Chapter 3
Chapter
Three
“It’s been a week,” Tabs says. “We don’t know how long it can survive without eating, but it can’t be indefinitely.”
I try to hand out coffees and keep up with the conversation at the same time. Not the easiest task, since nobody has taken the time to explain anything to me. Ramsey is the only one who thanks me for the cup I hand him; Tabs and Akimov barely seem to register my existence.
“It’s been more sluggish lately,” Ramsey contributes as he adds sugar to his coffee. “Last week it was pacing almost constantly. Now it just stands still most of the time. Its sleep patterns have shifted, too. The hours it spends in the pod have nearly doubled.”
As soon as my hands are empty, I search the cluttered table for a notebook and a pen.
When I flip the notebook open, I find the name John Mulford written in neat letters within.
I open to the first empty page, smooth it back, and begin to add bullet points.
Subject not eating for ~one week. Sluggish behavior. Pacing->Standstill. Increased sleep.
“Intravenous feeding was unsuccessful,” Ramsey says. He glances over, catching my eye, and I realize he’s recapping for me. “We suspect it can’t digest or process anything while it’s in hibernation.”
The scientists fall into a musing silence. I take the opportunity to flip back through the earlier pages in the notebook to see what Mulford was writing.
There are descriptions of the subject’s behaviors, along with lists of foods. There’s a variety of human meals, both raw and prepared, along with dog and cat and bird food. Most of it is crossed out. All of the vegetables, all of the fruits, all of the grains and dairy are marked as no interest.
A limited number of entries have green checkmarks beside them. Beef, pork, chicken, goat. Raw meat, in particular, is highlighted in green. High interest.
I add to my own notes: carnivorous.
“What about live prey?” I murmur to myself, flipping through Mulford’s notes to check.
If X-11 is a carnivore, that means it’s a predator.
And they mentioned that it used to pace, which is a classic sign of stress behavior from trapped animals.
Zoochosis, they call it. It can help to find ways to satisfy their natural instincts.
Live prey could simulate a hunt for X-11.
I didn’t think the question was audible until I notice Ramsey looking at me. The other two are still engaged in a conversation about different cuts of meat.
“It may be worth taking another look at live prey,” Ramsey says slowly, and the others look over.
“As I’ve said before, I’m wary of exposing the subject to potential pathogens,” Akimov says, a furrow between his brows.
“The benefits may outweigh the risks at this point,” Ramsey says. “Earth pathogens may be detrimental to the subject, but starvation is taking a toll.”
Akimov fixes his pale eyes on Ramsey and dips his chin in a slow, thoughtful nod. “I suppose it’s worth a try.”
While the others begin to discuss ways to get a live animal safely into the containment cell, Ramsey steps back to my side and gives me a small, approving nod.
“Good thinking,” he says.
I glance up from my note-taking to offer a small smile. It’s a small gesture, but mollifying, given that the other scientists seem to believe it was Ramsey’s idea instead of mine.
That’s fine, I tell myself. I didn’t come here to be recognized. My plan has always been to avoid drawing too much attention to myself. Plus, this will mean avoiding the blame if something goes wrong.
Regret curls in my gut as I stare at the rabbit through the bars of its tiny cage. It blinks up at me, pink nose twitching. It’s one of a dozen animals I ordered in case we need to perform multiple tests.
Of course the logistics of ordering a lab animal fell to me. As soon as the research stock center heard that the order was from the MRF, they didn’t ask any questions. That part was easy. But this will be hard.
I’m terrified that I won’t be able to go through with it if Akimov asks me to deliver the animal myself. But thankfully, Tabs volunteers. The rest of us watch through the security cameras as he carries the cage to the cell door.
As with other supplies, the rabbit will be delivered through a simple antechamber system similar to an airlock, requiring no contact with the alien.
Tabs enters through the external door, opens the cage, sets it down, and leaves.
Once the external door locks again, Ramsey opens the inner door with the press of a button, and the rabbit is able to hop out and venture into the alien’s cell.
Ramsey pulls the lever to open the metal shutters, and he and Akimov crowd around the observation window.
I’m less eager to watch whatever is about to play out, but I do need to take notes.
Plus, admittedly, a part of me is eager to catch my first glimpse of the alien since the day I began working here.
So I step closer, craning my neck to get a decent view between the two larger men.
