Mira Grant - Parasite

“I didn’t know either,” I said. “Dr. Banks told me he’d be sending my things. He didn’t say that he’d be sending them along with enough food to feed an army.”

“Now, Sal, don’t exaggerate,” said my father. “You have a Labrador. There’s no way we could feed an army on this.” He grabbed a croissant.

My father was US military. He wouldn’t have been eating the food if it wasn’t safe. I laughed a little, some of my tension easing, and reached for a plate.

Dad looked tired. That was the first thing I noticed, and as I noticed it, I realized he’d been looking tired since before the outbreak Joyce and I witnessed in San Bruno. That was when he’d told me he knew about the sleepwalkers. Just how much did he know?

Joyce didn’t look tired—she looked focused, like she was calculating exactly how many calories she was getting from each bite, and how far she could make each of those calories take her, if she really pushed herself. Getting a late start was one thing. Paying for it by skipping meals throughout the day was something else entirely, and spoke to an urgency in whatever she was working on.

I took a bite of waffle, chewed, and said, as casually as I could, “They had to keep my things for decontamination because one of the PAs who usually helps me around the building suddenly freaked out and started attacking people. She seemed to go to sleep first, while she was still standing up. It was like all the lights went out inside her brain, and she wasn’t home anymore.”

Joyce put down her fork.

It was a small gesture, marked mainly by the faint clink of metal against ceramic, but it said worlds. Very little could make my sister stop eating once she got started. I turned my attention to our father.

“They tried to make her stop, but she wouldn’t. So some of the security officers who’d come to take care of the situation began zapping her with these electric batons they carry. They hit her over and over again, until she fell down and didn’t move anymore.” I didn’t tell them she’d said my name as she was falling. Some things I wasn’t ready to think about yet, and that was one of them.

“Sal,…” said my father, and stopped, his throat working like he was trying to say something else. No sound came out.

“So security took everyone who’d been in the cafeteria when all this happened—and I mean everyone, they even took Dr. Banks—to the lab level for examination, so they could figure out whether or not we were infected. That’s where they took my clothes away.”

“They have a test for whether or not someone’s infected?” Joyce half-stood in her excitement, hands braced against the table.

“Joyce Erin Mitchell, sit down ,” said my father, his voice like a whip cracking. Joyce gave him a startled look and sank slowly back into her seat, eyes wide. He turned his focus on me. “Sal, honey, what you have to understand—”

“There’s this one PA, Sherman? He’s always really nice to me. He acts like I’m a guest or a volunteer, not a lab rat who doesn’t have a choice about what they want to do to her. He teaches me new slang. I usually have to look it up to make sure he’s not messing with me, but that’s part of the fun, you know? Well, when they took us all underground to be tested, he failed. He’s infected. And now I’m never going to see him again.” My voice was getting louder. I didn’t do anything to stop it. “And what I have to ask you, Dad, what I have to know, is whether you know anything about this that you’re not telling me. Because it seems like there’s a lot of people not telling people things, just now. And now my friends are dying. I don’t have that many friends. I can’t spare them.”

My father looked at me. I glared back. We stayed like that for almost a minute, no one moving to break the silence. It was like we were all afraid of what would happen when we did.

Finally, he stood. “I have to get to the lab,” he said. “Joyce, are you ready?”

“Wha—um, yeah.” Joyce shoved her chair away from the table, scrambling to her feet. “Have a nice day, Sal. Bye, Mom.” Mom got a hasty kiss on the cheek. I got a wave and an apologetic look as Joyce darted past me to grab her bag. Then she was gone, following Dad toward the garage.

The garage door slammed hard enough to rattle the pictures on the walls. That was the moment Beverly chose to bump her head against my thigh, eyes pleading for a taste of the delicacies she could smell on the table above her. Like all Labradors, she was magnetically drawn to food, and was an incurable beggar. It only worked once in a while, but that was enough for her to keep on trying.

This was one of the times when it was going to work. Lucky dog. “I’m not hungry anymore, and they need me at the shelter,” I said. I stood, pausing only to set my plate on the floor for Beverly to lick clean. Then I turned and walked, tight-shouldered, to my room.

It was that or start screaming. And if I started, I didn’t know when I was going to stop.

Mom knocked on my door twenty minutes later. Her mothering radar was in good form: twenty minutes was exactly the amount of time I’d needed to stop being so mad that I wasn’t fit for human company. I wondered, very briefly, whether Sally would have needed twenty minutes, or whether she’d been one of those people who had ten-minute tantrums. Maybe she’d gone in the other direction, and screamed for forty minutes every time she got upset. I’d never know. Sally was gone, and I was living her increasingly confusing life without her.

“Yeah?” I called.

“I can give you a ride to the shelter if you can be ready to go in five,” Mom called back.

I paused, assessing. I hadn’t showered, but there was a shower at the shelter that we were supposed to use after cleaning out the puppy cages. I could always volunteer for cage-cleaning duty—something no one sane would refuse to let me do if I was offering—and then use that as an excuse to take a shower afterward. Shoveling a little shit would be good for me. I could use the time to think.

“I’ll be ready.”

Mom hesitated before saying, “Sal—”

The rest of the sentence never came. I heard her steps move away from my door after a few minutes had passed, and I turned myself to the essential business of getting out the door.

I was lacing my shoes when I realized my bag was still sealed in plastic wrap on the kitchen table. I swore under my breath, shoving a change of clothes for after my shower under my arm, and left my room. I needed that bag. Not just for the emotional reassurance of having my things with me, although that was important. I didn’t want to go to the shelter without my ID, and it was in my wallet, which was, naturally, in my bag.

Mom was banging around in her office; I could hear her moving papers and shuffling things on her desk, looking for whatever it was she needed to start a successful day of volunteer work. I grabbed the scissors from the kitchen and returned to the task at hand: freeing my possessions from their plastic prison.

Whatever brand of plastic wrap SymboGen used, it was industrial strength, and it had been flash-sealed, not taped down. I had to practically saw through it in order to create a large enough hole for me to get my hand inside. It was almost funny, in a horrible way. The food was easy to access. My so-very-dangerous keys and notebook, on the other hand…

My notebook. The blood drained from my face, and I ripped the rest of the plastic wrap open without even trying to be delicate about it. I’d been carrying my notebook, the one that Dr. Morrison insisted I update daily as part of my “therapeutic healing process.” Putting it into my bag every morning was habit, and since I’d never expected my things to be out of my possession for more than an hour or so, I hadn’t seen any reason to vary my habits just because I was spending the day at SymboGen. But my things had been away from me overnight, giving any prying research rats at SymboGen plenty of time to go rummaging through my innermost thoughts.