Artie heard the monkeys down the hall, screeching again. It was late and whoever was supposed to feed them had probably forgotten or figured no one would notice on a Friday night. Assholes. And no one would notice. No one ever came down here on weekend evenings. That was exactly why he was here. The place was quiet and he didn’t have to worry about anyone walking in on him, wanting to know what he was doing.

He decided if the monkeys were still screeching when he was ready to leave he’d use his key card and at least throw them some biscuits. They were sneaky little bastards and Artie didn’t like being around them. They reminded him of little old men with bright eyes and beards and they looked at him like they knew something he didn’t know. He couldn’t explain what it was that gave him the creeps. He didn’t trust them but he did feel sorry for them. He couldn’t imagine being stuck in a cage all day, depending on someone else.

Artie let the monkeys screech at his back as he walked all the way to the opposite end of the hall. The door had a metal sign attached that said: QUARANTINE in red letters. He used his key card and let himself in to the small deserted lab. No one used it anymore except for storage.

They used to keep sick, contaminated monkeys in here while they tested them. He wondered if they’d made the monkeys sick just so they could do their tests. That’s what they were doing with the ones down at the other end of the hall. But the ones that occupied this little lab had been different. He wasn’t sure how. No one talked about it. Probably because every single monkey ended up dying.

Ever since then, the lab remained unused, untouched. The monkeys’ cages still lined up against one wall. It was as if whatever happened here was beyond repair. At least everything had been washed down and sterilized. The smell of bleach lingered, helped along by Artie’s recent contributions. He thought it was silly that science-minded people, logical thinkers, would be superstitious.

That made him smile. He actually liked that people—even scientists—were so predictable. In fact, that was one of the things he could pretty much count on. It didn’t matter what social class, what background and upbringing, what occupation, there were basic factors like greed and suspicion—even superstition—that everyone had a small dose of. Like it was engineered into human DNA. And Artie freely admitted that he included himself. Yeah, he was a little superstitious. It certainly didn’t hurt to be a little. If he did something a certain way and good things happened, then he repeated those steps. Maybe that was more of a ritual than superstition.

He wrestled out of his gray hoodie and slung his backpack onto the long, narrow stainless-steel table that took up the middle of the room. Behind him were floor-to-ceiling cabinets. He wiped his sweaty palms on the front of his baggy T-shirt then twisted the combination of a padlock on one of the cabinets.

He began his ritual, taking out everything he needed: a gallon jug of bleach, latex gloves, a surgical mask, goggles, a tray of surgical utensils and a box of Ziploc plastic bags. From his backpack he pulled out a small box and snapped it open.

This was the part he still hated. He carefully removed the loaded syringe and took off the cap. He knew the vaccine was as good as liquid gold and worth a small fortune on the black market. At least that’s what his mentor had said when he told Artie to use it sparingly. He clenched his teeth, made a fist and stuck the needle into his arm.

Artie put on the surgical mask and goggles, then two layers of latex gloves. He always put them on in the same order—call it superstition, ritual, whatever—it worked every time. Again from his backpack he brought out the plastic bag with fingernail clippings he had snatched from the tour-bus floor. He also laid out two mailing envelopes with the labels already attached. The block lettering looked perfectly amateurish, almost childlike. Perhaps the person at Benjamin Tasker Middle School who would receive one of the packages would even think that it was sent from a student.

Finally ready, Artie went to the old chest freezer that rumbled in the corner. He worked the combination to the padlock on its door. He swung open the lid and made himself look at the dead monkey wrapped in clear plastic, lying on its back with arms and legs flaying, locked in place and looking as if the monkey were trying to claw its way out. Artie avoided its eyes. Even frozen, the little bastard gave him the creeps. He grabbed a plastic bag from the side of the freezer and shut the lid, worked the padlock back into the handle, made the lock click.

He tossed the bag from hand to hand, a frozen glob, a Popsicle of blood and tissue. All he needed was a sliver.