Dead Meat PT. 6: Infection

CONTENT WARNINGS: gore & body horror, bugs, parasites, animal death, graphic descriptions of a dead animal being gutted, graphic descriptions of self harm, eye trauma, autosexuality (attraction to oneself), degloving, exploding heads, bodily control, being swallowed/eaten, claustrophobia, impalement, starvation (mentioned), a non-consensual “kiss”/literal eating face, immolation, internal decapitation

---

When they touched down in Tenor Valley, Betsy saw the department for the first time. Rather, the building it resided in: compact as it was, it contained an impressive six floors of offices and facilities above ground, with two more underground. She squinted in the light of the radio tower bearing the company's logo.

She’d been loaded onto the same helicopter as her mother, and she’d only reunite with the Ankhanum on the roof of Hassen Communications. She looked to Vermeil and Clive pleadingly, and went to speak—

"Come on, move it already!" Eugene shouted.

And she was urged, along with her mother, down the stairs to Eleanor's office.

Vermeil and Clive were taken to a makeshift prison in the bowels of the building. It was stacked floor to ceiling with those kennels, filled with infected organisms of various sizes, shapes and species. The room was silent, and reeked of decay; the padded cell before them seemed like an open throat.

"...And these are our newest installments," one of the employees, a fresh-faced youth, said with far too much pride. "Top-of-the-line containment chambers! You'll find 'em cozier than the kennels, at least."

"There's nothing cozy about a prison cell," Clive said flatly.

The young woman’s confidence faltered, and she didn't say anything more. Vermeil smiled chummily at the man behind him; gruff-looking, in his fifties.

"You don't have to do this, you know," Vermeil said.

The man's eye twitched, but he said nothing.

"You must be better than this!" Vermeil continued. "Everyone has some good in them, don't they?”

"Would you shut up already?!" the man groaned.

He thrust a hand against Vermeil's back, forcing him to stumble. Vermeil caught himself, and wheeled about.

"Bold, aren't you, stupid one?!" Vermeil asked, voice curdling with anger.

He smashed his forehead into the man's hard enough to send him backwards. The employees fell to the floor like dominoes. Vermeil closed in on them with bared teeth.

"Who do you think you are?! Trying to tell ME what to do?!" he roared. "You're all but scum on my HEEL!"

He drove said heel into the man's stomach, eliciting a scream. The employee curled up, fetal-esque, holding his rapidly bruising torso. Vermeil flexed. A peeling was followed by the cuffs, and the skin of Vermeil's hands, falling wetly to the floor. He rolled his shoulders, holding up bare, growing claws.

One of the employees jabbered, "Stop! I-if you don't stop, uh, uh— Eleanor'll kill that woman you showed up with!"

The rest nodded fearfully. Vermeil indeed stopped, his hands twitching restlessly. Clive only watched on in silence.

Dutifully, the Ankhanum entered the cell.

The door slammed shut behind, sealing them in. Within moments, Vermeil could see his breath.

"F-freezing in here," he said with a shiver. "This one has to hand it to Her. Making us fall asleep is not a bad idea."

Clive scoffed. “How soft you’ve grown. I refuse to hand Her anything. We need to get back to Betsy and Miss Fran, quickly."

"Oh? Are you concerned about them?" Vermeil asked teasingly.

Clive sighed.

"I am," he admitted. "Now help me look for a way out of here.”

They explored every inch of the cell. Anything they touched to its surfaces, whether feet, or palms, or cheeks, thrummed.

"You feel that too?" Vermeil asked.

"Yes. Some kind of vibration," Clive replied.

"Feels funny," Vermeil said, rubbing his tingling, skinless fingertips.

He pressed his hands around the padding of the walls. Here, his fingers grew even colder.

"Ah-ha. Over here!" he said.

They ripped into the padding, revealing a sturdy, raised tile. It took some effort, but they tore it off. Behind it, a vent just large enough to get a fist into.

"'Top of the line', my ass," Clive said. "Even that kennel had us better contained.”

Vermeil smiled strangely then, wiggling his brows.

“This one has an idea,” he said.

“Hopefully not as stupid as your ‘hand-spiders’,” Clive said.

"Not so! It will be easier to find Betsy if we are…together," Vermeil said. He extended a hand to his other half. “If you know what this one means...”

Clive squinted. "What's this all of a sudden?"

"I’d hardly call not biting me in weeks ‘sudden’.”

"Want me to change that?"

Vermeil cackled good-naturedly.

"Of course not! It’s nice that we aren’t fighting all the time. Do you not agree?" Vermeil asked, getting closer still to the other.

Clive resigned himself to Vermeil’s closeness, though his nails dug into his shoulders warningly.

"It’s a better expenditure of my precious time and energy to give in to your spontaneity and idiot sentimentality than resist it," Clive replied.

"Hardly fair to say when it is your spontaneity and idiot sentimentality, too," Vermeil said. He held out his hands. "Enough talk. We do this together!"

"Fine," Clive said. "On one condition: we do things our way. I tire of Betsy’s ‘non-violent’ approach."

"Couldn’t have thought of a better idea myself!" Vermeil said.

Clive’s scowl finally broke into a deranged grin. Vermeil grabbed Clive’s wrists, pulling him him close. Clive chuckled when Vermeil’s hips ground into his.

"So desperate. How pathetic," Clive cooed. "Garments off. Now."

Teeth and nails shredded through fabric. Features they’d become acquainted with in recent months melted away, skin thinning, stretching, hair growing wild and free and dark as they writhed against each other.

As bloodlessly as they’d separated, they reunited.

Ankhanum pulled up the skin of his ankles, and he rotated his head, cracking his back and neck as he pushed out excess air.

"Oh, yes. Better," he crooned. "Much better."

Ankhanum hooked powerful claws into the wiring over the vent, and tore it open. Little by little, he wormed his way inside, the metal icy hot across his flesh. A cackle bubbled from their distorting flesh as they pushed their way through the network of vents.

---

The double doors Eleanor Hassen lay behind would be an underwhelming sight in any other circumstance — but today, they were an omen.

Betsy's eyes darted about. She was flanked on all sides by the survivors of Camp 12. Even if she could overpower them, Fran shuffled after them; insurance, against rebellion.

The secretary straightened in her seat at their approach. Her jaw drooped in surprise that quickly grew into concern between the armed squadron, and the elderly woman clad only in patterned pajamas and slippers that followed.

"Can I help you?" the secretary asked.

"I'm here for my appointment with Eleanor Hassen," Betsy said through grit teeth.

Beyond those ominous doors was a crisply dressed older woman with platinum blonde hair and a dignified air. The office itself was clinical in its neatness, though Betsy noted a fine layer of dust on everything but the oaken desk and accompanying chair. A massive window spanning the rear wall looked out onto that obnoxiously bright radio tower.

Eleanor jabbed at her phone; the secretary's voice nervously bubbled from the speaker, "Yes, ma'am?"

"My last meeting of the day will be commencing now," Eleanor Hassen said. "You're dismissed, Sharon."

With that, she ended the call, and finally met Betsy's gaze. The otherwise pristine presentation was marred by icy blue eyes that stared unblinkingly at her behind those expensive-looking glasses. Eleanor smiled just as coldly.

"Lovely to meet you in the flesh, Ms. Winters," she said.

Betsy didn't reply.

"Not much of a talker, are you?" Eleanor asked.

"I'm more interested in you talking," Betsy replied curtly.

Eleanor chuckled. "In that case, where should I begin?"

"Why you're doing all this would be a good place to start," Betsy said.

"I want to kill off the Red Ones," Eleanor said plainly. "I'm sure you're aware they pose a real and present danger to me, what with the entities spilling their metaphorical and literal guts out to you about our feud."

Betsy squinted. "If it's such a threat to you, why are you keeping a bunch of people infected with the Rot around?"

"It's about control, dear. I'm keeping them close until I can remove them from this world en masse," Eleanor said. "Unlike the others, I'm not one to irresponsibly imbue human beings with my power to make that happen any quicker. I prefer to play the long game."

"'Others'? There's more like you out there?"

"Yes, dear. Now. Any more questions before we get down to business?"

Betsy jut out her chin.

"Yeah. What does any of that shit have to do with me and my family?" she asked.

Eleanor laughed so airily it made Betsy's blood boil.

"It has everything to do with you, dear," Eleanor said. "The entities are fond of you, and using a loved one for leverage is a fantastic motivator.”

"So I've gathered," Betsy said. "From what you fucking did to my MOTHER."

Betsy stepped forward. Eugene eased between her and the desk. Betsy jerked right; he followed the motion. She sprang left, nearly vaulting over the desk. He recovered enough to grapple with her, only to be flipped around. His chin struck the desk, hard. Betsy entangled her fist in his hair – up came his head, down his face went onto Eleanor's desk. The others grabbed Betsy from behind, hauling her backwards.

Fran let out a pained gasp.

"What I said about popping your mother's head like a grape still stands, Ms. Winters," Eleanor said in a low voice.

The tension left Betsy all at once, and she sagged in their arms. Eugene steadied himself. That thick blood gushed from his nose.

Guilt soured Betsy’s stomach.

This was her fault.

"You got your hands on your ‘entities’, so what do you want with me? 'Cause I'm starting to get the feeling I'm not just here for 'leverage' if everything's going according to plan,” Betsy said.

"Correct," Eleanor replied, and stood at her desk. "I have something very special planned for you, Ms. Winters."

The survivors exchanged anxious glances with one another, glances that did not go unnoticed by Betsy. Sweat bloomed on her forehead as Eleanor's eyes twitched. One of those bugs crawled across them, buzzing away. Betsy inhaled sharply.

BAM.

The office doors burst open then, startling everyone with a pulse; a hunched, imposing figure with dark hair sauntered in. When he straightened out, Betsy saw a familiar face.

"Norman?!" she exclaimed.

"Hi, Betsy," he said.

"What a surprise!" Eleanor said with no surprise at all. "So good of you to return, Norman."

Norman smiled politely. And charged forward. When the survivors moved into his path, he shrugged his way through them, slicing them with the threatening edges jutting from his limbs. Up came the lighter and hairspray — her own hairspray, Betsy noted.

