by Amy Cross
"Don't listen to it," Patricia says. "It's trying to play mind games. Believe it or not, the damn thing actually seems to have a sense of humor."
"You have to kill it," I say, turning and aiming my rifle at the creature. "You can't let one of these things near us!"
"Don't be stupid," she replies, pushing the barrel down toward the ground. "Elizabeth, you're smart enough to understand this from my point of view. If we keep killing them, we'll never understand what they are or where they came from or what they want. We have to take a scientific approach to the problem. We're not cavemen, and we're not so dumb that we have to run around in blind panic, shooting everything that scares us." She pauses for a moment. "We have to be brave. The others are too reactionary, but I'm convinced you can understand the value of this work."
Looking down at the creature, I realize that she's right: I can see why she's doing this. For the first time, instead of wanting to run and get away from one of these things, I find myself drawn to look closer. This thing is hideous, but we have to understand what it is and how it can be stopped. If we just keep running and shooting, eventually we'll run out of bullets and they'll overwhelm us.
"Maybe we can find a cure," Patricia says after a moment. "Maybe we can reverse this, or at least find a way to stop them. I'm not promising anything, but it's a start. We have to assume that there are millions, maybe even billions of these things on the planet. We can't spend the rest of our lives in fear. Throughout history, humanity has made advances through scientific inquiry, and that's exactly what we're going to do now." She waits for me to say something. "Some people pray to God," she adds, "and some people pick up a scalpel and try to understand what's happening in the world around them. I want to do both."
"So what's the first step?" I ask hesitantly, aware that the creature seems to be listening intently to our conversation.
"I'm trying to engage it in conversation," she replies. "It thinks it's pretty smart, and it certainly doesn't seem to want to let anything slip so far. It keeps trying to play games with me, but I'm convinced I can learn something useful before I move on to stage two."
"And what's that?" I ask.
"Stress tests," she continues. "I want to know what this thing can withstand, and I want to know its abilities. For one thing, it looks as if it's rotting. If that's the case, it might just die naturally in a few days. And then..." She pauses. "And then there's stage three. Dissection."
"That sounds fun," the creature says with a grin.
"This isn't magic or fantasy," Patricia continues, walking around to the other side of the pit. "This is a real-life creature, and it's subject to the rules of biology, just the same as any other creature on the planet. It wasn't created with pixie dust or fairy magic. This is life, Elizabeth, and life always finds a way to move forward. Life can overcome any problem that's put in its way, and this creature is a perfect example of that quality."
"How romantic," the creature sneers. "Even when you're talking about science, you can't resist throwing in some bullshit to sweeten the deal."
"I can do this," Patricia says after a moment, fixing me with a determined stare. "I know I can. I can analyze this creature and I can work out what to do next, but only if I'm given the chance. If the others find out, they'll come out here, pour gasoline all over the damn thing and burn it until there's nothing left. Even Toad won't be able to understand why I need to keep it alive." She pauses again. "Elizabeth, I need to know that you can keep this project to yourself, and I need to know I can trust you."
I take a deep breath. "What if I say no?" I reply after a moment, unable to ignore the fact that she's got a pistol in one hand. "What will you do if I refuse?"
She pauses. "Is that your answer?" she asks eventually, and it's clear that her mind is spinning as she tries to make a decision. I can't help but feel that Patricia's the kind of person who'll do anything to get her way.
"No," I reply. "It's not." I look down at the creature and realize that I have to go along with her. We can't just keep shooting at these things as if we're never going to run out of ammunition; we have to understand them, and then we have to come up with a better way to stop them. "You're right," I continue eventually. "Cut it up. Slice it down the middle. Whatever. If it helps, you have to do it. I can even help, but first you have to come back to the farm. Toad's sick."
"What's wrong with him?" she asks, clearly concerned.
"He's got a fever," I reply, "and his wound looks as if it's infected."
"Infected?" the creature says with a grin. "Are you sure he's not becoming like me?"
"His wound is infected," I say firmly. "That's all. It's not the same kind of sickness that other people have been getting."
"We'll see," Patricia says, clearly unconvinced. "Okay, I'll come and take a look, but after that I'm coming back out here. If anyone asks about me, just tell them I'm working on the traps. Whatever happens, don't let anyone come this way. I don't want them to find this creature. That's why I lied earlier and claimed I'd killed it. Bridger and Thor and the others, they wouldn't understand. You can't even tell Toad. You're the only one I trust, Elizabeth. Please, don't let me down."
"I won't tell anyone," I reply, "but we have to get back to the house. Toad might be dying. There's pus in his wound and he's delirious with fever."
As we hurry through the forest, I can't help noticing that Patricia seems unusually quiet.
"What are you thinking about?" I ask eventually.
"When you say that Toad seems sick," she replies, with a worried look in her eyes, "what exactly do you mean? What kind of sick?"
"Not like the creatures," I reply. "It's not that, it's just -"
"We have to be cautious," she says, interrupting me. "I know you and Toad seem to get along pretty well, but no-one's above suspicion. We can't risk infection spreading through the house. If he's sick, we need to quarantine him and make sure no-one else goes near him."
