Monday—9 a.m.—Cielo Vista, California
“Jesus Chri—” Twenty-eight-year-old Noah Penn stared up at the cloudless blue sky, took a deep breath, looked back down at his palm, and tasted nausea clawing up his throat. He tore off his face mask. “Shit, oh shit, oh shiiit. Tom, get over here! I need help, Goddammit.”
“What? What’s wrong?” Slowed by his hazmat suit, Tom was hauling ass as he rounded the other side of the incinerator. “You hurt? You’re white as these ashes.”
Noah shook his head. The ground tilted under his heavy work boots. A robot, he extended his fisted hand, opened it, and shoved his palm at Tom.
“Teeth.” His voice rasped. He swiped the sweat dripping off his eyebrows. “Human.”
“Jesus.” Tom took a step backwards. “How can you tell? One’s only half there.”
“I don’t give a shit,” Noah yelled, his heart pounding. “They’re human.”
Tom averted his head and gazed out at the unbroken view of the Golden Gate Bridge thirty miles away. “Who’s gonna shell out fifty mil for a house with an on-site crematorium?”