Free The Trap by Andrew Fukuda Page A

slow, it is deliberate, it is hypnotic, and it
is menacing for all these reasons. “Your little shenanigans which you probably think are so intelligent and quick thinking—why, we anticipated them
years
ago. And we designed a
menu of options to deal with every possible response: A, B, and C, as well as iterations A One, B One, and C One.” His voice is thick with smugness. “Your response right now calls for
plan B One.” He presses a button.
    At once, the rectangular outline in the floor slides away, exposing a hole. An enclave emerges through it. The glass is fogged with condensation and it’s impossible to see who is inside.
Then a hand inside the enclave wipes across the glass, revealing eyes, then a face. The face is frightened. The face is young. The face is David.
    “We have our ways of securing cooperation,” the chief advisor whispers.
    Sissy immediately tenses. As she springs toward the enclave, two Originators step forward. I grab her arm, hold her back. The other Originator is aiming the tranquilizer dart gun at her.
    “These darts are loaded with heavy sedatives,” the chief advisor says. “Please don’t make us use them on you.”
    Sissy tries to pull her arm from my grasp.
    “Sissy,” I hiss, “don’t.”
    She shakes with fury but stands her ground, her eyes glowering at the men. One of the Originators walks over to a shelf and removes a shotgun. He returns, stands next to the other two men, his
face bereft of emotion.
    The chief advisor scratches his wrist, his eyes shining with approval. He reaches down to the enclave, presses a button on the side. The glass partition slides open.
    David coughs at the sudden infusion of fresh air, dry, grating heaves. The chief advisor pulls him out, then unceremoniously drops him to the floor. And kicks him in the gut.
    “Hey!” I shout.
    David curls around, grabbing his knees. The chief advisor pulls out of his coat pocket a pair of latex gloves, then withdraws from another pocket a hypodermic needle. It’s filled with a
sudsy yellow fluid. He grabs David’s hair, snaps his head back.
    Sissy leaps forward. As do I. But the armed Originators move forward, shoving their shotgun and dart guns in our faces. We stop.
    The chief advisor stabs the needle into David’s neck, depresses the syringe fully. Within seconds, David’s body goes limp, his head flopping to the ground.
    “What did you inject him with?” Sissy yells.
    “It’s a concentrated compound,” the chief advisor says, placing the hypodermic needle into a ziplock bag. He strips off his latex gloves, balls them into the bag before
carefully sealing it. “Made up of saliva from five different duskers. Centrifuged together, the middle two—and most potent—layers of the mixed compound then removed, a few
preservatives added, and voilà, the yellow liquid. Which is now flowing in David’s bloodstream. Which is now seeping into every organ, every molecule, inside him.”
    Sissy and I together spring toward David, no longer caring about the men and their weapons. They apparently don’t care, either; they lower their weapons. David has already begun shivering,
his skin frigid to the touch, streaming with hot sweat. Then he starts convulsing, his arms flopping against the floor, the flesh of his sweaty skin smacking the smooth tiles.
    “I’m sure Gene already knows this,” the chief advisor says softly, his eyes riveted on David, “but let me spell it out for you just in case. Once infected, a human will
turn into dusker in anywhere between two hours and two days. Saliva from several duskers will exponentially increase this rate of turning.”
    David suddenly arcs his back, his body taut as a pulled bow. His jaw gapes wide, then judders, teeth snapping. The man with the shotgun swings his weapon nervously at David.
    “David, poor child, has been injected with the blood of
five
duskers. He will turn in less than forty seconds. Fifteen seconds have already passed.”
    In my arms,