Jeff Jacobson - Growth

Bob Jr. suddenly found that his own hands were the most interesting thing he’d ever seen. He was sitting next to Slade, and did not want Dr. Deemer looking their way. Bob Jr. had been around enough firearms in his life to know when he was in the line of fire.

“I am saying our experiments have produced an organism far more… voracious than planned, and the results have been catastrophic.” Dr. Deemer coughed, hacked up a wad of dark phlegm, and spit it on the table. Everybody avoided looking at the slimy gob of mucus.

Dr. Deemer gave a soft chuckle or sob, Bob Jr. wasn’t sure which. He shook his head, as if dislodging water in his ears.

“You say the results have been catastrophic. Elaborate.” Slade said.

Dr. Deemer took another drink from his bottle. “There has been a Level Five Containment Breach.”

Bob Jr. heard Slade clack his teeth together. He had no idea what a Level Five Containment Breach was. He figured it must be serious, the way some of the older executives were reacting. Probably bad news for the corporation.

Bob Jr. put on a concerned expression, mostly to be a part of the team. It didn’t matter a whole hell of a lot to him one way or another; the only thing that worried him was that the party might be affected.

“For those of you who have no idea what I am talking about,” Dr. Deemer’s gaze swept across the table, “please believe me when I say to you that there is something altogether unnatural on this island. Something that does not belong anywhere on earth.” Dr. Deemer started to cough, the way a cat hacks up a hairball.

He cleared his throat enough to breathe. “The results of our work were not foreseen. Certain safety measures… did not work. It appears that the fungal defense has been successful in jumping from species to species. Last night, we discovered that this… new species of fungus is not only able to spread between species as vastly different as insects and mammals, but that it can also latch on to the somatic nervous system, thereby controlling individual muscle groups within an organism.” He started retching again, until he could barely keep his feet; he doubled over, dry heaving spatters of wet air, until the rasping sounds grew more liquid and he suddenly vomited half-digested blood all over the podium.

“I think this has gone on long enough,” Slade said, snapping the pocketknife blade shut with one hand as if that would provide the necessary authority to back up his statement.

A few of the executives stood up and started moving to the front of the table, getting closer to the doors.

Dr. Deemer spit clots of blood onto his shoes and whipped his gaze back up to the long scythe of a table. His skin glowed a ghastly white in the soft tropical light from the windows. “Sit down.”

Everybody slowed down until they were almost standing still, but none went back to their chairs.

“I said sit down .” He pulled the trigger six times, hitting two executives. One caught a bullet in the head, another in the elbow. The rest of the standing men dropped to the floor while everybody still at the table froze. “Listen to me very carefully. This may be difficult for you to comprehend, at least at first. However, you deserve to know the truth. Every single one of you have been infected since the moment you landed on this island and took your first breath.”

Something that looked like slick black blood oozed from the corner of his mouth. He wiped at it absentmindedly, the way a toddler will wipe away drool. “Even now, you may be feeling a little warm, a little dry mouth, clogged nose, a little tickle in the back of your throat, like nothing more than a summer cold.” He gave a slow, sad smile. “I am truly sorry. I wish…” He shook his head and looked at the bottle in surprise, as if he’d never seen it before. He took another long drink. “You do not understand.” He gave a horrible gagging gasp, as a toe-curling dry heave wrenched its way through his torso. “You… We are all dead.” He hacked again, and another torrent of whiskey and thick blood splattered across the sticky podium.

“You all just don’t know it yet.” He spoke with the conviction of a borderline alcoholic pleading with his maker for mercy as his body expelled the poison. “I’m so sorry,” he gasped. “I am, truly.”

His breathing increased, until it caught for a second, stuttered, gaining volume as it spiraled around the vocal cords, and the pitch grew higher and higher, till he sounded like a little girl having an asthma attack. His arms whipped at the air in grabbing motions.

None of the executives moved.

Dr. Deemer pulled off his glasses with a shaking hand. He dropped them and shivered. Straightened. His hands twisted inward and his arms folded into his chest as if he were trying to imitate the corpse of the funky chicken. Something marched up his spine, cranking it backward, vertebrae by vertebrae. The whine built to a shriek as the muscles ripped his shoulders and head back, arching his back until his entire body strained against itself in a crude mockery of the curved table.

The howl drained his lungs of oxygen and he did not take another breath. His body swayed for a moment, but he did not fall. He opened his eyes far too wide and a blackened, thick tongue emerged from between his cracked lips. He struggled to breathe through his nose.

Everyone heard a muffled crack that sounded like stepping on a rotten board in a carpeted staircase.

Dr. Deemer trembled. He pivoted slowly, as if he wanted to admire the view, then jerked away from the windows as if repelled by the light. The table recoiled. Blood flowed through the scientist’s wispy gray hair at the back of his head. Bob Jr. thought he could see the jagged edges of broken, bare skull.

His face was now nearly unrecognizable, as pressure built inside, driving the tongue out even farther. His eyes bulged until they all could hear two soft pops in quick succession as his eyes erupted like two small land mines, vaporizing the muscles and nerves and jelly, spraying a fine mist into the air. Whatever life was left in his body vanished, and it collapsed.

A gray cloud floated out of the empty, moist eye sockets.

Fred Lockwood, head of the International Relations division, was the first one to break for the doors. Three more immediately followed. The rest of the executives looked at each other with wide, calculating eyes. The slow trickle to the door became a flood. Even the exec with the shattered elbow managed to run.

Bob Jr.’s first instinct was to follow the rest of the herd, but Slade grabbed his arm. “You help me out of this building, I’ll get you off this island. Please. Help me.”

Bob Jr. looked down at the sixty-year-old man, a skeleton trembling with a mixture of anger and anxiety. Slade might have been frail, but he was way, way up the corporate totem pole. He could be a hell of an asset to Bob Jr.’s career. And he might know about a back door somewhere. “Okay. Where?”

“Wait. Just wait. Let these fools run,” Slade said. “They will undoubtedly attempt to reach the jet. If there truly is a Level Five Containment Breach on this island, then measures have already been taken. Nothing will be permitted to leave. Even if they manage to take off, it will be shot out of the sky.”

Slade caught Bob Jr.’s look of astonishment. “You do realize, don’t you, that a containment breach of this magnitude demands an armed response? There is a scorched-earth policy in motion.”

Slade could tell that Bob Jr. still hadn’t gotten with the program. He shook his head. “I can’t believe your father talked Henry into hiring you.” His clawed hand snatched at Bob Jr.’s tie and yanked him closer. “This company will leave nothing to chance. They have the men and the means to come here and burn everything. This company will protect itself. They will burn everything. This island will cease to exist.” Spittle landed on Bob Jr.’s cheek.