The Hunt

Mangled and alone, clinging to the last drops of what constituted life;

the prey of an apex predator.

Night, especially that specific, eerie darkness of a deep winter night, can be terrifying.

Some might even say, chilling.

Well, they would say that if they, like me, enjoy inflicting soul crushing puns on others.

In winter, darkness dominates. The distant sun imparts only a few meager hours of cold, listless light. A blanket of snow dampens the sounds of life; animals are in hibernation or have fled somewhere more habitable. Most others retreat to their dens with the hastily deepening twilight. With the withdrawal of life, a hush descends over the world like a shroud, leaving us alone (or maybe not so alone) in the frigid, velvet dark to fend for ourselves.

The above shot – one of my all-time favourites – evokes the memory of those too quiet nights and is, in part, the inspiration for the following story.

The Hunt

Our story begins on a day rife with tension. A coalescing mass of grey cloud is conspiring to eradicate errant sun beams while a wind, humid and heavy as an unwelcome breath on your neck, disperses the congregated piles of leaves. A small, proud building encased in its shell of hunkering brick, low and wide, sits next to the swell of an overpass. Its exposed flat roof a receptacle of wayward litter from the passing bridge-goers. Beyond the sparse bare-wood fencing that, at this late hour, corrals nothing but the evenly spaced and reminiscently orange lines of vacant parking stalls, the light from a single office glows tenaciously against the gloom. Inside sits a woman at a desk. Her long fingers are entangled deep in her unbound chestnut hair that falls past her face and shoulder in a curtain that obscures our view. We can hear the “tap, tap, tap” as she seesaws her pen against the table, giving form to her anxiety. 

The speakerphone atop the grey-green steel desk exposes the climax of a conversation:

“The point is, Eric, you saw that man mugging me and you did nothing! You turned and walked away. Thankfully, he was only interested in my wallet.”  She squeezes the pen tightly, abruptly disrupting the metronome.

“I’m sorry, Emily, but what was I supposed to do?” a masculine voice inquires with impatience. “Run in to save you and get robbed too?” 

Emily fluidly sweeps the swath of hair behind her ear, unveiling the contortion of her face. “You could have at least stuck around to check if I was all right!” she responds with sharp savagery.

Advising the disembodied voice that he should retrieve his belongings from her home before the city does, she twists her finger forcefully against the ‘end call’ button. Never has a physical phone receiver been so missed. Imbued with wicked force fueled by her aggravated cry, her pen takes flight across the room. The violent crack of an unsuspecting certificate’s frame predicates its abrupt clatter to the floor.

Emily buries both hands in her hair, supporting her head as it hangs over the impartial metal surface, as if holding it back might hold back her emotions. Her grief, her frustration is palpable. A familiar bitter longing ebbs through her with each beat of her heart. Emily, poor Emily, who tries so hard to do everything right, who caters to her partners’ every need, cannot understand what she is doing wrong. She worries about how she will pay her rent. She wonders if she’ll always be alone. I advise you to pull back now, as misery loves company. 

Securing a fresh pen from its cylindrical mesh holder, she resumes her tapping. Today’s newspaper, huddled at the far edge of her desk, promises a distraction and she pulls it over eagerly. She stares at it a long while, skimming, not truly reading. Oh, but here something catches her eye; she drags the ballpoint across the page, marking a classified advertisement that reads:

Want to enhance your intuition?

Drug Trial Subjects Needed

$5000.00 upon completion of 30 day trial

Apply online: www.unleashyourpotential.org

Having found what she did not know she was searching for, she gathers her things, tucking the paper under her arm. Upon leaving the small office, she extinguishes the light, leaving the gloom to its devices.

~

Some days later we see her again as she enters The Facility, descending the secured stairway from the factory floor above. The myriad questions plaguing her riddle her features with doubt, but her stride is purposeful and determined. The fabric of her pencil skirt whispers with each stroke of her legs, the eager swish of her ponytail following behind her.

The gleaming white lobby, in sharp contrast to the grime-caked industrialization above, boasts a sterile attempt at comfort. The polished tiled floor reflects the fluorescent lighting, while the backless white leather couches stand stoically atop it. They are prepared to do their duty if you must sit, but prefer that you don’t. Immaculate mirrored walls perpetuate the scene into eternity.