A hiss, and Eleanor Hassen went up in flames; flames that quickly grew large and furious.

Norman’s eyes widened and he looked about in a panic. On the wall: a fire extinguisher. Before long, Eleanor’s once burning effigy fell to the floor in a foamy heap.

"Okay," Norman said. "I admit I didn't expect her to go up that fast. That could've been bad."

Betsy pulled free of the stunned survivors' grasp, running to his side.

"How did you—" she started.

"Get here? Same way you did," he said with a laugh. "I brought along some company, too."

A haughty grunt from the doorway heralded Sanderson's entrance. His blood-speckled skin and healing wounds quickly made Betsy uneasy.

"What happened to you?" she asked. Then, fearfully, "Annie. What happened to Annie?!”

"She's safe," Norman gently offered. "My husband's looking after her."

Betsy released a shaking, though relieved breath. She looked past Sanderson: Mina Barnes, gloomy-faced as ever, closing the doors behind them. The deep, purple-black depression along her sternum made Betsy’s hackles rise. They prickled more so on realizing she’d not seen Mina among them on the way here.

Fran let out a low moan. She swayed precariously, before falling against the desk. Betsy darted over.

"Fuck, fuck, sorry, mom!" Betsy said.

Carefully, she pushed Fran’s bonnet back just enough to look into her ears. That sickly opalescence wriggled within them. Betsy searched Eleanor's desk blindly, and came away with a dip pen with a favorably sharp edge.

"It hurts," Fran whispered.

"I know, I’m sorry, j-just hold still," Betsy said.

"O-okay. Okay, baby."

Betsy cupped her mother's cheek, positioning the pen above her ear. Her hands shook until its tip wavered. Betsy took a breath. She just had to do it. Had to do it quick, just like with Norman—

She stabbed at the mass in her mother's ear. Fran wailed. Betsy ripped the pen out. Though an unidentifiable fluid coated it, there was no bug.

"I-I didn't get it," Betsy said. "I'm sorry, mom, I'm sorry—"

"Beth! Beth, it's okay," Fran said weakly.

Her cool, trembling hands met Betsy's face. The sensation grounded her, and Betsy met her mother's eyes. Fran mustered a smile.

"It's okay, baby. I'm—"

A meaty splat overwhelmed Betsy's senses. She closed her eyes against the warmth raining over her, her mouth agape in a silent gasp. Betsy slowly sank to her knees, lowering her mother to the floor. She turned her head away. She wouldn’t look. She couldn’t. Sanderson and Norman's horrified expressions greet her the moment she opened her eyes again.

"I-I don't know what happened," she croaked. "I must've done it wrong this time—"

Eleanor's voice boomed throughout the room: "THAT WASN'T GOING TO WORK A SECOND TIME. YOUR MOTHER ISN'T LIKE NORMAN."

All eyes fell on Eleanor's charred corpse. Eleanor cackled wildly, though her mouth didn’t move.

“WHY THE SURPRISE? YOU DIDN’T REALLY THINK YOU’D BE RID OF ME THAT EASILY, DID YOU?!” she asked.

The survivors’ bodies spasmed, locking up in pain.

“GRAB THEM. NOW,” Eleanor commanded.

Eugene, Enrico and Lucas all lumped onto Norman. He was dragged to the floor with a grunt.

“Careful now, careful!” Eugene said. “This asshole’s playbook is all bone spurs – he’ll stab the shit out of you if he gets the chance.”

Enrico and Lucas nodded. Though Norman’s sharpened bones needled their palms and arms, they stayed put, shifting their weight strategically across his body.

Toby, Vera and Steena lunged for Sanderson. His form changed; he was a cat again, weaving between legs and grabbing hands until he dove behind Betsy. A man once more, he took hold of her shoulders.

“Betsy, we need to get the HELL out of here! Right now! Immediately!” he hissed.

She didn’t answer. He shook her harder. Again, no answer; she clung to her mother’s body with a faraway look in her eyes.

“...Betsy? Betsy?!” Sanderson called.

Mina approached the duo. She let out a smug little snort.

“Both of you in one place. This really couldn’t have worked out any better for me,” she said.

Sanderson held up his hands.

“N-now, now, Dr. Barnes. Can’t we talk this out?!” he asked.

She wouldn’t answer him, either – chatting was officially off the table when she lashed out. Sanderson pulled himself and Betsy out of the way, nearly tipping her over, mother and all. Mina’s nails raked the wood of the desk, leaving deep gouges.

_Thump.

Mina’s ears perked. She stilled, eyes darting about, searching.

Thump.

Louder now. Closer. One-by-one, the survivors followed the sound.

THUMP.

All eyes settled on a grate in the far wall.

"...I'll check it out," Vera said, and broke off from the group.

Cautious, she squinted into the dark beyond the grate.

It exploded outward. A muscular claw grabbed her head. Her neck snapped at an unnatural angle as she was pulled inside. Muscle, fat and skin spilled from the wall and began to take shape. The top of Vera's head, dirty blonde hair and all, stuck out of a bicep before melting away into its form.

Ankhanum less got to his feet as much as his body moved in a wave, rearranging him upright. Blood red antlers burst from his skull and scraped the ceiling. When his eyes landed on Betsy, curled over Fran’s body, he frowned. He padded toward her silently, parting the crowd with ease.

He waved a hand in front of her face.

“Betsy,” he said in a light, rasping voice.

She looked up at him, and blinked rapidly, coming back to herself.

"Vermeil?" she asked. “How’d you get up here…?”

His strange face creased warmly.

"Close. It is both of us, together," he replied. “We followed your scent through the vents.”

"HOW TOUCHING," Eleanor's voice jeered.

Ankhanum looked about with a brow quirked. Her voice waft across the room, its source indeterminable. His nostrils flared: the smell of blood and something burnt hung in the air. He peered around the desk at the blackened remains of Eleanor Hassen.

"You all haven't been wasting your breath on this scarecrow, have you?" he asked. "It's only a decoy."

"A decoy?!" Norman echoed from the floor with increasing exasperation.

"It is how it sounds: it is not her true body," Ankhanum elaborated.

"You!" came an impassioned cry from behind.

Eugene brought a chair down on Ankhanum's back with all his strength. It forced the mass of his torso forward. The rest of him was unmoved, neither budging nor bruising. Ankhanum looked over his shoulder, irritation evident on his face. Eugene slowly lowered the chair to the floor.

"This one is busy," Ankhanum said. "But if you are so eager to be dealt with—"

Climbing back to his feet, Enrico brought out a revolver.

BAM!

The round passed through Ankhanum's back, leaving a crater in his chest. A lump of meat vaguely shaped like a heart hit the floor with a splat, making Betsy gasp. Ankhanum shuddered, but refused to fall. His mass shifted, filling the tunnel it’d left.

"Bullets again," Ankhanum stated with growing agitation. "This one thought you'd have learned from that night."

Ankhanum raised his hands – a simple gesture to almost anyone else.

"N-no! You won't control me this time!" Enrico blubbered.

In a panic, he lunged for Betsy. He shoved Sanderson aside, and wrapped an arm around Betsy's head, jamming the gun into her temple. She strained against his hold; still, she refused to let go of Fran.

"She's dead if you don't stand down!" Enrico said.

Ankhanum visibly stiffened. The muscles tightened across his body, his posture straightening. Then, he grimaced; his lips twitched between a snarl and a smile, rendering it impossible to decipher the emotion he wanted to convey.

"Release her, or you’re dead," he growled.

"How about we see who's faster?!" Enrico cried.

The hammer cocked.

Thorny red tendrils shot from the beds of Ankhanum's nails. They pierced Enrico’s flesh in a flash, snaking under his skin. He shrieked, releasing both Betsy and revolver.

Lucas bolted to his feet, throwing himself against Ankhanum.

“Let him GO!” he hollered.

His hands tore the thin skin of Ankhanum’s face, revealing layers of muscle beneath. Lucas’ fingertips disintegrated into them. He let out a muffled scream as Ankhanum’s mouth met his. They stuck fast, fleshy strands linking them whenever either attempted to pull away.

It wouldn’t matter how hard either man thrashed; they’d be merged into Ankhanum.

More tendrils tore out of Ankhanum’s skin. Betsy’s eyes widened. She hugged her mother’s body closer, away from the probing tendrils. Eugene grabbed Mina, pulling her just out of reach of the fate Toby and Steena would meet; they were pierced, and rooted to the spot. Their eyes darted about wildly before they, too, were dragged into Ankhanum’s mass.

Eugene and Mina’s backs hit the office doors. Ankhanum chuckled darkly, extending snaking fingers to them—

“Ankhanum! STOP!” Betsy cried.

Stop he did, turning on his heel to face her.

Eugene clamped a hand around Mina’s mouth, muffling her shriek as he pulled her out of the office.

---

Mina screamed against his hand.

“Dr. Barnes! Dr. Barnes, stop, it’s me! It’s Eugene!”

Mina wrested free of his grasp. She recoiled against the office doors, holding herself tightly.

"I KNOW that! Don't you ever touch me like that again!" she hissed.

"Sorry, sorry," Eugene practically sobbed. "Fuck, fuck, fuck! Oh, God, I-I have to do something!"

He clasped his hands to his head. His eyes landed on the desk. The secretary? Gone. Phone! Call for help! Call who for help, exactly?! Who was equipped to handle a ten foot tall abomination in a skin suit?!

Eugene's eyes drifted to the stairwell, to the ceiling—

And his hands abruptly came away from his head. Eugene looked to Mina with a strange smile.

"I know what to do! I'm gonna save us. I'm gonna save us all!" he exclaimed.

Mina watched him run for the stairwell with growing bewilderment. A familiar pinch of pain between her ears made her gasp.

"What is he talking about?" Eleanor asked. "What is that idiot doing?!"

---

“That’s enough,” Betsy said.

Ankhanum regarded her coolly, and straightened to his full height, flexing bulking muscles. The extra mass put him several heads taller than before, regal red antlers breaking through the ceiling tiles. Betsy averted her eyes from the contorted faces shifting across his form.

“Why’d you do that?” she asked quietly.

“Be serious,” he said. “They were a threat—”

“They weren’t a threat to you,” she cut in. “They were only doing that because she was making them!”

