Sporemageddon

A few days ago.

He had spent plenty of time in drunk tanks before. Not because of his own inability to control himself around alcohol (except for one time, when he was much younger) but rather to find suspects and culprits.

Men lowered their inhibitions around a strong drink. They weren’t alone in that. Hobgoblins, some felinoids, a few other species. Mostly anything mammalian could be hit by the drink, and then they ended up in a place like this.

The drunk tank the two officers brought their sleepy pall to was only a couple of blocks over. A dingy room below a station that shared space with an actual lock-up, though the drunk tank was not as secure. It was a large room, bisected down the middle with two large cages to either side.

The only light came from a pair of naked bulbs hanging from the ceiling and a few narrow, bar-covered windows way up on the wall. Those were left open, no matter the time of year. The stink in this kind of place made a bit of ventilation necessary.

“I’ve never been in a tank this quiet,” Mallory said.

“Yeah,” one of the officers said. “It’s a little eerie, isn’t it?”

It was. The tank wasn’t at full capacity. Far from it, even. It was only mid-day. Most rowdy drinkers or drug-users were out at night, causing a fuss and keeping people awake, or at worst starting fights. There were maybe thirty people here. Most of them on one side. The opposite, the less-full tank, was for the ladies, and it was nearly empty.

Everyone here, with a few exceptions, was asleep.