Beyond the waiting area is a rectangular reception desk, with rounded edges to downplay its authority. A professionally dressed woman with warm brown skin, close-cropped black hair, and laden with golden jewelry stands waiting – a gatekeeper. Her beauty draws one’s focus so completely that the umpteen gaping doorways beyond her are barely noticeable. As it would be unthinkable to do otherwise, Emily approaches, the click of her high-heeled shoes being swallowed by the expanse of empty air.

“Ah, welcome to Immanity,” the woman says with a subdued smile, genuine but controlled; her curt silver name tag designates her as Alexia. Her voice, the lilt of an accent, rolls sweetly off her tongue.  “Emily,” she states, tapping her computer screen. The motion sets off a cascading tinkle from her array of bracelets. “Carline will escort you from here.” Another jangling wave of her hand simultaneously directs and dismisses her patron.

A hitch of surprise brings Emily’s hand to her chest. Another woman waits, previously unnoticed, off to the right. She is so slight and pale that she barely stands out against the starkness of her surroundings. A momentary curl of Emily’s lip expresses her discomfort as she meets the eye of the new, shrew-faced woman whose white-blond bob emphasizes her sharp, unpleasant features. Emily follows her through one of the numerous entrances and they pad down the narrow, tile-lined hallway lit by more scrutinizing fluorescents. The sound of their footsteps echo hollowly; the quiet is heavy and unnerving.

“Where is everyone?” Emily wants to know. 

The guide rolls her eyes dismissively, “Busy.” Elaborating on inane questions wasn’t worth her time. 

They arrive at a portentous white door – the same in appearance as the innumerable others they passed, but with an air of foreboding. The escort motions to it with a grimace of disgusted pity. “Here,” she snarls with snide impatience. She’d stopped at this door. Surely, she shouldn’t have to explain that this is their destination. 

Emily hesitantly reaches for the handle, watching the other woman for some direction but receiving only exasperation. As the handle turns, the door swings inward, the maw unleashes a flood of darkness, and we step inside.

The small, sparsely furnished room is packed with shadows cast by the single overhead light that emits a gauzy halo around the visage of a dental chair. Machines huddle back against the walls, blinking lights of various colours peering like glowing eyes. “Don’t mind the lighting,” says a man tinkering at a bench in the corner. “Migraines,” he elaborates, touching his forefinger to his temple for emphasis. Waddling over to his guest, he assesses her, looking her up and down through his round spectacles from her shoulder height. The bounce of his short, loose curls from above is mesmerizing. 

“I’m here about the trial,” Emily volunteers, shifting her weight awkwardly. The man in the lab coat shakes off an unseen reverie, then grins at her, all teeth and no joy.

“Of course, of course, of course! You’re expected, Emily. I am Dr. Matias Windrow. You may address me as Doctor.”

“What are you a doctor of?” the question spills from her mouth before she can catch it. 

“Why, science, my dear,” He grinned his uncomfortable grin. “Let’s get started, shall we?”

A lab technician is summoned – Heath, he’s introduced as – and the Doctor settles himself on a stool, silhouetted by the glow of the computer screen. 

Heath works meticulously, placing the wired pads at regular intervals on the subject’s skin. His work requires him to lean closely across the woman’s body so that she cannot help but inhale his scent, which is not unpleasant. He is a tall man and well-muscled, with an opening above his eyebrow where a ring once belonged. An unbidden flush rises in Emily’s cheeks. Heath passes a trembling hand over his buzz cut. Inevitably, fleeting eye contact is made and awkward smiles exchanged. While this happens, the Doctor explains in great rambling detail his design and the part she, as a test subject, would play. Distilled, we learn: 

1. This drug would heighten her sensitivity to others’ pheromones. The theory was that this would allow her to better sense people’s intentions. 
2. Based on findings with rats, this may make her more fearful, aggressive or horny depending on the stimuli. 
3. This was cutting edge stuff, the future of human evolution, and she gets to be a part of it, isn’t that great?
4. Once the hormone cycle was complete, her body would begin to replicate it, possibly making the effects permanent.
5. She signed a confidentiality agreement, and she wasn’t to tell anyone about this trial or her experiences at the facility.