She locked eyes with him: Ankhanum's snarl of anger gave way to a smile that was almost condescendingly gentle.

"Betsy," he about crooned. "They were a threat to you and your comrades, regardless of their circumstantial innocence."

"That what you would've said, too, if I'd let you tear Norman apart back in Iron Falls?" she asked.

"I would have, yes! It is your safety I’m concerned with," Ankhanum said. Then, in Clive’s voice, he asked, “"Do you understand what I meant now?! When I said it was foolish for you to remain involved with us?!”

“SHUT IT!” she cried.

Betsy clenched her fists, as well as her jaw.

“My mother just died. Don’t start this shit with me,” she said. “Whatever we have to do from here, I don’t want you hurting anyone else unnecessarily. I-I—” She sniffed in, hard. “I already lost my mom. I don’t want any more bloodshed.”

Ankhanum surveyed the office. Every body in this room bled. Sanderson, healing, and awestruck. Norman remained low to the ground, his bloodshot eyes darkening with distrust. And Betsy, still bent protectively over her mother's body, equal parts terrified and betrayed.

At last, Ankhanum bowed his head to her.

"As you wish, Betsy," he said.

Betsy gave Fran a squeeze, and her hands slid off her mother's shoulders for the last time as she got to her feet. The dip pen slipped from her grasp; its bloodied tip caught her eye, and her stomach turned. Ankhanum watched on somberly.

"If I’d gotten here sooner, maybe more could have been done for Miss Fran,” he said.

Tears sprang to Betsy’s eyes. She rubbed them away.

"Bit late for that," she said. “Can’t take back that you didn’t make it any more than I can take back that I was gonna get you outta that cage or die trying."

"And you nearly did the latter," he said.

She laughed humorlessly. "Every experience with you seems to be near-death for me."

She drew closer to him; her nose didn't wrinkle at the smell of him anymore.

"You said you could make me like you," she said, gripping his arms.

He hummed questioningly, leaning nearer.

“W-well. Do it. Make me home,” she said. “So we can finish this, together.”

Surprise crossed Ankhanum's face, before he smiled strangely. He loomed over her. She inhaled sharply, squeezing her eyes shut. His breath was hot on her face. He took her hands into his. Her pulse raced beneath his fingertips. He squeezed her palms with his thumbs, and lowered them. Betsy opened her eyes. His lips had curled into a bittersweet smile.

"This one knows you do not mean that," he said. "Do not let grief lead you to a place you never wished to go."

She gaped at him in disbelief. Then, she sniffed in hard.

"Y-yeah. You're right," she said.

"Er, I hate to interrupt—" Sanderson started.

Ankhanum growled, turning his red-hot glare onto the cowering man. Sanderson dabbed his wrist against his forehead, freshly damp with sweat.

"We have more immediate concerns at hand," he said meekly. "Namely, if this Eleanor is a decoy, how on Earth are we meant to find the 'real' Eleanor?"

---

Eugene burst onto the roof.

The pilot that'd escorted Norman and his entourage barely had time to look up before he was thrown from the chopper. Eugene slid into the seat in his place, and fumbled with the controls with such inexperience it was a miracle when he managed to take off.

The pilot watched in horror as the aircraft dipped off the roof, and rose again, far too close for comfort.

"Hey! Stop! You don't know what you're doing!" the pilot hollered.

He jumped back when a spark arced through the air. The blades had scraped the building. When the chopper drew back once more, the pilot realized Eugene knew exactly what he was doing.

"Oh, fuck this!" the pilot wheezed, and bolted down the stairs without so much as a glance behind.

---

"The real ‘Eleanor’ may be beneath this facility — these ones felt strange vibrations in the lower levels," Ankhanum said. He looked to Norman expectantly. "You are more familiar with the layout of this place." With a hint of amusement, he added, "Any idea where she'd hide a body the size of this building?"

Norman tore his eyes from the ghostly imprints of faces floating across Ankhanum's skin, eased himself back onto his feet, and nodded.

"On the second floor of the department, there's a door at the end of the hall with no window. It's the only door in the department that doesn't have one, and I've never been able to get in there," he said.

Ankhanum grinned cheekily. "Oh, so you've tried to get in there before."

Norman grinned back, almost sheepishly.

"Obviously," he said. "Unfortunately, it's locked up tight, and I never got my hands on the key."

"A key," Sanderson mumbled. "If that door does lead to the real Eleanor, where would she keep something that important?"

Betsy brought her fist into her palm affirmatively.

"She said earlier she prefers keeping her enemies close. If that's a pattern," she said, and looked to the corpse behind the desk. "Then I'd bet that key's close, too."

Ankhanum’s lips peeled back in a grisly smile. He stepped over the desk and sunk his claws into Eleanor's cooked flesh. Rather than the anticipated gore, her innards were dried and full of holes in which those insects still buzzed. She'd become a hive to the things.

A cloud of them flooded Ankhanum's face. He bat them away with as much annoyance he'd do so any old fly, an unfortunate few meeting their end between his teeth. Sanderson yelped, smashing a few bugs against the desk.

Eventually, they stopped coming, and Ankhanum sifted through Eleanor undisturbed until he reached her stomach — rather, where it should've been. All that remained was a shining pendant, wrapped tightly in crusty sinew. He pulled. Something snapped within her, and he held up what was unmistakably a key, its sharp, precise cuts and tip glinting under the florescent lights.

When Ankhanum brought it to her, Betsy turned it over in her hands with a grimace.

"Looks just like the key to the kennel," she mumbled.

Ankhanum smirked. "Ha. It doesn't, doesn't it?"

"Yeah. It's makin' my arm hurt all over again."

Ankhanum chuckled good-naturedly.

"I bet. Now, come," he said. "We go below!"

Thunk. Thunk. Thunk.

A chopping sound.

Betsy tensed.

THUNK. THUNK. THUNK.

Ankhanum's head jerked toward the window. Outside, a helicopter hung close enough to nearly blot out the light of the radio tower.

Eugene dropped the chopper low enough to see through the window; blood was a curtain across its pane. Beyond them, that beast, ready to head for the exit.

Inside Eugene, something snapped — what very well could have been the same something that’d driven him to destroy the generator that awful night instead of simply disconnecting it.

With an anguished roar, he pitched the helicopter forward.

Ankhanum shoved Betsy toward the doors.

All she heard before everything went dark was the sound of shattering glass.

---

The impact rocked the building, sending Mina to her knees. The office doors bowed in their frame. Hairline fractures snaked their way across the ceiling, chunks of tile raining onto the waiting room floor. She soon caught the smell of smoke; ominous firelight peeked through the gap in the doors.

“What the hell just happened?! What did he do?!” came Eleanor’s distraught voice.

When Mina didn’t answer, throbbing pain radiated throughout her skull. Her vision swam.

“MINA. TELL ME WHAT HAPPENED! I CAN'T SEE—”

“Auugh-! I don’t KNOW!” Mina cried. "S-something blew up, now I smell smoke—"

"Is Betsy Winters still alive?" Eleanor asked.

Mina froze. Grit her teeth. "Why? Wh-why do you want her so badly?!"

Mina's ears rang with Eleanor's scream, bordering on primal in its rage: "THE ENTITIES ELUDED MY GRASP, BECAUSE OF HER. NORMAN ESCAPED, BECAUSE OF HER. YOU ARE NOT THE ONLY ONE WITH A SCORE TO SETTLE."

Mina's vision went dark. Returned.

"Besides," Eleanor continued, far more sweetly now. "I'm in need of a new vessel."

The office doors fell open. Heat surged past Mina, singeing her eyebrows and nose hairs. Laid out before the burning office, struggling for breath, was Betsy Winters.

---

Betsy came to coughing, smoke filling her nostrils as she struggled to her feet. All around her was hot and bright.

Eleanor Hassen's office was aflame.

A mass of burning furniture, the twisted remains of helicopters and the support structure of the roof lay at the center of the blaze. Something shifted in that mass, and a clawed hand emerged.

Curling black hairs, red-ringed eyes —

Betsy lurched forward in a panic, pulling her tank top over her nose. She grabbed for Ankhanum; slick with sweat, his palm slipped right out of hers. Her hands met the hot, snarled metal pinning him down. She cried out in pain, growled, and took hold of him again, her nails dragging red trenches across his flesh. She threw back her head with a gasp, a cough, her grasp weakening. Still, she hung on.

"Come, haa- ON, dammit, YOU HAVE TO HELP ME! You have to TRY!" she wheezed.

Ankhanum tried. The machinery atop him groaned, but did not yield. Below, they clawed at him; hands groped at his melting flesh, rebellious teeth buried into him — along his body, the now red-ringed eyes of the consumed survivors of Camp 12 boiled in the intensifying heat.

Betsy's hold weakened further. Her breaths became shallow as the air grew hazy. Ankhanum's eyes bored into hers with a solemn knowing: she’d succumb to the smoke if she kept this up.

Betsy let out a giddy laugh as his hand began to give.

By God, she was doing it! She was pulling him out! She braced herself, giving one more forceful tug — and she was falling. A hot wave passed over her, and the waiting room floor swirled out of the dark she'd been falling in and out of. She gasped for any kind of fresh air, pulling herself out of the office. The weight of his hand in hers as she did so was reassuring.

"H-hey," she said weakly, looking over. "Are you—"

Her voice caught in her throat.

In her hand was certainly his; disembodied, blood oozing sluggishly from the cauterizing wrist.

The rest of him was still in there.

Along with Norman, and Sanderson.

The smell of burning flesh, whether real or imagined, hit her next. Trembling, bewildered, she stashed his hand in her bra, jolting to her feet. She let out a whooping cough as smoke billowed into her face, forcing her back. The office doors were mere kindling now, adding fuel to a fire that wouldn't, couldn't, be contained much longer.

She pursed her lips, tasting blood on them.

Alone. Again.

She could finish this. She had to.

Betsy turned on her heel — and came face-to-face with Mina.

"Betsy," Mina muttered. "You're alive."

Betsy laid a frantic, iron grip on Mina's shoulders. "Dr. Barnes, do you know anything about Eleanor's real body?!"

"Yes," Eleanor cut in.

"Yes," Mina echoed. "I mean—" A twinge of pain. "There's a vault-" "-in the basement."

