Mira Grant - Parasite

He just looked at me for a long moment. Then, barely loud enough for me to hear, he said, “Goodbye, Sally.”

“Bye, Dad,” I said, and turned away, walking to the car where Nathan waited. He opened the door for me. I got in, and watched through the windshield as he walked around to the driver’s side. Then he took his own seat, and together, we drove away into the bloody sunset.

March 23, 2019: Time stamp 04:22.

[The recording quality has improved over the past three years, as has the lab. The equipment is still mismatched, but it is better maintained: the scanners and terminals are newer. A hospital bed dominates the frame. Its occupant is a young woman, head shaved, eyes closed. She does not move. A blonde woman in a wheelchair is positioned next to the bed.]

DR.CALE: Doctor Shanti Cale, third status report of subject eight, iteration two. The host remains unresponsive, but blood tests present hopeful signs: the D. symbogenesis markers had increased up until two days ago, when they began a sharp and sudden decline. Today’s tests showed no signs of infection. She may be coming out of the woods. We have discontinued twilight sedation, and are now waiting for the subject to awaken.

[She pauses, and smiles brightly into the camera.]

DR.CALE: I think I’m going to call her “Tansy.”

[The woman on the bed opens her eyes and groans. There is a sudden shakiness to the scene, as if whoever was holding the camera put it abruptly down. Dr. Cale turns, waving to someone out of frame.]

[The recording stops.]

[End report.]

I always knew the truth would come out eventually; truth has a tendency to do that, especially when all of the parties involved want it to stay hidden. I knew the truth would come out on the day I ingested the samples of the first-generation D. symbogenesis to keep them from being destroyed; I knew it would come out when I lost all feeling in my lower body; I knew it would come out when the national news first began reporting incidents that had clearly been caused by the implants compromising their human hosts. Steven could only conceal the truth for so long.

Mostly, I have lived my life for this past decade and a half simply hoping that I would still be alive when the judgment day arrived. After all, what’s the point of helping to create an apocalypse if you’re not going to be around to see it?

The question of legal liability was raised early and often during the advent of the SymboGen Intestinal Bodyguard™. After all, most medical procedures and treatments carried with them the risk of lawsuits in the case of adverse reactions. Why should a biological organism used for medical purposes be any different?

SymboGen’s response to this question was a second flurry of advertisements, this time virtually begging anyone who might have had an adverse reaction to the Intestinal Bodyguard™to come forward and let them make it right. Finding someone who had reacted poorly to the SymboGen implant became a modern-day quest for Bigfoot—only catch your quarry and all your troubles would be solved by an endless flood of reparations. There were reports, but they were all proven to be false, and gradually, the ad campaign was phased out, leaving the world sold not once, but twice, on the idea that a worm was the solution to all their problems.

The scrambler in Don’t Go Out Alone might have been good enough to block SymboGen’s bugs, but neither Nathan nor I wanted to test it against whatever listening devices USAMRIID had installed on their own property. We stayed silent until we were off Treasure Island and back inside the comforting Faraday cage of the Bay Bridge, whose metal infrastructure would prevent any signals from getting through, whether we wanted them to or not. Even if USAMRIID had planted bugs on my clothes or bag, we should be okay there.

Once we were safely surrounded by the steel frame of the bridge, Nathan glanced my way, lips thin with tension, and asked, “Are you all right? I mean, really all right?”

“Yes,” I said. “No. Maybe. I don’t know anymore.” I pulled Don’t Go Out Alone out of my bag and looked down at it, running my fingers over the letters of the title as I explained what had happened, starting when he dropped me off at my house. Nathan didn’t say anything as I spoke, and I didn’t look up, both of us preferring to let this seem less like a real thing that had really happened and more like a story out of a book.

Only this story didn’t have a happy ending, at least not so far, and I wasn’t willing to bet there was one waiting up ahead of us.

I had just reached the point where I woke up in the dark when Nathan finally spoke up, asking, “Do you know what they injected you with?”

“No,” I said. “Some type of sedative. I passed out almost as soon as I felt the needle.”

Nathan punched the steering wheel. I jerked my head up and stared at him, eyes wide and heart hammering in my chest. The car hadn’t so much as swerved, but that didn’t matter.

For his part, Nathan looked instantly apologetic, although not apologetic enough to wipe away the fury in his eyes. He raised his hand like he was going to punch the steering wheel again, but restrained himself. Instead, he pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose, anchoring them more firmly against his face, and said, “This isn’t how I should ask you—I was planning something a little more romantic, or at least a little less awkward—but I want you to challenge your parents’ custodianship and move in with me. Please. I have a list of reasons you should consider it, and I know you don’t make much at the shelter, so I’m not asking you to help with the rent. I can afford the rent on my own. What I can’t afford is the lack of sleep that comes when I can’t reach you on the phone, or the urge to go back to USAMRIID and get myself arrested for assaulting a member of the United States military.”

“Nathan—”

“I’m not just asking because of this, although it’s definitely causing me to skip the original ‘dinner, a movie, and a casual question’ plan. But Sal, they sedated you with something they didn’t even bother to identify , much less ask you about. Who knows what they used?”

His tone—angry and terrified at the same time—made my shoulders tense. I bit my lip before asking, “Well, if they used it, doesn’t that mean it’s safe?”

“No sedative that knocks you out that quickly is strictly ‘safe.’ The best scenario I can come up with has them hitting you with midazolam along with whatever it is they used to knock you out. That way, your perception of how long it took you to go under would be skewed, and I wouldn’t be trying to figure out what they could have used to knock you out instantly.”

“Oh,” I said, in a small voice. “I don’t think my father would hurt me.”

“He wasn’t the one holding the syringe, was he?”

“No,” I admitted. “But he was the one who called for it.”