By the conclusion of Windrow’s monologue, Emily is covered in transmitters whose wires form a net, feeding into the large machine nearby. Last, Heath asks her to clench her fist as he inserts a tube-like needle into the crease of her elbow to funnel her blood samples into a host of vials. As Heath heels to Windrow, Emily’s longing gaze is intercepted by the garish glare of dancing light reflecting off the small man’s mirrored glasses. His mad grin and white coat’s incandescence exaggerates the contrast of his darkness dappled features, creating an ephemeral monstrosity. The remaining blood rushes from her face, leaving her as pallid as her pedestal.

“Here we will establish a baseline, a mapping. Try to breathe normally. We will measure your body’s reaction to stimuli. It will not hurt, only tingle. It is important to let your feelings roll through you.” As he explains this, the obedient assistant wheels an ancient tube television and VCR – atop a reliquary palanquin in the guise of a trundling cart – into her view. The radiating light is reassuring but fails to stop the incessant drumming of her fingertips against the chair’s leather arm. “Take a deep breath and we begin.” She closes her eyes and complies.

The soft buzzing of the electronics commands the room’s attention, hushing all else. Still images in 30-second intervals appear on the screen, seemingly unrelated to each other: a toddler chasing bubbles through a field of buttercups, a butterfly smashed beneath a boot, a couple in the heat of making love, a rainbow over a river, a bear and her cubs, an old woman sipping tea in the nude, wolves nipping at each other’s hind legs, and on and on it went.

The wires attached to Emily join in the rising cathodic harmony while blood drops drip into vials in the background, whispering amongst themselves.

~

An indecipherable amount of time later, Heath watches as Emily revisits the unthreatening reception desk. Alexia is handing her a white paper bag with the top folded over several times, acting as both handle and seal. Emily wearily nods her understanding and staggers out of the facility and into the dwindling twilight. 

Close behind, but not close enough to be suspicious, he follows her. He has removed his lab wear and donned an unremarkable but well-fitting pair of black tapered jeans that elongate him further, and a brown long-sleeve henley. The near-orange brown leather strap of his messenger bag cuts a diagonal stripe across his chest, determinedly crumpling the shirt beneath with each jostling step of the man’s cap-toed oxfords. 

The two slink through the parkade, the concrete pillars stoically abiding over the tiers of sporadically filled spaces. Mesh-enclosed lamps at regular intervals reflect off of polished fiberglass, casting odd shadows amongst the otherwise regimented layout. She appears nervous, head swiveling to sweep for and assess any incoming threats, but never looking back. The hollow tock of her heels’ echo reverberates unimpeded through the vast emptiness, her measuredly hurried pace enlivening the zip of nylon friction.

Heath keeps close to the pillars, a boy behind cement skirts. He slows as she fumbles for her keys in her black handbag and turns down the intersecting aisle when she finds her car. His silhouette betrays the heaving chest of a pounding heart. The thump of the car door closing, and the eager purr of the motor puts him at ease and his breathing slows. Refocused, he draws a pen and paper from his pocket, jotting something down as she and her car slide fluidly past his hiding place. He smiles uneasily amid the shadows, and trots off to find his vehicle.

Days pass uneventfully. Emily pushes her designated pill out of the bubble packet each morning as the Doctor instructed, but otherwise carries on with her daily routine of yoga, work as a legal assistant, and tending her plants. Every once in a while for reasons unbeknownst, she pops a supple leaf into her mouth and shreds it with her teeth before returning it to the pot of soil. Heath recoiled the first time he witnessed it while balanced with his can of soda in the tree outside of her window. But, as is said, “everyone has their quirks”. He began to enjoy it, squirming on his perch whenever she should submit one of those tender morsels to the ripping and tearing that awaited it in that deep pink cavern. 

~

The following Saturday, Emily returns to the facility for her check-in, sporting her gym wear – grey and white speckled lycra shorts, grey tank top, lightweight hoodie and running shoes. Not attire she would generally be publically seen in, but she had left the gym late and was in a hurry.  The viewing of pictures does not require one to be immaculately dressed.

The scene is the same, a cold lobby with little patience for patrons, Alexia and her bewitching beauty, Carline the shrew emanating hostility in waves, and a dismal lab where the Doctor sits waiting. 