Betsy's eyes lit up, near as bright as the growing flames behind her. Her grip on Mina tightened still, making the other woman wince. "How do I get down there?!"

Mina swallowed back a nauseating wave of pain that ripped through her skull. She clenched and unclenched her fists rapidly, her lips moving on their own now.

"The elevator's-" "-the only way down into the department. I'll go with you. I know the layout better than you."

Betsy wasted no more time. Mina was just about dragged into the elevator alongside her. The doors slid closed, and they began their descent.

Unheard to Betsy, Eleanor chuckled quietly in Mina's ears.

"Oh, yes. You'll escort Ms. Winters to me, won't you, dear?" she cooed.

Mina hugged herself tightly, glaring sidelong at Betsy with vitriol. If the sound of her teeth grinding was at all audible to Eleanor, she paid it no mind.

All Betsy could hear was her own breathing and the clinking of chains in the shaft. She slumped against the wall and closed her eyes, however briefly.

"We’re the only ones left now,” Mina said quietly. “This is all your fault.”

Betsy flinched.

"...I know that," she replied. "If you'll put aside your grudge long enough to help me out here, maybe I can make it up to you some day.”

Mina was silent. Betsy glanced at the other woman. Mina visibly fumed; the atmosphere in the elevator car was rife with anger. Betsy gingerly rubbed the back of her own neck.

"For what it's worth, Dr. Barnes, I'm sorry," she continued. "You have no idea how badly I wish I could take this all back. Just. Help me make this right. Please."

The tears choking Betsy's voice made Mina tremble. The woman she'd made into a monster in her mind stood alongside her, also hurting, also vulnerable, just as small and exhausted as she was.

"I should've made things right last night," Mina said.

Betsy looked to her questioningly. Almost hopefully.

A bitter smirk curled Mina's lip. "I only scratched up your little girl. I should have killed her."

A beat of silence.

"What?" Betsy asked.

"What?!" Eleanor echoed.

Ding.

The elevator doors slid open. Mina didn’t answer. She only moved to exit. Betsy blocked her path, holding the doors open. Mina tensed — there was a hardness in Betsy's eyes she'd never seen before.

"You did what to my kid?" Betsy asked in a low voice.

"Mina, what are you doing?!" Eleanor hissed.

Despite the pain blooming in her skull, Mina bared sharpening teeth, and stood her ground.

"You heard me!" she spat.

Betsy bared hers back. "You little—"

Before she could get anything else out, Betsy was thrown to the ground.

---

"God!" Sanderson cried out. "God, help me!"

He clung to what was left of the window that once made up a wall of Eleanor Hassen's office. Flames fanned out above, blistering his knuckles, already white from supporting his own weight, and that of Norman Nguyen, hanging from a tail he couldn’t stand to lose.

Sccreeeee-

Metallic whining. The frame began to separate from the building. The men dropped a foot or so, bouncing over the parking lot several stories below. Norman looked around wildly: a window on the floor below bore a crack.

With a grunt, he swung back and forth on Sanderson's tail.

"What the hell are you doing?! My body isn't a goddamn PLAYGROUND!" Sanderson wailed.

"Getting! Some! MOMENTUM!" Norman ground out.

He rappelled off the window, swinging as far out as he could. Hardened bone jut from his elbow, and punched through the glass. Norman sprawled across a bed of shards in a cubicle-lined office.

Sanderson took his cue, swinging himself — until a high-pitched squeal prefaced the frame fully separating from the building. Sanderson's heart flew into his throat as he began to drop.

At least it wouldn't be the first time he'd died—

Meaty claws sank into his legs. Sanderson was dragged, kicking and screaming, into the floor below. The window frame blew past, crashing to the ground and making a great racket that had Sanderson clinging to the other man.

"God, thank you, GOD!" Sanderson babbled. "I-I can't say I wanted to find out if death would stick this time!"

Grimacing, Norman peeled Sanderson off by the scruff of his neck, and turned his attention to the ceiling.

"Come on. We have to get back up there," he said. "Betsy and the entity were right underneath all that when the roof collapsed."

Sanderson followed his gaze and paled considerably.

"Oh, Betsy," he muttered. "Oh, oh, Betsy-"

The two jumped back as ceiling tile and insulation dropped between them. Norman sprinted for the adjoining hallway, Sanderson in tow. He struck Norman's solid back abruptly. Peering around, he saw what'd made Norman freeze up — crushed against the stairwell door were dozens of frenzied men and women; employees. Several lay on the floor, bloodied and unmoving.

Norman and Sanderson darted in the direction of the elevator, narrowly avoiding more collapsing ceiling, smoke beginning to curl through the gaps. Norman jabbed the elevator call button. There'd be no response no matter how many times he pressed it — the indicator light atop the doors unfalteringly read 'B'. He struck the panel with his fist in frustration.

"It's stuck down in the department," Norman said.

"Perhaps we could try our luck with the stairs?" Sanderson suggested.

They eyed the crush at the stairwell: red dotted the walls as the infected among them became more desperate to escape. A few were beginning to look their way, attentive to the sound of their voices.

"I'd really rather not," Norman said, and placed his fingers at the gap in the elevator doors.

Veins popped along his neck and forehead as he gradually pried them open, revealing the dark, positively ancient elevator shaft. Norman leapt for the cable, hanging awkwardly from it until his grip was sure.

"You can't be serious," Sanderson said.

Norman glared over his shoulder at the other man, and without another word, began to climb. Sanderson's jaw dropped.

"You mad man!" he called after him.

Rapid footsteps behind made him start. Those at the stairwell were leaping over rubble and each other, running in his direction. With an undignified whimper, Sanderson flung himself into the shaft after Norman.

He had hold of the cable for but a second. One of the employees grabbed on, sliding down his back. Nails dug into the meat of his legs. Sanderson panicked, scrabbling for purchase with already sweaty palms. He thrust himself upward, trying to grab hold of something, anything—

'Anything' would be Norman's leg.

Norman inhaled sharply as Sanderson's claws pierced his calves, several hundred pounds hanging off him. His palms slid, slid, slipped—

And Norman and Sanderson careened down the elevator shaft.

---

"You little—" Betsy started.

Before she could get anything else out, she was thrown to the ground.

Betsy rolled with the other woman until she ended on top. She forced Mina's wrists flat to the floor. Mina slithered through the gap between Betsy's legs, pulling her arms with and flipping her upside down. Betsy landed squarely on her already aching back, her grip on Mina lost.

Betsy picked herself up, and tried to get her bearings.

Here she was at last, in the infamous department.

...Though, it wasn't the sinister science lab she'd been imagining. While larger than she expected, the rooms were neatly labeled, and there was an expanse of personalized cubicles. On the farthest wall, driving home its mundaneity, were vending machines and a water cooler.

The department was just another place people worked.

Its sheer normalcy turned Betsy's stomach.

Now, Mina stood between her and the way forward. Her nails had grown far past their polish, gnarling into claws. Her heels were lost in the scuffle, one now wedged in the doors of the still dinging elevator.

"The hell's gotten into you?! I thought you were gonna help me!" Betsy said.

"I could care less about helping you!" Mina spat. "I'm only here because Eleanor—" "Mina, STOP." Eleanor in her head. Panicked. "I NEED HER." "—aaaAAAUGH!"

Mina doubled over, splitting pain renewing behind her eyes. Betsy shoved past her, heading deeper into the department. The padding of Mina's feet along the floor was the only warning Betsy got before she was yanked back by her hair. Betsy yelled, tears springing to her eyes.

"MINA, STOP THIS AT ONCE!"

A ripple of pain had Mina seeing stars, and she let go. Betsy whipped around, her fist connecting squarely with Mina's nose.

CRUNCH.

Mina's nose was pulp in an instant. She squealed, and slashed frantically in any direction. Deep cuts opened on Betsy's arm. Blood spattered across the floor. She let out a hiss, cupping a hand to them.

"MINA-"

"Shut UP!" Mina screamed — and she drove her razor sharp nails into her own ears.

One of her eyes burst from its socket; the implanted bug behind it desperately tried to burrow through it to no avail, breaking apart in her tearing hands. The other sought refuge downward, emerging through the roof of her mouth, only to be chewed to pieces, her gums cut by their edges. Pink-tinged, foamy spit poured down her chin and she spat metal and chitin from the bleeding hole that used to be her mouth.

Mina fell to her knees, head lolling forward at an odd angle.

"Girl, what the fuck," Betsy whispered.

Mina looked up. Her remaining eye, glassy and bloodshot, focused clearly on Betsy. She practically swayed to her feet, letting out a terrifically inhuman cry before she darted further into the department.

With shaking knees, Betsy followed.

Despite its initial straightforwardness, the department was a maze of hallways and doors to who knows where, Betsy’s only guidance the bloody trail left in Mina's wake. It lead her to a huge underground greenhouse; under its warm, brilliant lights, she could see it was filled floor to ceiling with plants — those plants, red as can be.

At the far end was a doorway. In faded paint next to it: B2.

Betsy took a deep breath, and stepped into the garden.

Some plants were familiar. Likely grown from samples they'd gathered during their time out in the Ruby Tears. Others, however, had mutated into new shapes entirely: one a small tree, twisted like the horns on Ankhanum's head. Its branches drooped from the weight of brightly colored 'fruit', no doubt grown to catch the eye. Along its length were barbing vines, nearly flawlessly camouflaged. Perfect for catching anything that got too close. Betsy kept a wide berth from whatever she could as she crossed the room.

The door to B2 was in reach when something snagged her ankle.

She dropped to the ground like a stone, blood chilling when an incredible force yanked her backwards. Wet tendrils clumsily lassoed her torso and neck, originating from the 'mouth' of a gigantic, fleshy lily, its pale petals flecked with red. She tugged a hand free, but the more she pulled at it, the tighter its hold became.

When Betsy could hardly move, Mina staggered out from behind the monstrosity.

"THIS...is all your fault," she said quietly.

She dropped heavily onto Betsy's stomach, making her wheeze.

"It's your fault I got implanted, your fault I ended up here, your fault that that THING is inside me," she continued. "And I'll never be able to get rid of it!"

