Vials. At least twenty, all nestled inside, all labeled with some sort of number rather than actual words. Lyndon picked one up and held it to the light, the contents nearly clear. He knew what this was—or close enough. He gave himself an intramuscular injection every week and he’d guess this was the kind of drug you’d use similarly. But what exactly it was…Lyndon slid the vial back in the container, closed it up, and moved to pump the gas.
He liked the mess of s**t he was in less and less. He was carrying a dozen containers—no, ten, after what they’d left at the hospital back in Peoria—and if all of those had at least twenty vials, well, he didn’t like the math on that, especially considering each of them looked to hold about ten milliliters.
You could inject a lot of people with that.