“Hello, Doctor. Hello… Heath.” The second name is breathier and hangs heavy in the air. She strips off her sweater and hangs it on the chair’s headrest before swinging into the chair itself and laying back.

 “Ah, Emily. Take a seat, please.” Windrow says without taking his eyes from his clipboard. He paused, “Next time it will be pertinent you shower before arriving if you persist on being this pungent. I’m afraid you’re quite disturbing my assistant.” Undeniably, Heath appears quite agitated as he goes about his business, arching awkwardly away rather than leaning in toward her. His tongue periodically darts out between his lips, moistening them. Emily’s humiliation blossoms crimson.

The Doctor performs a battery of tests, takes her blood and shows her the same set of pictures with an unnerving sense of monotony. She inquires about the results, but the Doctor vehemently refuses to share them, claiming the knowledge may alter her future test results. She is unceremoniously ejected from the room, haphazardly gathering her things as he herds her out the door with a sweeping motion. 

This time, she turns around to see Heath close, but not too close, behind her. The wind waltzes through the cavernous, near-vacant lot, manifesting an ominous howl. “I thought someone was there,” she says, stopping to force eye-contact with the man. “Why didn’t you say anything? I’m really sorry I came in like this today. I didn’t think it would be that bad, but I guess I forgot how small that room is.” Nervous chuckling.

“I didn’t want to bother you. And please, don’t worry about it, I don’t mind.” He too has stopped, but not entirely, shifting from foot to foot while averting his gaze.

“You don’t bother me.” They look at each other for a long moment, assessing. The suddenly still air dense with charge, awaiting a lightning strike.

“This is my car.” He hooks a thumb over his shoulder at a grey Civic. “See you later.”

“See you next week,” she replies, her voice saturated with shame and disappointment. Bitterly, she enters her car, across the aisle and two down from the assistant’s, and returns home.  

After removing a sweater from his satchel, Heath goes too, clutching her forgotten garment to his nose.

~

 A steady cascade of droplets and the drum of their cessation on the pavement envelope the night. A warm glow emanates through the den window where Emily sits familiarly amongst the bookshelves. Her elbows rest on the arms of the corner leather chair, her forehead propped against the palm of her hands, fingers buried in her hair as if she could hide there. 

A broad-shouldered man paces beneath the molded arch, dirtying the plush black and gold patterned rug with boots defined by the caked layers of mud, both old and new. Gesticulating wildly, he spins and points at his reluctant audience, preparing to launch into the next verse of his degrading soliloquy, but doesn’t get the chance.

Emily hurls herself from the chair, as if from a coiled pounce, and in a heartbeat his extended finger is bent precariously back toward his wrist, a snarl on her lips and rage glittering in her eyes. Her words come in a growl, “Get out of this house, Eric. Right now you’re wasting my time and I am beyond done with putting up with it. Take your box of trash and leave.” She applies pressure to the dangerously bent finger to accent her point, eliciting an audible wince, “Before I do this to something more dear to you.” 

Releasing him and stepping back, she does not break eye contact. Her scowl and her burrowing glare add credibility to her threat. His eyes wide, he recoils, his top lip rising in revulsion. Cupping his other hand protectively around his assaulted finger, he backs away through the kitchen toward the front door. “Fine, bitch.” he spits when he is out of her arm’s reach. Scooping up the box by the door, he scurries out into the rain. 

“And don’t you forget it!” she proclaims, triumphantly. Atop the kitchen laminate with her hands on her hips, she laughs joyfully. 

Heath too, chuckles in the darkness as he crouches amidst the colluding bush, a smattering of discarded soda cans at his feet. Positioned in the thicket outside the study’s bay window, he could bear witness to nearly everything on the first floor of the modest house. He expressed it was like watching your favourite show on a wide-screen television. Ducking down, he waits as the man – Eric – stomps angrily by, literally fuming as the frigid rain makes contact with his body. A feral growl rumbles in the back of Heath’s throat, his body taut as if he would strike or flee if approached. The man takes no notice of him though, tossing the damp cardboard box forcefully into the backseat of a run-down muscle car. 