Betsy stared up at her warily. Mina leaned closer, her breath hot on Betsy's ear.

"I’ll kill you if it’s the last fucking thing I do!" she hissed.

She poised her nails against Betsy’s exposed throat. Betsy grunted, bucking her hips wildly. The key fell from the pocket of her shorts; she took hold of it, plunging the oddly sharp tip into Mina's neck. The other woman shrieked, scrambling away. The tendrils around Betsy went limp, and she got back to her feet.

Mina hissed in a way far more befitting a beast as she dove for Betsy. Narrowly, she moved aside, balled her fist in the back of Mina's suit jacket and pulled her backwards into a hug. Mina slackened, confusion dawning on what was left of her face.

Betsy sighed.

"Man. I really wish I didn't have to do this," she whispered.

The embrace became a chokehold. Mina gasped raggedly for air, struggling against her. Her nails found Betsy's cheeks, slicing cleanly through an eyelid. Betsy threw back her head and hollered, but her grip on Mina steeled. Slowly, agonizingly so, Mina's vision faded with her breath.

Betsy held on until Mina’s arms dropped to her sides, and she let her fall to the ground. An extraordinary array of colors was blooming around Mina's neck, her expression twisted into an open-eyed snarl.

Betsy ripped the key from her neck, stepped over her, and continued on.

---

"—you okay? Doc!"

Sanderson stirred. He tried to turn his head. Couldn't.

"Dr. Sanderson!"

Sanderson's eyes shot open. He tried to sit up; his head swung from side to side. The image of Norman before him, panicked, swayed with it. Sanderson grabbed his own head, propping it up. Something within him crackled. An extraordinary pop of pain, and his vertebrae reattached.

"Whuh happened?" Sanderson drawled.

"You took a bit of a fall there," Norman understated with a nervous smile.

All at once, recollection hit Sanderson as hard as Norman's weight coming down on him — some hooligan had grabbed onto him, and he'd grabbed onto Norman, sending them all to the bottom of the shaft. Sanderson gingerly rubbed his aching neck.

"Seems so. I must say, you are far heavier than you look, Mr. Nguyen," he mumbled, and took a look around.

They were on top of the elevator. Nearby lay the crumpled form of one of Eleanor's employees; though her pooling blood smelled delightfully of the Rot, it seemed, unlike him, she hadn't survived the fall.

"Hieu'd argue otherwise. He thinks I'm not nearly heavy enough," Norman said. He pulled up the hatch on the elevator car. "Huh. There's a shoe caught in the doors."

Sanderson peered around him. Sure enough, the elevator doors were repeatedly opening and closing on a purple high heel.

"I thought I heard you, Norman," said Eleanor's voice.

A chill rippled down Sanderson's spine. No sooner did movement behind them catch his eye, the woman they'd fallen with threw her arms around Norman's neck.

Eleanor's voice crept from her mouth: "Mina may have rid herself of me, but I'll have YOU yet—"

Norman slammed an elbow into the woman's stomach, sending her stumbling backwards. Frantic voices above got their attention; employees, pursuing however they could, some sliding down the cable, some climbing the mechanisms around them. Red eyes peeked through the doors several floors up.

"Good God. They're not trying to escape, they're coming after us!" Sanderson exclaimed.

Norman's eyes darted about the shaft. Then, wondrously, he giggled.

"Get ready to tuck and roll?" he suggested.

"What—?!"

Norman's arm split. The wet, ossified blade shone in what light the elevator gave off below, and in one quick motion, he severed the cable. He grabbed the scruff of Sanderson's neck, and dove into the department with him.

WHUD.

A thunderous crash, the screaming of steel, and the shaft behind them went silent.

"God's sake!" Sanderson breathed. "All those people..."

"They were coming for us, and— I-I panicked, okay?!" Norman said. "It's not like this is my first murder-rodeo, and I know it isn't yours—"

Sanderson grabbed the other man's jacket with an abruptness that clamped Norman's mouth shut.

"Wait," Sanderson said, sniffing the air with enthusiasm. A dreamy smile crossed his features. "I smell blood."

Norman glanced down at his own flayed arm. Then the shaft.

"No shit," he said flatly.

"Not yours, or theirs! Betsy's!" Sanderson snapped.

He got low to the ground, smelling along the tile. He hovered over drying droplets. He swiped a fingertip across them and licked it.

"Hm. Yes. Definitely Betsy's," Sanderson said.

Norman rose a brow. "And how do you know that?"

Crreeak— CRASH.

They looked to the mangled elevator. Arms and bleeding heads bulged from the hatch as employees nearly tore each other to shreds in their desperation to get through.

That was the only incentive Norman and Sanderson needed to get moving. The reek of blood only grew stronger the further in they went. Drops became a streaking trail that lead them all the way into the garden. Sanderson halted, amazed by the red greenery, mutated into shapes he could only dream of. He reached for a shining, teardrop bulb.

"Oh, how fascinating, I—" he started.

The plant's suckered vines whipped through the air. Norman hooked an arm around Sanderson's neck, pulling him out of reach.

"You're not going to find it fascinating when it's got you flipped upside down to feed on the blood pooling in your head," Norman said.

Unbelievably to Norman, Sanderson lit up, and said, "Are you kidding?! That only makes it more fascinating!"

"...You look like a kid in a candy store right now," Norman said, not without a hint of disgust. "Have you never been down here?"

Sanderson freed himself from the other man's grasp, and pushed on with such glee he left Norman in the metaphorical dust.

"Dr. Reeves, yes, but I've never been!" he called over his shoulder. "Eleanor had us load those helicopters with our findings, so there was no need. But now, I wish I had been! This place is extraordinary! There's so much research potential in he—RE!"

Sanderson yelped, and disappeared from Norman's sight. Norman quickened his pace; Sanderson was scrambling off a badly battered woman. Norman knelt. On closer inspection, he barely recognized her as Mina Barnes.

"Wonder what happened here. Looks like she's been mauled by a bear," he muttered.

Sanderson eyed the bloody bootprints leading to B2. The fact there was only one set of prints gave him pause.

"I reckon Betsy happened," he said. "And by the look of it, she's already moved on."

Norman followed his gaze, and rose a brow. "You sure those are hers?"

"I have spent far too much time sleeping next to her boots to not recognize their print," Sanderson replied matter-of-factly.

Oblivious to Norman's look of disgust, Sanderson stepped over Mina. Her singular eye focused, locking onto him. She sprang for him, pulling his legs together. He fell into the shrubbery with a scream. Norman pulled her off with some effort; she squirmed violently in his arms.

"Knock it off, Mina," he warned.

She knocked it off, and his hold loosened. She slipped from his arms, slumping to the ground. Sanderson reemerged, brushing himself free of soil and leaves. Red twigs stuck out of his hair not unlike tiny antlers. Norman pursed his lips against a grin.

"Come on. Let's get after Betsy," he said.

A tug at his jacket. Norman looked over his shoulder. Mina stared up at him with one wide, wet eye.

"Mr. Nguyen, I tried to page you," she said, her voice small. "You said if I needed you, I could."

What composure he'd been maintaining developed a crack. He blinked rapidly, taken aback by her change in demeanor.

"Oh. I, uh. I'm sorry—" he mumbled.

"Oh, please," Sanderson scoffed. He put himself between them. "She's just trying to get at you. You saw what she did to me! Felt what she almost did to your husband."

Sanderson turned a cold eye on her.

"For that matter, I'm sure Betsy's blood didn't just fall out back there by accident,” he said.

Mina scowled. Her hand dropped to her side.

"Tch. Killing her would've been doing her a favor," she muttered. "Eleanor wants her."

"What on Earth for?" Sanderson asked.

Mina smirked bitterly. "She wants to puppet her around with those bugs, like that other woman she was wearing."

Sanderson’s breath caught. Betsy was in danger, unless—

"...Dr. Barnes, where is the entity?" he asked.

Mina's smirk widened.

"Betsy came out of the office alone,” she said.

Behind him, Norman cried out. Sanderson turned on his heel, only to be grabbed by countless, clawing hands. White hot pain shot through him as teeth and nails sank into him, dragging him. Norman's arms broke open, too little, too late — there were just too many infected employees bearing down on them.

They were swallowed up by the roiling crowd, and Eleanor's laughter floated through the air.

---

B2 of the department was a long, straightforward hallway. There were dozens of windowed doors on either side, and at the very end, an aged metal door with a three-spoke handle. It had no window.

Betsy clasped a hand over her weeping eye and passed the rooms quickly as she could, catching brief glimpses of their contents: a hall full of hospital beds, a well-stocked operating room — and what was unmistakably a morgue. Near the end of the stretch was a makeshift prison, filled top to bottom with kennels like the one at camp. Inside the cages were vague shapes, but a brief jiggle of the doorknob roused no activity inside the room.

Nauseated, she continued on.

She soon stood before the vault.

The key was a perfect match.

It only opened a sliver; a gasp of stale air burst out of the dark, rust flaking from the doorway. She pushed on it. It didn't budge any further. Betsy slammed her blistered shoulder into it. It gave, but only slightly. Panting, she placed her weight against it, pushing with all her might—

And it abruptly fell open, nearly sending her into the void.

Betsy clung to the handle for dear life, glancing over her shoulder. The stairs, the landing — all of it was deteriorated, if not disintegrated. Hardly any of the original wooden structure remained. What stairs were left jut from the wall like teeth. Carefully, she swung her legs, trying to find any kind of footing. She inched onto a stair, loosening her grip on the door.

A warning creak was all she got before it collapsed under her weight. She broke through rotten boards, striking splinters and earth below, tail-bone first, a pained gasp ripped from her throat. Her back arched.

"Ah! AGH!"

Her vision grew red and watery. She blinked rapidly, trying to clear it. High above, light streamed through the doorway she'd fallen through. And ahead...a rudimentary archway, comprised of wooden beams. An eerie light emanated beyond, and she could hear a faint buzzing in the distance. Betsy rolled off the ruined stairs. Pain moved through her in waves. She lowered her sweaty forehead to the ground. Her eyelids drooped—

She lifted her head with a gasp. She pressed her knuckles and knees against the ground, and got to her feet. She limped into the light, and the closer she got to it, the louder the buzzing became.

