Mira Grant - Symbiont

The pain in my head wasn’t getting any better, but time was running out. If Sherman had really removed a piece of my primary body, he’d learn what he wanted to know sooner rather than later. I had to get out of here.

I sat up slowly, fighting the spinning in my head every inch of the way, and reached for the bottle of water. Drinking it made me feel a little bit better: I was still in a lot of pain, but at least my mouth didn’t feel like a used litter box anymore. Still moving with the utmost caution, I slid my feet to the floor and stood. The motion was accompanied by another wave of pain that almost sent me crashing back down onto the bed. I gritted my teeth and held my ground until it passed. I needed to get out of here.

Maybe deciding it was finally time to make my escape when I was still dizzy and weak from nonelective surgery was a bad idea, but it was the only way to avoid more nonelective surgery, and so I was going to go with it. Besides, Sherman wasn’t going to be expecting me to try anything right now. I had trouble remembering that he was the enemy when he wasn’t directly in front of me with a scalpel in his hand and a smirk on his face: we’d spent too much time together as allies, and deep down, I wanted him to still be the man that he’d been then. Maybe that was true in both directions. He wouldn’t have hennaed my hair and cut it nicely rather than hacking it all off if he didn’t harbor at least a little genuine affection for me.

The Sal he’d known for years was pliable and obedient, and had no idea that she could ever be allowed to become anything else. So maybe he still thought of me like that. Maybe I could get myself out of here if I stopped thinking like a good little girl, and started thinking like a chimera.

Joyce used to love going shopping, even when neither of us had any intention of buying anything. She’d haul me through malls and department stores with equal enthusiasm, pointing out sales and commenting snarkily on fashions she didn’t think anyone should ever, under any circumstances, wear outside the house. Thanks to her, I knew quite a lot about how stores like the one that had become my prison were constructed.

I started for the escalators, pausing only long enough to grab fresh jeans and a clean, cable-knit sweater from the Lands’ End display. I could get underwear and a tank top to go with it once I was upstairs in the lingerie section. I tried to keep my movements as natural as possible, and allowed myself to wince every time the incision in my head sent another bolt of pain searing through me, which was often. If Sherman or one of his people was watching me through the security cameras, I needed to put on a good enough show that they wouldn’t send anyone in to check on me.

The escalator was slow enough that I was able to peel my shirt off and throw it back down to the first floor before I reached the second. There were bloodstains on the back of the collar, marking the places where the fabric had brushed against my surgical incision. I shuddered, turning my eyes toward my destination.

Most of the lights on the second floor were off, saving power, since I was the only one in here and usually stayed on the first floor. I didn’t bother looking for the switches as I made my way toward the distant glow of the fitting rooms, which were lit independently of everything else. That same glow allowed me to find a bra, tank top, and panties that would actually fit me. There were no non-high-heel shoes left downstairs—all the good running and hiking shoes had been looted by Sherman’s people before they locked me away in here—so I didn’t bother removing my thick, plastic-soled socks. They’d be better than nothing if what I was planning actually succeeded.

This had been a nice department store, and like all nice department stores, they had been more worried about the privacy of their customers than the possibility of shoplifting. I entered the dressing rooms with my armload of fresh clothing, walking along the row of open, slatted doors until I reached the very end and slipped into the private cubicle. It was located closest to what I guessed would be the store’s outside wall, rather than feeding back into the mall proper. Even more important, this dressing room stall boasted a large, white-painted air grate, used to pump in heat during the winter and cold during the summer. It was quiescent now, the California September providing no opportunities to either warm or chill. That was good. I didn’t want to freeze to death in my effort to escape.

There was a small bench inside the fitting room. I pushed it to the wall under the grate and stood, reaching up to rattle the grill. It didn’t budge, thanks to the screws that were holding it in place. That was a small problem at this stage. I knelt and took my fresh bra off its hanger. This was a nice department store. They used wood and wire hangers.

I smashed the hanger against the floor until it broke. Then I scavenged through the pieces until I found a splinter of the right thickness and flexibility to serve my intended purpose. “If they didn’t want me to learn to improvise, they should’ve kept the shelter better funded,” I muttered, and got to work.

It took less than five minutes to unscrew all but one of the bolts from the grate. It swung drunkenly down, revealing the empty black chasm on the other side. There was a chance that was exactly what it was: a hole, rather than a tunnel. I paused, looking into the dark, and asked myself if this was really the right course of action. It could get me killed.

Even killed was better than captive. I hopped down from the bench long enough to strip and put my new clothes on, taking care to tuck the tank top into my jeans before letting the sweater hang over it. Hopefully, it would be enough padding to keep me from getting seriously cut up on any sharp edges inside the vent.

This was it: this was the moment where I would have to decide whether I wanted to be the girl I’d always been, or whether I was ready to become someone new. Someone who was brave enough to crawl into the dark alone, and see where the risk would take her. Someone who was going to survive.

I was going to see my family again. I was going to get back to them. I was going to see Nathan again.

I was going to survive, and then I was going to find Tansy, and we were going to get through this.

I reached up, grabbing the open edge of the vent, and hoisted myself into the unknown.

October 2027: Tansy

Still here I’m still here I’m still me I’m still here.

It hurts.

It hurts so bad, and I keep on still being me, I keep on still being here, but I’m starting to think that maybe not being me—maybe not being here—would be better, because absence hurts other people. Absence doesn’t hurt you .

The lights were too bright for my eyes. That was happening more and more, now that Dr. Banks had stopped taking things out of me and started putting things inside me instead. Tears were running down my cheeks, even though I wasn’t crying. I’d learned a lot about what crying felt like since he brought me here, since he strapped me down and started taking whatever he wanted out of me. He was running out of pieces. That’s why he’d decided to introduce some new variables.

“Now, this may hurt a little,” he’d cautioned. “But don’t you worry your pretty little head about it. The pain is temporary, but the knowledge we’re going to get in exchange is forever. You’re going to help me transform the world. Isn’t that wonderful?”