As the roadster roars to life and vanishes behind its propelled deluge, Heath turns back toward the window, leaning forward to better satisfy his curiosity. Inside, Emily is preparing dinner, victory still fresh on her face. Music squeezes through the pane and trickles out to where Heath can hear. Her lithe figure, freer now, loosed of aggression, twirls over the linoleum, the skirt of her long dress whimsically flaring out around her. Unwrapping a paper package, she dances back across the floor and drops the large cut of steak into the waiting frying pan. A satisfying sizzle and aroma of seared flesh fill the kitchen. A moment later Emily turns the meat with a fork and snaps the element off, leaving her quarry in the pan just long enough to retrieve a plate and cutlery from the cupboard. She cuts a large piece, biting and tearing at it with her teeth; red juices dribble down her chin.

Heath’s shivers are not from the rain. 

~

“The pills are heightening your responses,” Windrow announces with a satisfied smirk. “Have you noticed? Are you experiencing any odd effects?” leaning in intently, his flouncy curls tumble over his greasy forehead. Emily, busy drumming her fingers on the arm of the chair, unable to sit still, nods distractedly.

“Smells are stronger. That is the strangest thing. My reactions have been quicker, less thought out, more instinctive.” The Doctor transcribes onto his clipboard as she speaks.

“Any excess body hair?” he asks.

“What?” Flushing. 

“It’s something we noticed on previous test subjects. The growth and darkening of body hair.”

Extending her arms in front of her, she rotates them slowly, examining them. “Yes, I suppose I’ve had some of that.”

“Change in dietary preferences?”

“Not that I’ve noticed, greens and red meat mostly.” The Doctor emits a pensive noise and scrawls something onto the page. 

“This last week is liable to be the most volatile,” he warns. “We’ve found that the lunar effect can further heighten the response to the drug. The full moon will coincide with the last three doses of the drug before the trial concludes. If possible, we’d like to keep you here in the facility during this time.”

Emily balked. “I’ll check my schedule.” 

“Remember, you only receive the five thousand when the thirty days is complete. We would prefer that for these final three days you stay with us, for the study and for your own safety. Completely voluntarily, of course. But it would be… Advisable.”

“Noted,” she grumbles, side-eyeing the little man. “What are you going to do? Lock me up in a cage in the basement?” she jibed.

“My dear,” he said softly, as if explaining to a child. “We are already in the basement. Hardly anyone knows this facility is here. You will be perfectly safe with Heath and I.” A visible shudder runs through her. Regarding him skeptically, her lips form a thin, pressed line. “I will have Alexia call you later in the week to finalize the arrangements.”  

With that, evidently, the meeting concludes – the Doctor leaves the room and in moments Carline appears to usher her out of the building. 

Again, Emily encounters the handsome lab assistant in the parking lot. Standing as close to him as she dares, she inquires, “What do you think of all this? Staying in the facility?” She crosses her arms, clutching at either elbow to ward off the night’s autumn chill.

“The last few days of the trial have always been the most interesting.” His eyes sweep over her, sending a shiver through her body.  “I look forward to seeing what happens.” 

The lights flicker in the parking garage. The abrupt shutdown of the hundreds of wire-caged bulbs echo through the looming rows of pillars; the warm hum as they resuscitate follows. Far away, the wind howls.

“I better get home.” Emily says as she glances nervously around the lot. Heath nods in response, also surveying their surroundings.

“See you there,” he replies, absently. 

“Excuse me?”

He looks at her, puzzled. “See you, then.” Eyes locked with hers, enunciating his words.

Her embarrassment rushes to her face, and she turns away in a sudden flurry to get to her car. “Right. I misheard you. Bye, Heath.”  

Once out of sight, Heath ducks around a pillar, pressing his back against it, sliding down into a squat. He covers his face with his hands just as a rolling giggle surfaces, racking his body. Dragging his fingers down his skin until his fingertips rest on his jaw, he inhales a slow, deep breath, nodding with his count and releasing. Then another. “That was close,” muttering, shaking it off. He lingers on his haunches for a moment before pulling himself up. Dusting himself off, he finds his way to his car with a jaunt in his step. 

~

We find Emily pacing feverishly, wearing a proverbial rut in the strip of exposed hardwood between her twin plush rugs. “There it is again,” she proclaims to the empty room. Coffee beans tinkle in the bottom of a glass jar as she raises it to her nose, willing the strong aromatic to refresh her olfactory sensitivity. Then, lowering her cleanser, inhales again. Her head swivels, looking for the source of something unseen.