Past the arch was a cavernous room with a domed ceiling, spread over a wide stretch of soil. In its center, a massive pit, from which that sickly light originated.

Betsy peered over the edge.

What she saw down there was hard to make sense of. An iridescent glimmer floated across it with the movement of her head, making it difficult to focus on whatever it was. But something was there, its presence all the more apparent when hot air blew past her face.

"Welcome, Betsy," Eleanor’s voice said against her ear.

Betsy startled. She wiped furiously at it; there was nothing there.

The mass in the pit shifted. The ground beneath Betsy trembled. Eyes, many, massive, opened. Those dizzying colors ebbed on their faceted surfaces. Loose strands of Betsy's hair flowed toward the pit as Tehhaz drew in a breath.

"I’d intended your first and last appointment here to be with Eleanor Hassen, but the circumstances have changed," the voice sighed. "Now that she’s been. Burnt. UP.”

The last words emerged with an accusatory edge.

"It’s been some time since my last visitor. How fortunate, when I needed a replacement to continue my work."

Betsy said nothing.

"...Still not much of a talker, are you?" Tehhaz asked. "No matter."

The trembling beneath Betsy became a quake, sending Betsy to her knees. That buzzing rose into an all-consuming drone. Betsy squeezed her eyes shut against it. Her head pounded, bones vibrating. She cracked an eye open. Countless familiar iridescent insects crawled over the rim of the pit and toward her. Betsy crushed as many as she could under fist and heel. Searing hot needles jabbed her, their abdomens growing fat with her blood. She smacked them away, tore them off — but there were just too many of them.

Betsy curled up, tears streaming down her cheeks. She was surrounded, overwhelmed, and yet utterly alone in the depths of the department.

Ankhanum's hand twitched in her bra.

(These burrowing insects are part of Her)

She gripped at her chest.

(Augmented to survive contact with our blood and tissue)

At her offering.

(WE ARE GOD EATERS)

And Betsy rolled. Off the edge she went, into the belly of the beast.

Betsy twisted all the way down Tehhaz's gullet, all around her wet and dark, tight, smothering, making it hard to breathe. She reached into her shirt, pulling Ankhanum's hand free. She brought it to her mouth, tearing into the cooling skin with her teeth. She grinned as that stinking blood spilled anew all over her and the slippery lining around her.

She passed into an open space within Tehhaz's body, landing on something hard. Her bones rattled from the impact, pain shooting up her spine. Betsy lay there, limp, Ankhanum's hand in hers, her breathing growing shallow.

Whatever happened next, she'd done her part. Tried to, anyway.

Tears welled in her eyes. Fuck, had she tried.

Ankhanum's hand seemed to ease further into hers.

Weakly, she squeezed it.

It squeezed back.

And it was gone, melting away in her grasp. Her breath shook.

What she couldn't see in the dark around her, was his blood consuming everything it came into contact with. Betsy's ear perked; the sound of rushing liquid. Warmth, wet, met her fingertips. She brought her hand to her nose and sniffed.

Odeur de Ankhanum.

The sprawling digestive system she'd dropped into was filling, and fast. Betsy grunted, trying to sit up. She fell back down, panting from exhaustion. Warmth continued to envelope her. She plugged her nose and mouth, and squeezed her eyes shut as the blood rose over her head.

The Red Rot climbed the fleshy walls of Tehhaz's innards, boring holes into Her guts and eating away at Her. Her body heaved and shook until red geysered from Her rostrum, spraying the ceiling so thickly it fell like rain.

Tehhaz’s eyes, tinged with the same red draining from every orifice, stared unseeingly at the roof of her coffin.

---

An ear-piercing shriek shook the department.

All at once, the insects occupying the heads of the implanted were ejected, sticky warmth coating their necks. Sanderson wriggled free of their weakening grasp.

"What the devil was that noise?!" he squeaked.

"I'd wager the real Eleanor's death knell," Norman replied.

A bug dropped to the floor nearby — instinctively, he stomped it, grinding it into the tile. He shimmied across the metal littered garden to the stairs to B2. With a gasp, Sanderson stumbled after.

The open vault awaited.

That smell wafted through it, making Sanderson's nostrils flare.

Far below, but utterly appe—

"Focus! Focus," he whispered, slapping at his cheeks.

He sidled up to Norman, peering into the dilapidated void.

"Good God. It's all rotted away. How long has it been since this was opened, do you think?" Sanderson asked.

"Hard to say," Norman mumbled. "But there's no way out but through now. I hope."

Norman glanced over his shoulder; the fight taken out of them, employees gathered around in a nervous cloud. Norman cleared his throat, straightening out.

"With the elevator out, we’re going to have to keep going down," he said, and lowered himself carefully into the dark.

Once Norman was in place at the bottom, Sanderson helped employees down to him. He was about to climb down himself when the last in line came up on him — Mina Barnes, glaring at him with her single eye. Fidgeting, he extended a hand to her. Her eye narrowed further. She wobbled past him, lowering herself into waiting arms below. Sanderson sniffed indignantly, and dropped through the door after her.

What greet them at the bottom of Hassen Research Department was that domed room, painted in red. It dripped from the ceiling, soaked the soil below. At its center lay a positively massive crimson lake.

Sanderson approached the edge and took a deep, reverent breath.

"God, would you LOOK at this place! Absolutely magnificent!" he exclaimed. "There must be TONS of it—"

"H-Herbert?!"

He choked on his inhalation — that'd been Betsy's voice. Coughing, he peered across the lake at a figure clinging desperately to dissolving debris.

"Betsy!" he called.

She lifted her head. "Herbert?! That you?!"

Norman tromped to the edge in disbelief.

"That crazy woman really made it down here," he muttered. He cupped his hands around his mouth. "Betsy! Over here!"

Betsy swam toward their voices. Her hands flailed for any sort of purchase, and she clung to the offered sleeve of Norman's jacket for dear life. Though her feet slid on the softening earthen walls of the pit, Betsy was soon back on solid ground, and very much alive.

She threw her arms around Norman and Sanderson with a triumphant, gusty laugh, staining the two redder than before.

"Eleanor's dead. For real, this time!" she said.

She went to wipe the blood out of her eyes, and paused. One had been a sliced, weeping mess not long ago, but now, it felt right as rain. Her confusion would be short-lived as she looked around in growing surprise at the battered employees.

"Sheesh, you bring a cavalry—" Betsy started.

She trailed off as she spotted Mina at the back of the crowd.

Mina was a blur of teeth and claws, lunging for them. Her nails locked onto Sanderson's back, throwing him to the ground. Betsy and Norman broke out of their shock and attempted to pull her off. She wouldn't budge.

"Dr. Barnes, stop! Eleanor's dead! It's OVER!" Betsy said.

Mina lashed; Betsy narrowly avoided a fresh swipe across the face.

"THIS ISN'T ABOUT HER! It never was!" Mina screamed, her eyes wild and red and flashing. "This is about ME, and YOU TWO! ONE of you sick fucks is dying today!"

She buried her teeth deep into Sanderson’s shoulder and tore a chunk off. He cried out, rolling blindly.

They tumbled over the edge together.

Betsy and Norman dove, barely catching Sanderson's arms. Mina's nails carved huge red channels into his back as she slid down the length of him, finally latching onto his leg.

There was a rumble below; the once serene crimson lake boiled. Bubbles burst across it, the sound like a deep chuckling. Waves rose, taking the shape of hands.

It was reaching for them.

Fear washed away Mina's rage in an instant. She clung harder to Sanderson, drawing another pained whine from him. Panicked, Mina reached for Norman.

“Mr. Nguyen! Help! Please!”

Norman blinked in shock. His grip on Sanderson loosened.

Betsy groaned as the already incredible load grew heavier in her tired, aching arms. “Norman, help ME! She’ll come up with him!”

“R-right!” Norman said, renewing his hold on Sanderson.

Mina withdrew into herself, holding onto Sanderson with all she had now, terror evident on her face as she glanced repeatedly downward. Sanderson glared over his shoulder.

"You've assailed me for the last time!" he ground out.

His knee popped, separating cleanly from his body, and Mina fell.

She was swallowed up by the rising lake without a sound.

The three fell backward in a heap. Their eyes stay trained on those restless red waves.

Mina never resurfaced.

"What happened to her?" Betsy asked quietly.

"Hell if I know," Sanderson grumbled. "I don't think I care, truth be told. That crazy woman was hellbent on killing us!"

Betsy tried to rub the blood from her face. Norman tossed her his coat. With a grateful nod, she wiped herself down the best she could.

"So, that's it, then," she said. Then, in a weak sing-song tone, "Ding-dong, the bitch is dead?"

Norman giggled despite himself. "You still have a sense of humor after all that?"

"Gotta laugh or I'll cry," she replied. "Either way, it's over. What're you gonna do now?"

He ran a hand through his hair. There was a faraway look in his eyes.

"Good question," he said. "Maybe Hieu and I'll finally squeeze in that trip to Phú Mỹ. I've always wanted to take him there — it's my hometown!"

He beamed pridefully at that, then his lips trembled. He covered his face as his shoulders began to shake. He wiped at his eyes, leaving pale streaks on his sleeve.

"What about you?" he asked.

"Me? I, uh," Betsy started. She averted her eyes. "...Gotta get back to the kid, first and foremost."

Norman nodded, and got to his feet. He offered Betsy a hand. After a moment, she took it, and stood with him. Absent a leg, Sanderson supported himself against Norman for the time being. All around, the former employees huddled near the pool's edge, an array of curiosity, fear and uncertainty on their faces. Betsy stood at its edge herself. The feeling of Ankhanum's hand holding hers ghosted across her palms. She rubbed them uneasily.

It really was over.

Its leader digested, Hassen Communications and its Research Department were likely no more. Ankhanum was gone, the pool the end of a life cycle that began as the leftover meat of a bear she'd shot for going after Mina Barnes.

“Betsy,” Sanderson said in a quiet voice. “Where is Ankhanum?”

Her breath hitched.

“He’s— he…”

The smell of burning flesh, most certainly imagined this time.

“There was a fire, and— h-he didn’t make it,” she said, voice cracking on the last syllable.

