Phillip lunged for the second floor door, stopped only by the sight of someone--something--shuffling on the other side. He stared in shock, his hand inches from the door’s handle. The bodies came and went.

A hand slapped the window, pulling a woman behind it; her breath fogged the glass. She lazily rolled her neck, scrutinizing Phillip with wide, bloodshot eyes. Her fist met the door. Again...again...again! The hollow sounds boomed through the well. Others swarmed her like cockroaches. Soon a mix of faces overtook the window, casting Phillip in a daunting shadow. From the first floor, stumbling footsteps grew louder, nearer. There was no other choice. He had to go higher.

The first of the mob was steps away from Phillip as he lunged for the third floor door. His fingers barely touched the handle before he was yanked back--nearly thrown down the stairs. The menacing gaze of a security guard seized him as he regained his balance.

Phillip straightened. He raised trembling hands in surrender, squinting to read the man’s name tag pinned on his uniform. In a tremulous voice, he shouted, “Dar-Daryl...Daryl! You don’t have to do this!”

The guard’s hands twitched as he drew quick breaths. From the look in his hemorrhaged eyes, Daryl was a man who no longer existed.

“I know you aren’t feeling well,” Phillip continued. “I can help you.” The lie turned his stomach. He had no idea if he could help him. He had no knowledge of these creatures other than the little he observed in the last hour. From the information gathered on Bobby Welding, vitals were higher than normal; awareness heightened; cognitive function decreased; aggression increased. Bobby was still alive--he just wasn’t Bobby. As a scientist, Phillip couldn’t accept categorizing a group based on data recorded from one member. As someone fighting for his life, it was all he could do. His colleagues were alive--they had to be. If there was any consciousness left, it was turned off. It just needed to be retriggered. Maybe that’s what Phillip had to do.

If only the climbing footsteps weren’t getting louder.

Phillip stepped forward, stealing glimpses of the door. “I know something’s inside you, Daryl,” he said. Daryl cocked his head, like he was listening--or maybe he was mindless and appreciated the noise coming from Phillip’s mouth. Either way, he seemed attentive. “I know it’s telling you what to do, but you don’t have to do it. You can resist.” Phillip took another step. “Do you have a wife, Daryl? A child?”

Daryl’s eyes narrowed, then widened. His snarl softened to a quivering lip.

Phillip picked up on the cues and pushed the boundary. “They wouldn’t want this, Daryl,” he said. “They’d want you to fight this, so you can go home.”

They stared at each other--the alarm, the flashing lights, the echo of footsteps, all of it seemed to disappear as they locked gazes. Daryl’s knees wobbled stepping forward, a timid, fearful look seeping into his stone expression. Tears glistened in his eyes.

Every ounce of air left Phillip’s lungs. It was working.

Daryl reached out. The urge to reciprocate struck Phillip, his heart leaping from his chest. Would it set Daryl off if he didn’t?

With a shaky hand, Phillip returned the gesture, his fingers grazing Daryl’s.

Daryl’s shoulders went limp as he stared longingly at the small embrace. He opened his mouth, as if to speak, only to clamp his teeth shut and stumble backwards. His face twisted in pain. He groaned--grunted--winced, doubling over, shaking his head.

“Daryl?” Phillip cried.

Daryl’s scream set Phillip’s feet like concrete. The guard hit himself in the head--over and over and over and over.

Mouth agape, Phillip watched in horror. “Daryl! Stop!”

Daryl jolted upright. The look of fear was gone, replaced by a hard, fixed stare.

Phillip extended his hand. “Daryl,” he said in a gentle tone. “You have to fight it. You have to.”

Daryl’s head twitched. His hands trembled.

“Please, Daryl. What about your family? You have to try. You have to try for the-”

Daryl leapt.

Phillip dodged, and the guard struck the railing. “P-Please!” Phillip shouted. “You don’t have to do this! You don’t have to listen to them!” Daryl whipped around, his lip curling into a snarl. He pounced again. Phillip dove out of the way, landing at the edge of the staircase. Daryl faced him, panting, growling. Phillip stood, using the railing as a crutch. “I’m begging you,” he whimpered. “Please--”

Daryl charged. Phillip evaded the attack, and the guard tumbled down the stairs just as the infested mob rounded the platform.

Phillip bit his lip listening to the groans. A twinge of sadness prickled his eyes as he hurried out of the stairwell. He didn’t look back.

Daryl was the first to fling himself at the door. His snarling face only hurt Phillip more. The second and third of the crowd joined Daryl. Three became five became too many to count, the image behind the window a squirming mass of limbs.

Phillip rubbed his forehead and sniffled, fighting back tears. It almost worked. He had Daryl--he had him. Then he was gone again. Was it worth it?

He scanned the indistinguishable body parts as they pressed against the glass. The door handle jiggled. He sucked in a breath. Surely those things weren’t smart enough to...He shook his head; he couldn’t risk finding out. He bolted down the hall, past the all-too-familiar blood stains and destruction.

The stairwell door burst open moments later, the echo of metal smacking concrete shooting nails into Phillip’s spine.

He looked over his shoulder. They were gaining on him, their movements more precise, smooth, quick. He turned back in time to collide with someone.

Phillip somersaulted several times before landing still, sprawled out on the cold linoleum floor. His ears rang, and his vision spun. The former secretary stood, then twisted to bare teeth at her prey; red veins snaked across manic eyes. Phillip scrambled to his feet and ran.

Pumping his arms faster, he begged his muscles not to quit. But those things were too close, and he was too tired. He couldn’t go on. He darted into a nearby room, slamming and locking the door just as the former secretary reached for him. The pounding fists came soon after.

It was dark save for the flashing lights. Phillip flicked the light switch on to reveal an empty, cramped Histology lab. An L-shaped island centered the room; counters, cabinets, and shelves lined the side and back walls. Microscopes sat on the island in front of each chair. Binders, folders, boxes of latex gloves, and bottles of staining solution riddled everywhere in between. Brown slop freckled the floor.

Out of breath and drenched in sweat, Phillip stripped his lab coat and threw it over a chair. He had to think--he couldn’t think. His thoughts felt like static. He spun a chair around and sat down, burying his face in his hands.

Maybe those things would forget what they were doing. Maybe they’d think he was gone and wander off. Maybe if he just stayed quiet...Wherever rationalizing led him, it helped ease his racing mind. If only Brenda’s mind could be eased. She had to be worried sick, terrified and distraught.

He leaned back and stared at the ceiling. He and Brenda had been together for twenty years, and of those twenty years, they had been married for fifteen. She was the first person he pitched this catastrophic idea to. She was the one who told him to go for it. He worked on ParaSymbio for years and Brenda only ever cheered him on. She was a wonderful woman, with a wonderful heart. And she made it out. He had to believe she did, for his sanity.

As he listened to the panting and grunting lingering behind the door, he didn’t know if he deserved the same mercy.