“Ugh!” she cries, throwing her hands up in exasperation, roasted beans flying into the air like corrupt confetti. Hunting throughout the room, she ducks in around shelves and chairs, sniffing the air that normally smelt of books, old furniture and the lingering vestige of sandalwood. Another smell had settled here now, one that was familiar but that she could not place. 

Heath is forced to duck as she nears the window. His controlled breathing cannot stop his body from shaking as he waits, her silhouette looming in the amber light. After an eternity, the shadow Emily withdraws, presumably satisfied. His sharp tongue darts out speedily between his thin lips, wetting them all in one swipe. He taps the top of his soda can impatiently, assessing the risk. When he believes her to be of earshot, he cracks the tab and gulps half of it down in a single swig.

Crossing the threshold of living and dining room, Emily cocks her ear toward the window, pausing mid-stride to listen. She shakes her head in a way that shakes her spirit more than anything else. “Hearing things,” she mutters.  She rubs her hand across the nape of her neck, uneasiness still tickling the back of her brain. Ultimately, she gives up the pursuit, switching off the light and retiring upstairs for the night. 

~

For the remainder of the week Emily vibrates with nervous energy, constantly pacing, unable to be still at any moment. She went for a run, something she hadn’t done in a long time, and found herself bounding down the trail with new exuberance, even veering off the path after a spooked rabbit for a time. She was confrontational – contrary to her character; she looked for opportunities for a fight, tearing into a coworker who had taken her parking space. She seemed to sense when she had an edge and went for it, even negotiating a much needed pay raise. She held herself noticeably taller, exuding an unprecedented confidence. At home in the evenings, however, the smell with no source lingered and her skittishness returned. 

~

Raking the leaves from the yard to prepare for the forecasted snow, a glint beneath the brush catches her attention. Bending down, she retrieves a flattened red soda can from beneath the bush’s brambles. Confused, she tosses it in the recycling bin on her way by, but stops in her tracks when she hears the clink it makes. Placing her hands on either side and peering into the bin, she finds the bottom quarter filled with soda cans she had not placed there. The frantic woman quickly inspects the immediate area for any other clues, but finds none. It was possible that a single can could be blown further onto her property by the wind. Perhaps that is where it came from? The shiver down her spine sends a ripple through the air that makes our hair stand on end – she doesn’t seem to think so.  

~

Emily had committed herself to the next three days in this unnervingly white room. The appearance is of something drained, something devoid; it was a jar for a specimen. A single mattress sits atop a bed fit snugly inside a curving, molded alcove in the back corner of the chamber, fresh white sheets folded neatly, waiting. To the right, a door that swings outward, revealing a spartan washroom containing a toilet, sink and standing shower. A bar fridge is tucked beneath a stretch of bare counter and the cupboard above is stocked with off-brand snacks. There is a round table and two chairs that complete the “kitchen” area. A few feet away is a couch and coffee table, all immaculate. Swinging open the armoire door, she finds a tube television set hooked up to what looks to be a primitive game console, as well as several board games. The disparity of the deep and varied colours within the cupboard causes her to close it promptly. She pauses in front of the wall that the lab team waits on the other side of. 

“It would be less creepy if I could watch you watching me,” she announces to the room.  A wide rectangular section of the wall fades into translucency, revealing the Doctor watching her intently with his creepy grin. Heath and Carline huddle back near the door, deep in discussion. 

The Doctor presses a button that sends his voice booming into the room. “Welcome! I trust you will be comfortable here. We’ve provided entertainment and various creature comforts. Your meals will be brought in three times a day. Everything is being recorded, but we encourage you to make use of the notebook in the cupboard to help us assess your psychological state. We will not be physically observing you most of the time, but if you prefer we will leave the transparency engaged. Any questions?”

“Why is this level of precaution necessary?” she asks, mostly wondering out loud. 

Windrow frowns, the slight downturn at the edge of his pressed lips causing his jowls to droop further. “Hopefully they are not.” Curtly, he turns and leaves the little room, beckoning Heath to follow behind him, leaving her to her thoughts. 