The rabbit hops forward onto the tile, ears up. Curious, and not yet afraid.
The subject is nowhere to be seen. The glass covering its bed has tinted dark, turning opaque.
But after a moment, the covering hisses open and a tentacle slithers out from within.
I’m startled by its appearance—I have yet to see the alien in its true form—but after a moment, the surface of that slender, blue appendage ripples, colors morphing, muscle shifting beneath as it splits and changes into a human hand.
The glass lifts and X-11 sits up on the bed, once again disguised as the lab assistant it attacked.
It lands on the tile on bare human feet and goes still, gaze intent on the small animal exploring the cell.
Ramsey and Akimov are both silent. I’m holding my breath.
The alien tilts its head. It twitches slightly as the rabbit jumps closer, muscles tense beneath its lab coat, and something ripples unnaturally underneath the fabric on its back. But it relaxes again and, after a moment, crouches down. One large hand darts out and snatches the small creature up.
I suck in a shaky breath, bracing myself for violence, a spray of blood. I don’t want to see that small, fragile life be torn away—don’t want to see a carnivore dig into raw meat while wearing a human mask—but I can’t look away, either, my pen poised above my notebook.
The rabbit is frozen in the way of caught prey. The alien lifts it to its face, and its nostrils flare in a sniff. It turns the tiny animal one way and then another, inspecting it. I can only imagine how fast its tiny heart must be beating. How helpless it must feel.
“Come on,” Ramsey breathes. “I know you’re hungry.”
The alien glances toward the glass. It’s impossible that it heard that—surely it’s impossible; it was barely audible to me—but its eyes narrow. It sets the rabbit down and straightens up, beginning to turn away as though it’s lost interest.
The rabbit is still for a moment. Perhaps processing the fact that it is still alive. And then, all at once, it turns and bolts toward the door.
In a fraction of a second, the alien is on top of it.
A tentacle flashes through the air to wrap around it—but then the tentacle is a hand again, lifting the animal toward a snarling mouth suddenly full of huge, sharp teeth.
The human mask distorts as its jaw opens too wide, revealing far too many teeth, and it bites the rabbit in half.
I clamp a hand over my mouth to suppress a startled exclamation.
I wasn’t ready for the sudden shock of violence or the feral, furious energy the alien moves with.
There’s an unsettling blankness in its eyes as it shoves the rabbit into its mouth, teeth ripping through fur and muscle and bone alike without a moment’s hesitation.
After devouring most of the rabbit in two swift chomps, it pauses suddenly.
The alien tosses the remains of the rabbit away and recoils, snarling, spitting blood on the floor.
It backs into the corner and sinks into a crouch.
Akimov and Ramsey exclaim and shake hands, all grins. I shake off my lingering shock and begin to take notes.
Instinctive predatory behavior, I write. Hunting seems involuntary, reflexive, when faced with live prey.
When I look up, I freeze. The alien’s unnervingly human face is stained with gore, and its pale eyes are furious as it glares at us.
I know logically that it can’t see through the one-way mirror between us…
but still, I can’t fight the discomfiting sensation that its attention is locked on me. Like it senses me.
The rabbit is considered a huge success, even though the alien retreats to its sleep chamber and leaves the remains of the corpse out to rot.
The next morning, Tabs releases another rabbit into the enclosure…but the sleep chamber remains shut. The alien refuses to leave its chamber to investigate.
“Its vitals indicate it’s awake,” Ramsey says, checking one of the screens. “But not reacting.”
He hits a button to manually force the sleep chamber open. The tinted glass slides open to reveal the creature in its human guise, facing away from the door, ignoring both us and its prey.
“Surely the rabbit didn’t satisfy its hunger,” Akimov says, rubbing at his wrinkled brow with one finger as he speaks. “It used to consume much more than that regularly. But it’s resisting its urges.”
I tap my pen against the notebook, thinking back to the way the alien went after the rabbit.
It hadn’t been initially interested, but the way the animal fled triggered its predatory instincts.
Its reaction afterward, however, was the truly interesting part.
It seemed upset. Disgusted, or angry. But why?
“Maybe it needs larger prey,” Tabs suggests. “It’s huge in its natural state. A rabbit is hardly a meal.”
“We can’t risk sending anything that could injure the subject,” Akimov says. “Given its current lethargy…”