Suddenly, months on months of emotional backlog hit her like a truck. Grief and relief were released in an agonizing scream as she collapsed at the edge, sobbing loudly and fully. She cried for Ankhanum, lost in the fire. She cried for the dead of Camp 12, for Milo Gaskins and Clive Reeves, in the wrong place at the wrong time. She cried for her mother, gone before her time, and for Annie, who had yet to find out she'd never see her grandmother again.

But most of all, Betsy cried for her own sake.

Packing it away had been killing her.

Norman squeezed her shoulder gently. Gradually, Betsy's sobs eased. She snorted hard, trying to clear her nose. Norman tore off a clean section of his sleeve with his teeth and offered it to her. She blew her nose, and laughed.

"Thanks. Man. I got you ruinin' all your clothes," she said.

"It's fine. I've got more just like this at home," he said. "I think you needed that cry more than I need another button-up."

She nodded, sniffling. Her face was hot, slimy, fit to burst. "Y-yeah. Even when I had downtime the last couple months, it still felt like I was walking on a tightrope. Then, when I let my guard down, she—" She sniffed back more tears. "She went after my mom. And for what? My mom didn't deserve that!"

She went quiet for a time, scrunching back a fresh burst of tears. She let out an almost comically aggravated sigh and gestured to the pool.

"A-and what the hell are we gonna do with all this?!" she asked. "It's practically a body of water!"

"I'd better get a really big straw," Sanderson replied.

She stared at him in silence. And snorted.

"Man, shut up," she said, though there was a grin on her face.

"Look!" one of the employees said.

The three of them looked into the pool. A swirl of black disturbed its surface. Soon, innards and layers of muscle solidified — arms, legs, heads, those red-ringed eyes. Hundreds of Ankhanum bobbed in the ooze, bodies slick with the Rot. An unbelievable giddiness filled Betsy at the sight, and she waved.

The Ankhanum waved back.

The hands of the Ankhanum soon met, and they coiled into each other until a massive column of flesh surged out of the hole that once housed Tehhaz's body. Limbs emerged, horns grew, mandibles elongating until multiple, massive eyes stared them down. The three's mouths fell agape at the sight of the true form and face of the Ankhanum.

“There you are,” Betsy said, outstretching her hands to it.

The insectoid creature bowed its head, thick black hair falling around its face, before it buried powerful jaws into the walls of the pit, chewing away the foundation. As it burrowed, a powerful hand gripped Betsy's. She grabbed onto Sanderson, who grabbed onto Norman, and the train of their bodies and those of the freshly unemployed were swept into its tunnel, sliding down the length of its body until they were hugging a wall.

The eyes along its body stared back at them as the creature passed through, pushing itself along with its multitude of limbs until it burrowed out of sight. Thick veiny roots held the crumbling walls around them open. A bio-luminescent warmth pulsated through them, faintly lighting the way.

"Whoa," Betsy whispered.

"’Whoa’ is an understatement! This is extraordinary! I wish I'd brought my recorder!" Sanderson said, teetering against Norman in a bid to stay standing.

Norman placed a hand against a wall to steady himself. Underneath his palm, the roots shifted, becoming fingers that clung gently to him. He almost reluctantly pulled his hand free.

As they made their way through the tunnel, the roots receded, the walls gradually collapsing behind them.

There'd be no going back.

---

The radio tower outside swayed as its foundation sank.

It fell forward into the still burning building, and every last light adorning the tower shattered, the Hassen Communications logo on it going dark.

Ankhanum half emerged from the hole it'd dug where the tower once stood, its multitude of arms creating a ladder to the surface. Betsy climbed the length of its body, greeted by the night sky and far too many sirens, closer by the moment. Norman was next, brushing himself free of loose dirt. Sanderson, however, was all but flung from the hole, a mischievous chittering following his face-first landing. Gradually, the unemployees made their way out.

Betsy craned her neck to behold the great centipede-like creature.

"We're out," she said quietly. "What now?"

It leaned nearer, looking her up and down. She saw herself in its massive eyes — blood-drenched, and exhausted. It let out a sound, a somber clicking of sorts, from deep in its throat. It turned from her, toward the building.

Then down it went, back into the hole it'd come from.

Several massive tremors shook the ground, causing nearly all present to lose their footing. Hassen Communications shuddered, groaned, before all at once seeming to implode, collapsing into a gaping sinkhole. Beyond the space it'd occupied were the incredulous faces of paramedics and firemen, the pilot and Eleanor's secretary, staring into the smoking chasm.

When the ground grew still, Betsy exchanged a glance with Sanderson after awhile, her brows knit in concern.

"Is he not coming back?" she asked.

Sanderson opened his mouth, sputtered, closed it again. He had no idea what to say. None whatsoever. She looked to Norman, almost pleadingly. He, too, had no idea what to say, only chuckling nervously.

Betsy kicked the ground with a furious scream, sending a small cloud of dust into the air.

“Fine! FINE! After all that, you’re gonna leave, like nothin’ ever happened?! You piece of SHIT!” she cried into the night.

There’d be no answer to her cries besides the wailing of sirens.

---

BAM.

Months ago, a bear stilled in the snow. As its senses faded with its consciousness, so too did the buzz that'd lured it to the camp.

Feeling, however distantly, remained, and it FELT itself being stripped of all it had to offer by warm, careful hands. Steel sliced through its belly, organs spilling out. Hunks of flesh were sheared off, its pelt methodically peeled away.

And then — it was abandoned in the cold.

It shifted in its plastic wrapping until it tore free, slithering along an unseen platform. The moment it met another cooling mound of flesh, a mouth yawned open in its mass. It engulfed whatever it could find, grinding through an array of frozen meats with powerful teeth and jaws.

Eyelids opened: it was in a cold, dark space, positively PACKED with food. Despite the chill, it salivated.

It ate, and grew, for hours to come.

But its reverie wouldn't last forever: light filled the space.

In the doorway stood a large woman in a nightgown. She was red-haired and freckle-cheeked, face taut with disbelief. Others accompanied her: a frail older man with enormous glasses, a well-built younger man wearing a bulky device of some description on his head, and a fat mustachioed man with a nervous disposition.

Their mouths moved soundlessly. A canal formed in its mass, stretching to the surface. Their voices came into focus — with them, that buzz.

"-oh shit, oh FUCK," the young man was saying.

The woman threw him a stern look. "Get it together, Milo. I'm gonna need your help here!"

She strode over, decidedly unafraid as she took hold of it. The young man followed her lead, lifting it in tandem. Its toothy maw sought their hands. All the woman did in response was heave it higher. Her hands out of biting range, her warm palms rested on its freezing skin. Her grasp was confident. Sure of itself. Familiar.

It’d been her who handled the carcass, it was sure of it.

It'd be laid in a cage in what appeared to be a laboratory.

The woman bore a pensive expression as she locked the door. The mustachioed man appeared beside her then, holding his hand out. Her frown deepening, she surrendered the key.

"What now?" she asked.

"I'm going to get in touch with the department head," he replied.

Her frown deepened still. "Don't, Herbert." "What else would you have me do?!" he about snapped.

Her brow darkened, but she held her tongue, and both left its sight. The man, however, returned. The needle in his hand briefly caught the light before sinking into its side. The slightest, unwelcome pinch. It threw its weight into the bars, causing the man to recoil.

"Easy, now. That wasn't so bad!" he muttered, if only for his own comfort, and disappeared from view once again.

What followed were sighs, the tinkling of glass, a THUD and a panicked gasp. The mustachioed man bolted for a device on the wall, jabbing its numbered buttons.

"This is Dr. Herbert Sanderson," he said into the handset. "I need to speak with Ms. Hassen urgently, if she's available." After a moment, "Yes, hello- I- YES, Eleanor, I'm well aware what time it is! You know I wouldn't ask for you personally if it wasn't important!"

A beat of silence.

"Be- ah, WE killed a bear yesterday, and the carcass, it began to move in the compost pile, eating things, getting bigger- ...What?! What do you MEAN 'as soon as you can'?! I'd say this-"

He went silent before a barrage of scolding.

"Yes, ma'am. Thank you, ma'am," he finished.

Sanderson gently placed the handset into its cradle. Picked it up. Slammed it. Did so again. Repeatedly, with increasing frustration.

"Who does she think she is?!" he grumbled. "Wretched woman..."

Sanderson took his leave - but not before throwing the cage and its contents a wanton glance.

Alone again, its sides swelled outward. Hands pushed against the floor of the cage, lifting it into a sitting position, molding a buttocks and legs to rest upon. The head was last; a bulbous growth sagged from its torso, taking its mouth and eyes and ear canals with. The flesh wobbled limply until bone solidified within. Hair sprouted from its scalp and brows, laying around its face.

It attempted to sit up straighter, only to bonk its newly formed cranium against the roof of the cage.

With a grumbling yawn, Ankhanum curled up, and tried to sleep.

---

It awoke to a crowd.

Its eyes darted across the fearful faces surrounding the cage, the reek of their nerve-induced sweating filling its nostrils.

"What the hell do we do now?" came a frantic whisper.

"We can’t keep a person in there!"

"But he was meat a few days ago!"

"Yeah, that we fucking ATE."

The room erupted into a paranoid cacophony of voices it couldn't pick words from anymore. At the very back of the crowd stood the woman from the night before. When they locked eyes, she tensed under the scrutiny of its gaze.

"All right, all right! Quiet down!" Sanderson said. "We approach this as we do any unknown. We study it. We’re scientists, for God’s sake."

"Herbert, I respect the study as much as anybody else," said the frail older fellow. "But we can't keep a man imprisoned. It's unethical."

Sanderson leaned against the cage with a greedy look in his eyes.

"Clive, what man springs fully formed from the carcass of an animal? I doubt we need to hand-wring about ethics in this situation!"

The woman parted the crowd, then.

"Dr. Sanderson, you have an obligation to do what you do ethically!" she said. "Yeah, we don’t know what or WHY he is, but he’s still a living thing that standards of care apply to!"

Ankhanum's eyes flickered between the three, barely restraining a smirk at the emerging conflict. Unfortunately, Sanderson relented, mumbling excuses before attempting to smooth out the unsettled atmosphere.

"Not to worry, everyone! I contacted the department head yesterday," Sanderson said. "Someone should be here in a few days to take a look."