Despite the men of science abandoning her to her near isolation, we continue to observe her – now an animal trapped in a cage. She paces the perimeter of the suite, measuring the space that they’d allowed her.  “I regret this already!” she bellows. Forcing herself to stop, she takes three deliberately drawn out breaths, centering herself. Then, liberating the notebook from the too-colourful cupboard, settles herself into a chair and begins to write. 

  I’m still not convinced these feelings are not psychosomatic. They may have given me sugar pills for all I know, and this is actually a psych experiment. Regardless, since the commencement I have experienced all that the Doctor described I would and more. I have a better read of people, I am more confident, I have more energy and increased.. Appetites. But as this goes on, I feel more… Pent up. Like there is something inside of me that I need to release, like a scream.. Or a roar. Whatever it is, it’s building…

She looks up from her musing as Heath re-enters the observation nook, flashing her a crooked smile. Familiar and unprecedented that she could see him observing her. “Just act natural,” he offered over the intercom. 

She turned in her chair, throwing her leg over its arm. “That’s difficult in an unfamiliar place, knowing that people are watching my every move.” 

Heath chuckled, skimming his hand through his hair over his ear, “I could re-enable opacity if that would help. You wouldn’t even know I was here.” 

“No!” she protests. “It’s better to know when you’re there.”

“You know that the Doctor will see your every move anyway, right?”

She rolls her eyes, sighing, “I know, but it makes me feel better. Besides, for some reason it feels more normal having you around.”

He smiles at that. Then, shifting his feet with his arm across his body, grasping his opposite elbow, “How are you feeling?”

She drags her bottom lip between her teeth, taking in his visage. “Hungry,” she says. Quirking an eyebrow at her, he takes a step back. 

“It’s late, I think the cafeteria is closed, but— “

“Why don’t you join me in here?” 

“I don’t think that would be —“

“What could it hurt?” 

“I’ll go see if I can find you something.” He leaves the satellite room and thirty minutes or so later a tray of mashed potatoes, broccoli and reheated meatloaf slide under her door, which she sulkily consumes. Heath did not return.

~

The next day passes slowly and tediously. Visibly frustrated, Emily paces the room, clenching and unclenching her hands continuously. She eats her meals with disinterest, picking at them or near inhaling them. Her attempt at playing a board game ended in the destruction of one of the kitchen chairs. No one entered the satellite. Eventually she succumbed to sleep, albeit fitfully. 

~

Deep into the night, something wakes her. There is no light, no movement, no sound, and yet she bristled. 

“Is someone there?” No reply. Swinging herself legs out of the bed, she finds the wall with her right hand and lets it guide her to where the window should be. Sight is of no help, but at this proximity the click of a hastily closed door reaches her. At the same time, the previous tension leaves her with a sigh. However, instead of returning to bed, she fumbles her way to the armchair and sits, waiting. Hours later when the fluorescents hum to life, she is facing a solid, white wall. 

After she pushes away the last of her tasteless breakfast, the wall vanishes and Windrow stands in the bubble, clipboard and pen in hand, his foppish hair obscuring his round mirrored glasses. A red can of soda sits off to the side where there was none before. 

“Good morning, Emily,” his cheerful voice booms through the intercom. She approaches the glass aggressively, her arms crossed.  

“Why was the transparency removed last night?” she demands. She seals her lips tightly together to prevent herself from saying more.

Momentarily taken aback, he pauses only briefly before answering, “It is standard procedure during a nocturnal observation to remove the translucence to not disturb the participant. Surely the light from the hallway would have been seen.” 

“But I was disturbed.” 

He broke out into a grin, “Yes, quite interesting, isn’t it? You had no reason to think anything was amiss, and yet you awoke from a dead sleep.” Her posture shifts forward, and she opens her mouth to speak but the Doctor continues, “I expect that today will be the height of this particular cycle – I wanted to warn you that it may be more intense than what you’ve experienced thus far. We will be monitoring closely but not in person. Is there anything that you need? Tell me now if you do,”

Her eyes flick again to the red can. “Were you at my house? You’re so keen on observing me, I wouldn’t be surprised if you have been!“

“My dear,“ he says, looking genuinely puzzled. “I am not the type of Doctor to make house calls. Now, if there is nothing else, please excuse me.” 

He turns to leave, but she calls after him. “Doctor! You asked if I needed anything, can I have that soda can?” Her eyes glitter with desperation. 

