They shunt the trolley over debris of wire and metal shafts that lie strewn on the floor. The bumpy path jostles the load beneath the tarpaulin and things begin to shift but neither masked figure seem to notice.
When the reach an unremarkable door, the front figure reaches out and gives three sharp knocks; and then they wait.
Time passes.
Neither move.
Eventually, the door opens and an unmasked man appears. He is old, with rheumy eyes and a face the colour of deep blues and blacks, as if permanently and completely bruised. He leans on a wooden stick, a feeble figure, framed by the doorway and a white light emanating from the room behind him. He looks from one custodian to the other before turning his attention to the trolley. With his stick, he raises the tarpaulin and peers inside, stepping closer for a better look. The corner of his mouth twitches and he whips his stick back. He looks at both custodians again before slamming the stick on the trolley. He then lifts it an inch from the trolley, and begins to tap. Both custodians gaze at him, unmoved. When he finishes, they nod and proceed to remove the tarpaulin altogether and begin to empty the contents.
Bags of needles in brightly coloured bags, medical equipment, and medical clothing are thrown on the ground until, at last, they reach the bottom section of the trolley. The old man approaches again and peers in. He brings the tip of the stick over the edge and stabs it into the cart, twisting it sharply before slowly bringing it back up again, a red bag stuck to the end.
He nods and the custodians reach in to remove the final contents: Phials, cracked and leaking, and packed into toxic waste bags. Medical equipment, including breathing masks. A selection of similar, smaller bags. A head, a hand, an arm, all tagged and labelled. The last bag is bigger than any of the others and far heavier. Even with the two custodians it takes great effort to remove it from the bottom of the trolley.
Flesh and bone are dragged out for recycling.