“Everyone is refusing to work,” Carmela told Jason. He stood outside the production room in his white foreman’s coat and ground his teeth in frustration.
“We’re all gonna get fired if those chickens aren’t moved along,” he said in the chilly air.
Carmela shook her head and pointed to the double-doors. Jason pushed through and looked around inside. Men and women in white jackets and hair-nets stood around as the uncut chicken hung limply from the conveyor chains. They muttered fearfully as transparent chickens sat on every available surface and glared knowingly at them.
“I’ll call Mr. Belford,” Jason said.