Brian walked hastily down the hall, through the double doors at the end of the corridor, and out into the early morning. The sky was still dark, but it was tinged with the first signs of dawn. The winter air bit through his thin lab coat, the fabric of his dark slacks, and he shivered. He passed several chain-link cages with writhing human forms concealed within. As he stepped by each cage, he heard them -- the twisting groans and moans of the Infected.

        Grrrrraaaaaaaoorrrrrrr...

        Huurrrrraaaaaaggghh...

        Arrraacckkk!

        A particularly aggressive young woman slammed herself into the nearest wall of mesh beside him, but Brian gave her no satisfaction, no reaction. His brown dress shoes crunched against the worn asphalt beneath him as he pressed onward. A G.U.A.R.D. soldier saluted him as he approached the steps of the next building. He slipped his hands into his pockets as he ascended to the next set of doors, leaving the commotion of the afflicted behind him.

        "Dr. Stevens."

        "Hello, sir. Good morning."

        "We've got a few more rounded up. I'm sure you saw."

        "Did you hear about the latest batch of Sound Spheres from R&D? Expanded range."

        Brian left one storm of sounds for another -- various colleagues said things to him as he encountered them. He provided them with a few affirmations or nods as appropriate, but he did not stop. 

        Step.

        Step.

        Step.

        Step.

        He kept walking. He made it to the elevator where he called for the sublevel below him -- B1. It took only a moment for him to arrive at his destination. He stepped into a large room, adorned with drafting tables, laboratory equipment, and an assortment of glass containers. His eyes flashed to the far wall, where a withered map of the West Coast had been hung, crudely adorned with red thumbtacks and yarn.

        We're containing this thing. We are, he told himself, his eyes following the large black trail of yarn that ran up the state lines of California, Oregon, and Washington. The Line -- it pulled around the small blip of Vegas before tightening back up between Southern California and Arizona. Brian sighed. He thought of his father again -- his final images of him, but before the nightmarish scene could take hold, he cleared his throat, shook his head, and made his way over to his workstation, at which sat a small glass chamber. This chamber had an opening equipped with a rubber glove that allowed Brian to reach into it without, of course, breaking any seal. And, at the center of this little container was...

        ...IT.

        The organism responsible for all the madness. The mass of cells -- a growth about the size of a half-dollar coin -- looked like a little white blob of mold. Or maybe slime. A slime mold. It behaved as such, after all. An assemblage of individual microscopic organisms that, when bonded, formed a network, capable of growth and movement.

        Brian sighed. "We're going to figure you out," he whispered, the words barely audible under his labored breath. He stuck his hand, already protected with a blue latex glove, into the sleeve of the glass container, reaching toward the small mass at the center of the chamber. "We're close. I know it..."

        He wiggled his fingers, imitating a tickling movement. The collection of cells rippled and shuddered and then, almost imperceptibly, it moved towards Brian's hand. As he extended his index finger out to it, so too did the little mass of cells extend itself out to him. It pulsed and then shifted upward to form the tiniest of proto-appendages, which almost looked like a mushroom. A bulbous tip, a thin stalk.

        Something so small, doing so much damage... thought Brian with a quiet chuckle. As he watched the mass slowly latch onto the very tip of his gloved finger. It twisted and branched its way up to where his nail was concealed and remained there a moment.

        Still behaving predictably. That's good. Brian cleared his throat and removed his hand from the container. He slid over to a desk at the opposite wall and began consulting some notes.

        Sound wave response...

        Dormancy period...

        Regenerative properties... (similar to axolotl cells)...

        Brian reached forward and typed away at a few keys on his laptop. The blue light of the screen reflected images and information:

        ...titillatio monstrum brain infection...

     Brian preferred this to the other moniker assigned to the contagion, the one that invoked his family name: Stevens Pathogen.

        ...collection of single-celled microscopic organisms...collect to produce fruiting bodies in the form of a plasmodial mold that produces spores...

        ...shows parasitic properties...

        ...not 100% communicable...skin-to-skin contact as most viable means of transference. Once having breached the skin barrier on a human host, the cells hijack the nervous system to travel to the brain where it releases psychosis-inducing chemicals to induce behavioral changes that ultimately result in--

        There came a few sharp knocks at the laboratory door, the crack of a door, and then a familiar voice. "Bri?"

        Brian turned to the woman who had joined him. Chloe. Like him, she was wearing a long lab coat, and she was clutching a clipboard with some documents to her chest. The dim lighting made her look more pale than usual, contrasting sharply with her hair, eyebrows, and eyes. "The Ramirezes have returned. There was another...incident out on the field."

        Brian raised a brow. "Are they okay?"

        "Yes."

        "Good."

        "But they picked up a few civilians."

        "Okay."

        "One of them claims..." Chloe's voice drifted off. She thought a moment, then continued. "One of them claimed to have been studying the Infected. He was traveling with his infected brother."

        This piqued Brian's interest. "Is the garg in containment?"

        "No," she said. "Killed in an altercation when the Ramirezes encountered the civilians."

        Brian sighed, then stood. "What's the civilian's name? The one who was studying the Infected?"

        "We're not sure."

        "What?"

        "He's not talking. He seems to be in shock. Juliana's the one who relayed the information to me."

        "Ah." Brian sat himself down again. "Well, let me know if he comes out of it. I'd like to speak with him."

        Chloe hovered.

        Brian turned back to her. "Is...there something else?"

        "One more thing." She consulted the clipboard a moment. "Regarding one of the other civilians. We do know his name. An 'Andrew Adler'?"

        "Okay."

        "We tested all of them for infection before they were granted access to the medical bay."

        "Chloe, that's protocol." Brian was growing frustrated. "Why are you telling me this?"

        She took a hesitant breath, then stepped forward and handed him the clipboard. "There was...something a little unusual about his results that I think you should see."

        Brian took the notes in hand and surveyed the medical reports. His eyebrows lifted, and he felt a strange, familiar fluttering in his heart. Then, the tingling aftershock of a warning radiating around his underarm. He shook away the sensations, rolling his shoulder, then looked up at his colleague, his friend. "Huh. I mean, it could be nothing, right?"

        "Of course. Could be nothing," she repeated. "But...didn't you--er, don't you have similar reactions when..." Her voice trailed off. She locked eyes with him. There was something uncertain floating behind her gaze.

        Brian hesitated a moment, then sighed. "Where is he, Chloe?" he asked.​