"He's not infected," I tell her. "Not like that. It's just an infection from his wound."
"Let's hope you're right," she says as we reach the edge of the forest and start making our way over to the house, only to hear Bridger calling for Patricia from out front. He sounds panicked, as if something's wrong.
"It seems I'm popular," she says uneasily.
"Quick!" Bridger shouts, running over to us. "Where the hell have you been? We need you. It's Shauna. She's gone into labor!"
"She's not due for another month," I point out.
"Tell that to the baby," he replies, grabbing Patricia's arm and pulling her toward the house. "It's coming, and Shauna's panicking like hell. She's convinced the baby won't survive. There's a whole lot of blood, and no-one knows what the hell to do."
"Get some water and heat it over the fire," Patricia says, hurrying to the door. "Bring some towels and blankets, whatever you can find!" She turns to me. "I'll get to Toad, but this is an emergency, okay? You have to come up with me. I can teach you what to do, in case you're ever in this situation."
"I can't deliver a baby," I reply, stunned at the suggestion.
"You're not going to deliver it," she snaps back at me, "but you're going to help. You need to learn how to do things like this, Elizabeth. Maybe one day you'll save someone's life."
I watch as she turns and runs up the stairs.
"Where's Eriksen?" I ask, as Bridger opens a nearby cupboard and starts pulling out various blankets.
"Where do you think?" he asks. "Drunk, as usual."
"But -"
"We don't have time for a long conversation," he replies, shoving some blankets into my arms. "Take these up. Tell Patricia I'll bring the water."
From upstairs, there's a scream of pain, and it's clear that Shauna's not in a good way. I follow Bridger up to the room, but as soon as we go inside, I'm shocked by the amount of blood. Shauna's on the bed, with her legs spread wide, but blood is soaking the sheets and I can tell from the look in Patricia's eyes that something's wrong. It's a horrific scene, and
it's hard to believe that somewhere in that bloody mess, the baby could still be alive.
"Elizabeth," Patricia says, turning to me. "I'm going to need your help with this."
"Is it still alive?" Shauna whimpers, her eyes filled with tears. "Please God, tell me it's still alive..."
Day Fourteen
Thomas
Missouri
"Get up!" he screams. "Get the fuck up!"
As I open my eyes, I'm doused by a bucketful of freezing water, which immediately jolts my body into action. I scramble to get back on my feet, but my arms and legs feel tired and heavy; I end up slamming back down against the concrete floor, panting and shivering as the cold water soaks through my clothes and reaches my skin.
"Get up!" he shouts, kicking me hard in the belly.
Rolling onto my back, I stare up at the ceiling and watch as the old man leans over me.
"Fucking Christ," he mutters, with a shocked look on his face. "What's wrong with you?" He kicks me again, not quite as hard this time, and then he leans closer. "Are you in there, boy? Can you hear me?"
I try to open my mouth, to say something, but I can't really control my body properly. All I can do is wait as I hear the old man walking away, and moments later the door to the basement slams shut. Shivering violently, I try to work out what the hell is happening, but finally I realize the most shocking and surprising thing of all.
I'm alive.
Somehow, I'm alive.
Thomas
Missouri
After three days without food, the bread tastes good. I wolf it down, curled up in the corner of the basement like an animal. Hunger has become more than just a feeling in my body; it has become the only thought in my mind, pushing my normal thoughts to one side; even though I know I should probably slow down, I end up barely even chewing the bread, swallowing it in large, thick chunks instead, and then washing it down with big gulps of water.
A few minutes later, the pain kicks in. My gut feels as if it's burning, and I roll onto my side, clutching my belly and letting out a gasp of agony. I guess I ate too much, too fast; my stomach has been empty for three days, probably consuming itself, and now I've over-filled it with bread and water. For a while, curled up in a ball and wracked with pain, I start to wonder if the whole stomach might just burst. Finally, however, with sweat pouring down my face, I realize that the pain is slowly starting to ease.
I wait.
The basement is cold, dark and quiet. It's been about half an hour since the old man came down here with a plate of bread and a cup of water. I've barely had time to think about what this all means, but I know one thing for sure: I thought I was going to die. I spent a few days down here, completely alone and with no indication that the old man was still alive, and I finally gave up. I don't think I woke once yesterday. Instead, I was just passed out here on the floor, wasting away. So why did the old man suddenly come and give me food? Was he just testing me and teasing me, or has something changed?
Once the pain has completely left my stomach, I sit up. I've removed my soaking wet clothes, and the old man left some kind of old, stained set of overalls for me to wear. They stink of oil and body odor, and they're too big for me, but they're warm and dry so I put them on. Something about this whole situation feels very wrong, and I can't work out why the old man would suddenly give a damn about me. I guess maybe he was trying to break me, in which case he did a pretty good job. I feel completely exhausted and strangely blank, as if the top layer of my mind has been permanently ripped away to expose a tender, raw new layer below. Looking down at my hands, I start to wonder if maybe I'm imagining the whole thing. Is it possible that somehow I actually died, and this is what comes next?
