a ball as pain flared bright and deep. A second explosion rocked the room, and he curled tighter, the floor vibrating beneath him. Plaster and chunks of ceiling rained down, like tiny pinpricks of stinging pain on exposed skin.
With his hands over his head, he tried to protect himself, but he couldn’t breathe. Every lungful was filled with dust, and the air felt wrong. Heavy. The vibrations came faster, and Blake realized the building was still shaking; he just couldn’t hear anything except a high-pitched ringing.
Forcing himself to open his eyes, he blinked the dust from his lashes and blearily looked around.
The white linoleum floor was covered in ceiling and outer wall. Two of the exam rooms were now a gaping hole, afternoon light struggling to pierce through the dust. As his vision cleared, Blake could see familiar burning ordinance eating through the wall.
Off Formers.