No one, especially Sanderson, seemed reassured by that.

---

"Hey, buddy. You hungry?" the woman asked.

She squat a healthy distance from the cage, watching him carefully. Of course he was hungry. He was always hungry. A hatch at the bottom of the cage opened ever so briefly as she slid a meal in: thawing berries, fish, wilting lettuce.

Unimpressive, but an offering was an offering.

The hatch swung shut with a heftier thud than he was expecting - Ankhanum stiffened, and eyed her warily.

"We gotta leave," she finally said.

"Absolutely not!" Sanderson huffed.

"Shut it, Herbert. He doesn’t wanna take his eyes off us. He won't eat if we're in here."

"Betsy, we shouldn’t-" Sanderson grunted, but he was no match against her yet.

She shuffled the skittish scientists and herself out of the lab, leaving him to dine in peace. The berries were refreshingly cool. The fish - salmon - was a day or so old, and had been cooked to buttery perfection. The presence of the lettuce struck him odd, being that their settlement was deep in the woods. Perhaps she'd acquired it elsewhere? All in all, a sufficient appetizer; his ribs had a little cushion now.

He licked the last of the butter from his lips.

Betsy.

That was her name, then.

Curiously, he prodded the hatch at the bottom of the cage. It'd opened easily enough on her side. But he pulled at its edges with no success.

He looked around the cage in puzzlement.

It had a strange, yet somehow familiar prismatic shimmer to it. The criss-crossed mesh was thick and tightly woven to the point he could hardly get a fingertip through, and with the little room he had to maneuver, brute force wasn't going to cut it.

Betsy returned for dinner.

"Ate it all up? Good. Got more for ya," she said.

She pushed the hatch open with mocking ease, sliding in another serving of what she'd offered earlier. Time seemed to slow. He leaned forward, muscles tightening.

He'd grab her hands.

Slip right on into her, and out of this cage.

His nostrils flared — this close, he caught the smell of her: cooking oils. The still present odors of food prep on her apron.

Encrusted dirt, dust and pine needles on her jacket. The faint musk of sweat and some sort of cologne. He knew her smell. From before, when he was the bear. He'd seen, smelled, followed her in the woods on a number of occasions.

But most curiously of all, unlike the others here...

She didn't smell of HIM.

The WHUD of the hatch forced him back to reality. She turned away to rummage through the desks, and he pried at the hatch again to no avail. Silently, he dragged his hands down his cheeks. Idiot. IDIOT! He scooped his meager dinner into his maw, making quick, furious work of it. When she faced him, it was gone.

"So you’ve got an appetite, after all. Good to see," she said. She looked him up and down then. "Geez, you're skinny. I'd give ya more, but I didn't exactly anticipate another mouth to feed."

She stared at him, and the cage he was in, for awhile longer, a troubled frown making itself at home on her face.

"I better get goin' before the Doc barges in to make sure I didn't get eaten," she finally said. "I'll check in on you tomorrow, buddy."

She waved on her way out.

He sneered.

When she delivered his next meal, he'd have another opportunity—

Though, planning to wear her like a jacket was extreme, no?

He quirked a brow contemplatively at the thought.

After all, everything about this was wrong to her — he'd seen the uncertainty written all over her face the moment he'd laid his new eyes on her. She could be swayed—

Ankhanum shook his head.

What an absurd idea. Nothing was EXCESSIVE when it came to self preservation, not with whatever this department was on the way—

A tug on his back.

Ankhanum reached over his shoulder, scratching at his restless flesh. The tug was soon a pull, was soon a ripping that tore ligaments and tendons, stripping his bones of much needed fat and mass, turning the already tiny cage into a smothering, sweaty squeeze. Ankhanum bit at the forming double, desperately trying to reclaim it, to usher it back inside, only to be forced away with hands as strong as his own.

The original Ankhanum - the Other, that would later call himself Clive - glared into eyes as red and ringed as his own. His Twin, cheerier and brighter-eyed by far, was the very same who'd call himself Vermeil one summer's eve.

"What do you think you're doing?!" the Other exclaimed. "I'm hardly being fed enough for ONE of me! Get back in here at once!"

"You do not tell this one what to do! Who do you think you are?" the Twin asked, grinning cheekily.

"I'd say I'm YOU, stupid one. You came from me!" the Other replied.

"So you admit you're stupid?!" the Twin guffawed.

They wrestled in the tiny space, but the Twin would not yield. Their conflict ended with the Others' head smashed into the bars. He grunted, forcing the Twin off him.

"Why are you here?!" the Other spat.

"Your way is too much! Betsy may assist these ones yet!" the Twin said.

The Other squinted.

"What? Don't be ridiculous. She hasn't partaken of us. We have no power over her in here," he said. "Getting out without losing what energy we have is simple enough."

The Twin cocked a brow in amusement. "Oh? And what is YOUR way?"

---

(OUT. LET US OUT)

"Herbert, you say something?" Reeves asked.

"Hm? No, I didn’t say anything."

"Ah, I see. Tea time is a poor time to go senile, heh."

The tea kettle began to whistle. The Other rose his arms, as much as he could within the confines of the cage.

(GET THE KEY LET US OUT)

"Clive, what the fuck are you doing!?" Sanderson cried.

Red dripped down Reeves' cheeks, staining his turtleneck and spotting his once pristine lab coat. The Others' influence flooded the old man’s body with adrenaline, and Reeves all but rammed the fire extinguisher into Sanderson’s chest, taking the key from him.

Freedom was steps away.

"NO!" Sanderson bellowed.

Sanderson tackled the old man from behind, and ended the Others' hopes in one fell swoop as he began to eat the stunned, dying Reeves. His meal was interrupted by the arrival of the young man Betsy called Milo.

"Dr. Sanderson, you need help?! You okay?! Doc- oh, FUCK!"

Sanderson turned his attention to Milo. Red-tinged drool sluggishly made its way down his chin.

"Holy shit, one of them got out. Oh SHIT, oh FUCK!" Milo squeaked, reaching for his pistol.

Sanderson leapt for the young man. The bullets didn't stop him. Sanderson's face split to accommodate the powerful jaw that ended Milo's life. The young man's body fell to the floor. Sanderson chewed the flesh in his mouth with enthusiasm. Then he belched, let out a sound of surprise and a mumbled "excuse me" to no one in particular. He wiped his chin on the hem of his shirt with a dainty politeness.

Finally, he looked around the carnage he'd wrought.

"Oh, dear," he said, grimacing.

Oh, dear, indeed.

He looked to the Ankhanum. His hand fell instinctively to the pocket he'd tucked the key into. He nibbled uncertainly at his lip, holding their gaze with eyes as red and ringed as theirs. But if he was on the threshold of rethinking all this, he never crossed it; instead, he smiled strangely, finished his meal, and tidied up after himself as best he could.

A long, terrible silence followed Sanderson's departure. The hours bled into one another. The Others' agitation increased all the while.

"Out. I want out," he hissed.

The Twin rolled his eyes. “Oh, get it together.”

There was a defiant nip at his shoulders. The Twin drove the Others' head into the bars behind him. The Other growled beneath his palm. Teeth tore into it next. A dull thud echoed through the lab as his head connected with the bars again.

"Stop. You are expending unnecessary energy," the Twin warned.

The Other shuffled tightly into himself.

"What do YOU propose we do, then?" he grumbled.

"Glad you finally asked!" the Twin said. "Your way did not work. This one's way now."

The Other scoffed. "And what way is YOUR way?"

There was a buzzer overhead.

Someone was coming into the lab.

That someone was Betsy Winters. She scanned the overturned lab with alarm - though, bizarrely, she waved at them with an almost casual air. Her face flushed once she realized the absurdity of what she'd just done, and she turned away in a hurry. The Twin slammed his fist into the bars. When she faced him, he returned the wave.

"...Hel-?" she started.

"Hello!" he finished.

---

"Fuckin' Herbert," she'd conclude. "I'll be back."

"Return to us soon," the Twin crooned.

Following her departure, the Other said, "You could very well be sending her to her death! And here I thought you were fond of her."

The Twin shrugged. "In lieu of her partaking of these ones, her sense of justice makes her suggestible. Worth a shot, no?"

The Other nodded, though his gaze remained tinged with suspicion. Darkness would swallow the lab as the lights went out, as they tended to when no motion was detected. But this time was different.

"That buzz," the Twin murmured. "It's stopped."

The Other listened. Sure enough, the buzz that'd become background noise ceased. So had the steady pumping of warm air into the lab. The Other stiffened at this revelation.

"This is a waste of time," he said. "That 'department' is on its way. Between hunger and the cold, we may not be able to fight them off-"

"Shut it!" the Twin said. "Betsy could return any moment now!"

"Why are you so sure of her?" the Other asked in a low voice.

"This one believes she meant it when she said she’d help us," the Twin replied.

The Other's jaw dropped in disbelief.

"Is that IT?!" he spat. "You believe her just because she SAID she would?! Did she say it COMPELLINGLY enough?! Stupid one! MORON-"

---

Betsy Winters sat before them soon enough, exhausted and bruised and on the verge of tears. She held up the key.

"Do me a favor and DON'T try to kill me when I let you out," she said. "I've had a real rough night."

"These ones only want out of here," the Twin Ankhanum said.

"Good. Me, too. Guess I better come with, after all."

He grinned.

The Other only watched on in silence.

---

Ankhanum peered over Betsy's barrier of desks. Having just been sent stomach-first into the corner of it, she lay on the floor, groaning.

"Betsy did it! Betsy set these ones free!" he said, offering her a hand.

She pointedly ignored the gesture, and shifted onto her knees. She refused to take her eyes off him as she did so.

"You’re out," Betsy said. "What now?"

---

When Betsy stepped out of the great centipede's arms outside Hassen Communications, it took her in; her clothes in tatters, skin slick with drying blood.

Every last ounce of tension in her body was held in her trembling shoulders, a tiredness in her eyes that gave off the impression she only continued to stand through sheer willpower.

She'd nearly died for them, again. Its continued involvement in her life could only end in her untimely death — as it did for all things the Red Rot touched.

It turned from her, burrowing down, away.

It just barely caught the fall of her face when it did so.

---