Free Inhuman by Kat Falls

before. Probably because he wasn’t trying to be.
    I tore my gaze from him and wiped my sweaty palms on my pants. The office was a mess. Crumpled food wrappers and blue inhalers littered the floor. All the cupboards were flung open and a mini refrigerator sat precariously on a stack of storage bins. Had biohaz agents come here and tossed Dr. Solis’s office because of his association with my father?
    “He’s probably in the lab,” Everson said as he pulled a couple of latex gloves from a box. Since he didn’t seem the least bit alarmed, I figured the doctor must leave his office like this all the time.
    “What kind of doctor is Dr. Solis?”
    “A virologist,” Everson said, pocketing the gloves. “A long time ago he worked for the CDC.”
    “What’s the CDC?” I scooped a midnight-blue inhaler off the floor.
    “The Centers for Disease Control. It was a government agency that got cut before the plague.”
    “What did they do?”
    “Prevent plagues …” He loaded on the irony.
    I snorted. Every history lesson about the early part of this century seemed to end with a ba-dum-bum-ching . I shook the inhaler by my ear but there was no slosh. At one point it had contained a sleeping spray called Lull, which I was somewhat familiar with. It had been prescribed to my father back when he’d had hernia surgery. After just one night, he’d thrown the inhaler away because the Lull had knocked him out cold for twelve hours straight.
    Everson’s dark brows drew together when he saw what I was holding. “The doctor has trouble sleeping.”
    He must — since the trash can contained enough inhalers to conk out a herd of stampeding elephants.
    Everson strode to the desk and picked up an inhaler lying there. “He’s been on call since dawn, so he’ll be dying to sleep.” He met my gaze as he pocketed the Lull. “If he takes a hit before you two talk, you may as well ask the wall about your dad. I’ll tell him you’re here, then I’m going to try to convince a couple of medics to come back to the gate with me.” He headed for the door, snagging a white box off a shelf on his way. At the door, he paused. “Don’t touch anything.”
    I stiffened. Did I look like a thief?
    “I didn’t mean — There are eighteen strains of Ferae in there.” He pointed at the mini fridge. “You don’t want to infect yourself — that’s all I meant.”
    “Oh.” No, I definitely did not want to infect myself. In fact, I was going to sit down and keep my hands in my lap until Dr. Solis showed up. Maybe I’d even keep my breathing to a minimum. I did a slow turn in place, trying to decide what spot looked the least germy. Would it be rude to move the doctor’s paperwork? I eyed the stack of files on the chair next to me. A corner of a photo stuck out from the pile. I stared at it. Moving the stack — questionable. Riffling through it — definitely rude. And yet I reached for the photo, gently pulled it free of the pile … and then nearly swallowed a lung.
    I flipped the photo over before the image gave me brain damage, but of course, within a second I had to take another peek. The picture was of a person’s open mouth with a scattering of oozing sores where teeth should have been. In some of the gaps, new teeth were growing in — triangular, serrated, and definitely not human.
    My conscience pinged but I couldn’t stop myself; I sifted through the stack and found a manila folder labeled “Stage Two: Physical Mutation.” Inside were more photos of human body parts gone very, very wrong. Two curling yellow horns that poked through someone’s dark hair. A child’s fingers that ended in claws. A man’s forearm sprouting patches of spotted fur.
    “Not an attractive bunch, are they?” asked a voice behind me.
    I spun as a man with graying hair closed the office door — Dr. Solis, judging by his white lab coat. He was so willowy that a child could have pushed him over. He smiled. “I don’t suppose they show you