"The noise is coming from that," she says. Whatever it is rests on a platform the size of a pingpong table, and the floor beneath it is covered in fresh sawdust. There's a pump at the end of the platform. "Must be circulating some sort of liquid?" "So they are making whiskey," Del says. Edith wrinkles her brow. "Or a special kind of milk?" "Only one way to find out." I grab one end of the tarp. Edith and Del take the other. "One, two, three!" The tarp hits the floor and Edith gasps. I'm suddenly dizzy, and Del slaps her hand over her mouth. It's a tank. A kind of big silicone-like bubble of clear yellowish liquid supported by a thick metal frame. And there's something floating inside. A hairy something. Like one of the gross specimens preserved in jars high in Mrs. Allen's closet that she brings down when we talk about gestation and cell reproduction. Only bigger. Much, much bigger. Excerpted from Dominic Bean and the Mammoth Melt by Emilie Christie Burack All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
