SONOR BREECE DETESTED field research. Too many variables. Too little control. He preferred precise calibrations to crude estimates. Here, the only accurate piece of equipment was the vintage stopwatch in his pocket.
The Beautiful Day Mission was located in a Quonset hut, repurposed from an industrial farm upstate. Inside, curved panels arched up to a central beam. The floor was a mixture of raw dirt and sawdust. The air was filled with the aroma of fresh stew and intense body odor. Around the interior walls, guards were stationed at even intervals. They could hear muffled pounding and shouts from outside, but they weren’t expecting any trouble in here. The people who made it through the doors were only interested in one thing. Being fed.
At the head of each table, a uniformed server held a tray of tin bowls, steaming in the cool air. Breece had emphasized how important it was that everybody be served at the same time. Now the servers all looked to him, like musicians to their maestro.
Breece gave the signal. The bowls went down in quick succession all down the line on every table. In his pocket, he pressed the stem of his stopwatch.
The guests grabbed plastic spoons and plunged in hungrily. Seconds before, there had been a low hum of conversation and anticipation. Now the hangar-like space was virtually silent, except for some noisy slurping. One large man abandoned his spoon altogether. He lifted his bowl to his mouth, drinking in the stew like water and letting his red beard catch the spillover.
He was the first to react.
As soon as his empty bowl hit the table, his eyes rolled back and a trickle of white foam began to spill over his beard. He rocked slightly. A small girl across the table pointed and laughed—but only for a second. Then she began spewing white bubbles of her own. The effect was sudden and devastating.
Up and down the rows, people collapsed wordlessly to the ground, where the rough sawdust absorbed leakage from their mouths. The servers and guards stood motionless.
At Breece’s nod, the servers began to pick their way through the twitching bodies to the far end of the building, where the doors ran almost the whole width of the structure. As the heavy panels were rolled back, they revealed three trucks idling outside, their massive steel beds empty and waiting.
Breece walked through the dining area. His rubber boots did not suit his sense of style, but they were a necessary precaution against the mess. Here and there a hand reached up as if to claw at his heels, but for the most part, it was over quickly.
“Have a beautiful day,” he said, looking around. There was no response.
“What’s the count?” Breece called out.
“Seventy-five!” one of the guards shouted back.
Breece surveyed the still forms around him. He clicked his stopwatch and pulled it from his pocket. The red sweep hand was stopped at 30.
Seventy-five people. Thirty seconds. Breece sighed.
He could do better.