The halls were empty. The last person Phillip saw was a female intern leaving a neighboring lab, heading toward the stairwell not long after the alarm first sounded. Phillip hadn’t seen anyone since.

“When we get outside, Phil,” Brenda began, “whatever’s out there, remember not to feed the trolls.” The lulls in the alarm allowed minimal conversation, the brief silence peaceful, until the alarm wailed again.

Phillip looked at Brenda, catching a glimpse of her sly glance following the joke. He smiled. The joke reminded him of Jackie, the sole motivation for his project. It was the advice he expected her to take when dealing with bullies--people who didn’t want to understand her condition. Then again, it’s always easier to tell others how to handle things.

Phillip wondered if he could ever apply his advice to his life. He wasn’t dealing with children bullying him because they didn’t like his shoes or thought he was a nerd for wearing glasses. He was dealing with adults--some of whom were other reputable scientists--judging him not for a simple error in his research but for an unpredictable phenomenon. Phillip’s mistake cost a little boy his consciousness and his parents’ trust in medical discovery. It was Phillip’s fault the state of California was in an uproar. Hundreds of residents were “infected” with the “things” that turned Bobby Welding into a “maniac”, and people were terrified it would happen again.

Phillip and Brenda turned right when they hit a T-junction. As they continued down the hall, Phillip spotted a piece of paper on the floor. One became two became a stream, until they traveled over a pile. He peered down the corridor, raising an eyebrow at the line of wide-open doors. Even the alarm, having masked every sound, left a cold, paralyzing stillness that prickled Phillip’s nerves. He turned to his wife, ready to discuss the peculiar observations. Brenda wasn’t beside him. Twisting around, Phillip was met with Brenda’s pale, horrified expression. Confused fear struck him. His eyes followed her fixed gaze.

He dropped his research to the floor. “Good God…”

Blood trailed across the long rectangular windows framing the entrance to the third floor Botany Lab. Beyond those windows, a ravaged workspace of turned-over tables and tossed chairs, broken glass and fallen file cabinets. Paper littered everywhere. And blood--there was so much blood.

Brenda wrapped her arm under Phillip’s. She might have said something. She could’ve said anything. All Phillip could hear was the alarm. All he could see was the destruction in front of him. All he could feel was the panic creeping into his chest, beating his heart against his ribs.

Phillip looked down the hall the way they came, then directed his gaze the way they were going. Nothing indicated anyone was still around, but they couldn’t just stand there, gawking. They needed to move. Phillip began to walk, unintentionally pulling his wife along with him. He reached into his lab coat pocket to retrieve his cell phone. With each passing moment, the real cause for the alarm became apparent, and Phillip could hardly stomach it.

“Where are we going?” Brenda shouted.

Phillip strode down the hall, fiddling with his phone, inwardly trying to discredit his horrible assumption. The blood-stained walls didn’t help. “Same as before,” he shouted back, “only faster.” The phone wouldn’t turn on. He stuffed it back into his pocket, waiting for a drop in the alarm to say, “Let me see your phone.”

Brenda pulled her phone out and handed it to Phillip. “What’s going on?”

Phillip said nothing. Admitting he had no idea what was happening would make his powerlessness feel too real. He had to focus on getting help and getting out.

He dialed 911 and brought the phone to his ear. A high-pitched beep answered. “All dispatchers are busy handling other emergency calls at this time. Please do not hang up.” Phillip hung up and re-dialed. The automated message replayed. Phillip hung up again, cursing under his breath, discarding the phone in his coat pocket. The alarm should’ve notified the authorities immediately. This should’ve been handled, yet the alarm was still screaming, and it seemed as if Phillip and Brenda were the only people around.

Phillip guided Brenda past lab after lab. The carnage followed, and Phillip’s assumption rang truer. Folders and loose papers strewn the floor. Handprints stamped the walls in blood. Trails of red led through doorways to the rooms beyond. They stared in horror, but neither investigated; the implication was enough for the both of them.

As they approached the third floor Pathology Lab--the last room before the stairwell--Phillip stopped at a puddle of something in the middle of the hall. It was a mixture of brown and red, and it smelled awful.

Brenda stepped out from behind Phillip, slapping a hand over her nose and mouth.

At a drop in the alarm, like a carrying whisper, Phillip heard a groan. He shot a look at the Pathology Lab’s door. It was ajar.

“Did you hear that?” Phillip turned his ear to the door. “I think someone’s in there.” He reached for the doorknob, only for Brenda to yank him back.

Brenda shook her head, her eyes wide, her face pale.

Phillip gave her a wounded look, stealing glimpses at the Pathology Lab. “There’s someone in there,” he said, barely audible over the alarm.

Regardless if Brenda actually heard him, or it was just a coincidence, she shouted, “The alarm is playing tricks on you!” She tugged his arm. “We need to leave!”

If Phillip was right, and it appeared he was, then a biohazard was loose within the facility. He couldn’t walk away knowing someone needed help. “We can’t leave them!” He pulled himself free and went for the door, sliding through the opening, disappearing into the room.