Getting to my feet, with the manacles still attached to my ankles, I limp over to the narrow window at the far end of the room. Rain is falling outside, spattering the glass and creating a faint, distant tapping sound. In a way, it's a comforting feeling to know that the weather, at least, is continuing as normal. This might be the first rain in two weeks, and I like the idea that it might be washing away all the bad things that have happened. Still, I know that's not what's really happening. It's just rain, and those creatures - whatever they are, and whether they're near or far - aren't going to be washed away in a flood. As I watch the rain hitting the truck, I can't help but think about Joe's grave in the forest. I guess the rain should help to flatten down the soil on top of him.
Above me, the floorboards creak.
The old man is moving about.
This is no dream. I must have been at the brink of death when he chose to revive me. I can't help but wonder what he wants.
Walking over to the steps, I glance back at the pile of cloth sacking and bones in one of the corners. It's weird to think that someone else was down here before me, and that whoever she was, she died in this room. The old Thomas would have been scared, and would probably have worried about ghosts, but the new Thomas is strangely comforted by the presence of those tattered, broken old bones. Whoever that girl was, she probably went through the same things that I've been through, except she didn't make it; at least I know that I'm not the only person who ended up down here, although I'm damn sure I'm going to be the last. I don't know how I'll do it yet, but I'll get the hell out of here and I'll break the old man's skull. Maybe I'll have to wait and be patient, but I'll make him suffer. Not for me, but for the girl who died down here. Whoever she is, or was, she deserves justice.
Limping up the steps, I reach the door and pause for a moment.
"Hello?" I call out, my voice sounding harsh and weathered.
I hear the sound of someone shuffling about upstairs, and finally footsteps come closer to the door. There's another sound, as if someone's jangling a set of keys, and finally I hear the door being unlocked. I take a step back, as the door finally swings open and I find myself face to face with the old man. He's holding a rifle in one hand, and as he steps aside, it's clear that he wants me to go upstairs.
"You try anything," he mutters, "and I'll blow your fucking brain clean out of your skull with one shot."
Figuring that I need to pick a moment when he's less cautious, I take a step past him and head up into the kitchen. The place is a mess, and with rain and dark clouds outside, there's not much light in here. Shivering a little at the cold, I walk over to the window and stare out at what appears to be a proper rainstorm. It's almost as if the heavens are trying to wash everything away, to scrub the planet clean and start again. To be honest, I can't say that it sounds like a bad idea.
"You've got a job to do," the old man says, walking over to the sideboard and grabbing a large knife, which he sets on the table between us.
Staring at the knife, I try to work out what he means.
"If you're thinking you can use that thing on me," he continues, "I should advise you of the following. I served five years in Korea. I fought bastards who were twice as tall and twice as wide as you, and I brought 'em down. Maybe you could get a lucky move in and stab me. Maybe. Probably not, but I guess it's a possibility. Still, I'd take you with me, boy, and I know just where to stick the blade and how to twist it, you understand? You're not getting out of here alive until I tell you it's time to go. You got that?"
I stare at him.
"You got that?"
I nod.
He sighs, before grabbing one end of a long chain and tossing it across toward me.
"Attach that to the chain between your legs," he says, "and close the lock. Don't worry, I've got a key. I'm not risking you running off."
Realizing that I don't have any option other than to obey for now, I crouch down and do as I'm told: the end of the chain is easily looped through the linking chain between my ankles, and I close the lock with a firm snap. I've spent so many days chained up now, I can barely even remember what it's like to be free.
"Now I don't know what you brought here with you," he continues, keeping the rifle pointed at me, "and I don't particularly want to know, but it's time t
o get rid of it. You understand? It ain't staying. I want it gone. I'd shoot it myself, but..." He pauses. "Well, never you mind why I figure this is a better way. I'm sick of people asking dumb questions and expecting me to explain myself, you hear? I won't have it, so what you need to do, and I'm only gonna explain this once, is you need to go out there and slice its fucking head off."
I stare at him for a moment. "What?" I ask eventually. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"That thing," he continues, adjusting his grip on the rifle before raising it and aiming straight at my head. "I swear to God, boy, you're gonna go out there and kill it."
"What is it?" I ask, even though I'm fairly sure it must be one of those creatures.
"You know," he sneers.
I stare at him.
"I don't give a damn what it is, okay?" he continues. "All I care about is that it's gone. I don't like the thought of it lurking out there, like it's hungry."
Turning and looking out the window, I see nothing out there but trees and rain.
"This isn't a debate," the old man continues. "I've got the other end of this chain, so don't think you're gonna just run off. I've also got this rifle trained on your, so again, don't go getting any ideas. Just get out there and do a nice, clean job. Finish that fucking thing, you understand?"
"I don't -"
"Don't bullshit me!" he shouts, stepping closer. "Don't you fucking bullshit me, you little ass-wipe! Get out there and cut its goddamn throat!"
"I don't -"
Before I can finish, he swings the butt of the rifle at me, catching me on the side of the face and sending me slamming into the fridge. I take a moment to steady myself before reaching up and feeling blood on my cheek.