The Prisoner - Carlos J. Cortes [114]
Laurel must have sensed his discomfiture. “So you send the animals’ waste to the digester and …?”
“We pump pig shit and water into them, heat it, and leave it there to complete the process.”
“You heat the shit?” Laurel asked.
Floyd reached for her hand.
“Right, to keep it around one hundred degrees Fahrenheit.”
They walked slowly around the vast concrete area of the digester installation. Floyd reached to one of the insulated pipes and touched a valve. It was warm. “How long does the process take?”
“About two weeks.”
Laurel laid her hand on the nearest tank. “So there is two weeks’ worth of pig shit in those tanks?”
“That’s about right.”
Floyd followed Antonio’s gaze. Past the tanks, in an open field, a large machine trundled, raising a cloud of dust. Whatever the beast was doing, it must have pleased Antonio, because he rubbed his hands and smiled.
“And the biogas? What do you do with that?” Laurel seemed genuinely interested to discover how the system worked.
“Once cleaned, we store it in the gasholder.”
“That sphere?” Floyd eyed a huge white ball on stilts, set on its own in the middle of a grass patch.
“Right.”
Through a passage between two piggery buildings, Floyd spotted Tyler limping toward them. He peered at his face, obscured by a large hat, but couldn’t detect any telltale signals of alarm.
“Taking a guided tour?” Tyler nodded to Antonio. “I left a pager with Raul.” He patted his shirt pocket.
“This is huge,” Laurel said. “I still can’t get over the lack of smell. I thought hog farms stank.”
“We couldn’t have gotten away with odors so close to town. The digester reduces most odors from the livestock. Antonio’s spray system to keep the animals cool and clean does the rest. We contribute no odor, groundwater contamination, greenhouse-gas emissions, or pathogens into the environment.”
Floyd glanced around. The void in his stomach had been deepening. He turned to Antonio. The man was staring at him, his eyes ablaze with a strange intensity.
“The doctor wanted to know what we do with our dead animals.”
Tyler looked down and scoured the ground with the tip of his boot. “They’re protein. We hack them to pieces and add them to the digester.”
Laurel’s fingers dug into Floyd’s arm. The penny must have dropped.
“Prices for farm hogs are stable at $7.40 a pound, deadweight. These animals,” Tyler nodded toward the piggeries, “weigh 270 pounds on average; that’s about two thousand dollars a head, and a small tragedy when we lose any.”
Floyd swallowed. “Look, Har—”
“In your shoes, the thought would have probably crossed my mind. After all, the DHS supposedly knows nothing about us.” He glanced at Antonio. “If things got hairy, we could always throw you in the digester. Expensive meat, though.” Then he looked straight into Floyd’s eyes. “But it would have been a fleeting thought I would have discarded at once.”
“Why?” Laurel blurted.
“I’m a better judge of character than either of you.” “I didn’t—” Floyd felt heat creeping up his neck. “Of course you did.” Antonio smiled. “For months we planned how to spring Russo, knowing what the stakes were, not only for you but for the lot of us. Things have turned sour, but we’re still alive and kicking, and the difference between them and us stands.”
Floyd waited.
“I don’t think the doctor understands,” Tyler said.
“I do. Antonio is talking about honor … and I apologize.”
Antonio’s smile widened. “See, there’s still hope.”
“How many animals do you have here?” Laurel intervened, her voice weak.
“Four-legged, about fifty thousand.” Tyler slapped Antonio and Floyd’s shoulders. “And lots of the two-legged variety.”
“Christ.” Floyd ran a hand over his face. “I’m falling apart.”
“Some call it shell shock.” Tyler walked along the lane hemmed by barns and stores. “But the enemy must move soon, and until then we can only wait.”
“This must have cost a fortune,” Laurel said.
Antonio nodded. “It did, but most of it came from estate and federal government grants and supports. We’ve pioneered many renewable-energy production technologies. We also get money