The flashing white lights slashed through the darkness, the guttural cry of the alarm begging something to sneak up behind you. Phillip fumbled for the light switch. The ceiling bulbs flickered on, illuminating a seemingly empty lab. Other than a computer chair pushed too far from its desk and a few pieces of paper on the floor, the room was tidy—or as tidy as a research lab can be. There were slides and cultures at stations, even a pair of glasses had been left sitting next to one of the microscopes.

“Hello?” Phillip called out. “Is anyone there?” A headache formed behind his eyes. It was faint, but it was there. He was growing tired of having to compete with the alarm. The authorities should’ve arrived a long time ago; the alarm had been on for well over an hour. If the authorities arrived, they would’ve shut the alarm off. Why hadn’t they come?

Phillip hated pondering “what if” scenarios, though science birthed discoveries based on such things. His mind wasn’t buzzing with ideas; it buzzed with fear and worry, and those “what ifs” weren’t making discoveries. They created nightmarish scenarios involving every horror movie trope Phillip had ever seen.

With every bit of strength, he pushed the obscene thoughts away, walking deeper into the lab, past abandoned research and data, past equipment left in the middle of use. Nothing indicated anyone was still around. Maybe Brenda was right. Maybe the alarm was playing tricks on him. Nobody was there. And Phillip was wasting time.

As Phillip turned, ready to leave, there was another groan. It was louder, clearer, closer. Phillip whipped back around, continuing his search, his eyes scanning the lab. He halted at the sight of a foot sticking out from behind a desk. The foot flinched.

“Hello?” Phillip called out.

The foot retracted, and the person rose. The man stood with a slight hunch in his back, his eyes glazed, his jaw slacked. His short gray hair was wild and his skin was pale. Dr. Stanley Pearce, Senior Pathologist. He and Phillip had worked together for years.

The tear in Stanley’s coat sleeve caught Phillip’s eye. The material was drenched in red. “Stanley?” Phillip’s eyes darted between the wound and Stanley’s face. “Stanley, are you okay?”

Stanley wobbled before finding some sort of balance. He said nothing, staring at Phillip with a dazed expression as he stumbled drunkenly around the desk.

A chill straightened Phillip’s spine—a chill that demanded he turn and run. His racing heart and trembling knees agreed. “Stanley.” Phillip’s voice quavered. “Please talk to me.”

Stanley stopped at the front of the table. When he went to speak, he doubled over, wrapping his arms around himself. Vomit poured from his mouth. He retched and retched, the viscous liquid splattering on the linoleum.

Phillip stepped back. As he watched his colleague vomit, an awful thought bled into his mind, threatening to rise the more he forced it away. There was a biohazard loose in the facility. There was no doubt about it...but its origin...Phillip shook the absurd thought away. It was impossible.

Stanley adjusted himself, his movements slow and crooked, until his gaze settled on Phillip. His eyes were no longer glazed but fixed with an intense focus.

The air in the room thickened. Phillip’s heart beat faster, his knees threatening to give way at any moment. His intuition burned with a single command: run.

Phillip put up his hands in surrender as he slowly backed away. Stanley matched those steps, going forward, rolling his shoulders, cocking his head from side to side. “Stanley,” Phillip said, “whatever’s going on, you don’t—” Phillip smacked into the corner of a table. He hissed, grasping at his hip.

Stanley kept coming, unfazed by Phillip’s words, more interested in his movements. He cornered Phillip against the table, towering over him.

Like a child, Phillip trembled in fear as his colleague’s bloodshot eyes picked him apart. He could smell the vomit on Stanley’s breath, the acidic aroma churning his gut.

Stanley licked his lips, then opened his mouth. His tongue glided across his upper teeth, saliva dribbling down his chin.

As Phillip fought the urge to yell, that awful thought sank deeper, rooting itself, until it was the only possible answer. It didn’t make any sense, and Phillip prayed he was wrong...

“Hey!” Brenda’s voice was half horror, half confused, but it cut through the alarm loud enough that Stanley shot her a look. He growled a gargled noise that made Phillip’s skin crawl.

Taking the opportunity with haste, Phillip drove his knee between Stanley’s thighs. The Pathologist howled, and when he stumbled back, Phillip maneuvered around the table and fled. He grabbed his wife’s hand, yanking her along. Brenda slammed the door behind them.

The pair hurried to the stairwell. Brenda shouted for Phillip to tell her what happened, but Phillip didn’t answer.

What he inferred wasn’t sensical, was it? No. It couldn’t be. And yet...

Dr. Stanley Pearce’s symptoms were comparable to Bobby’s symptoms: strange behavior, unresponsive, hyperfixation, burst blood vessels in the sclera, vomiting...There was no denying it. It was unmistakable. And it hardened Phillip’s stomach like a rock.

He didn't know how, but what happened to Bobby was happening to his colleagues.