“I can certainly have a soda sent.” 

“No, that exact soda can in that room. Can I have it?” Appraising the area, he points to the object of her attention and eyes her questionably. “Yes, that one,” she confirms. 

“I don’t know why you’d want such a thing, but I suppose so. The things I do for science!” He picks up the can delicately with this thumb and forefinger and exits.

The can rattles under the door, rolling toward her. Emily dashes over, sliding on her knees to snatch it up. Holding it aloft, she examines it thoroughly, turning it reverently in her hands. “I knew it!” she exclaims quietly to herself. Tangled amid the sticky sweet remnants of the beverage is the puzzling scent that had surfaced in her den. Her eyes far away, staring into nothing as gears shift and click within her mind. Crushing the aluminium in her fist, a soft growl escapes her throat. She knows now where she had encountered that smell before. She could only wait and hope that he reappeared. 

~

The day is maddening; she is literally climbing the walls. With no room to run and no place to go, her near constant pacing is often punctuated with a quick dash and flying leap at the opposite wall or bystanding furniture. She lacerates cushions, digging her fingernails into their tender white vinyl and eviscerating them, spilling their stuffing onto the floor before tossing them aside. More than once a guttural roar replete with frustration and anguish escapes her. An attempt is made to write in the notebook about what she is experiencing, but the only words she can muster are entrapment and betrayal and she inevitably returns to her pacing. 

Late into the evening, Heath appears in the bubble. 

Emily stands before the glass, attempting a casual pose with her hands securely in her back pockets. Traces of sweat still glisten on her skin, strands of her long hair sticking to her face while the rest tumbles freely down her back. At some point she had torn the neck of her once white t-shirt, creating a ragged deep V. The fabric clings matted to her skin, disheveled, but miraculously still half tucked into her jeans. A wild gleam sparkles in her eye and a mischievous smile touches the outskirts of her lips. “Where’ve you been?” she inquires, taking care to suppress the emotions coursing through her.  

“Sorry I didn’t come, the Doctor has been keeping me busy. Almost like he didn’t want me here.” 

“Well, I’m glad you’re here,” her voice slow and sweet as syrup. 

“Is it true that you accused him of something this morning? He said that you were hysterical and that the moon cycle was affecting you more than he anticipated.” 

“What’s the moon got to do with it?” she asks, deflecting. 

“The Lunar Effect where people get crazy around the moon cycle seems to be amplified by the drugs. That’s why the Doc wanted to bring you in. The results are sometimes unpredictable.” 

“Ah. Right…” she trailed off, her eyes flicking briefly to the offside beverage container. “Maybe I was being unreasonable. Could you come in here and look at this? Maybe you can help me figure this out.” 

“I’m not supposed to enter the chamber.” 

“Heath, please. I… I want you close to me. I could really use some comfort and you’re a very attractive man, you know. I thought so since the moment we met.” She blushed and looked away, twirling a lock of hair around her finger. 

Her words ignite something animal in the man, causing his nostrils to flare and his chest to puff up instinctively. He swallows, vying to remain in control. “I shouldn’t come in there. It’s all being recorded. Maybe after —“

She bites the edge of her bottom lip. “Please, Heath,” she begs, her eyes pleading. “I need you.” 

His tenuous self control is no match for his baser instincts and he nods his agreement. Upon his exit from the observation chamber Emily leaps into motion, snatching up a fragment of the shattered chair and tucking it behind her back before calculatedly leaning casually against the counter to wait. As he enters the room, her genuine smile greets him. He slips off his shoes, tucking them between door and frame to prevent it from closing, then steps eagerly into the too-white room and toward the expectant woman. 

“What did you want to show me?” he asks, slowly looking over her body. 

She licks the rim of her lip, “Come here and I’ll show you.” As he approaches, she delicately knicks the can off the nearby counter and circles around him, putting herself between Heath and the door. “You see,” she starts, stepping toward him. Gripping the can by the lip with her thumb and forefinger, she holds it out away from her body, waggling it in his direction. “Last night, I’m sure that someone was watching me and this morning the only trace was this can.”

“I don’t–”

She cuts him off, taking another step closer to him, “And I found the same type of can, crushed near the bushes outside my window a few days ago. Quite a coincidence, don’t you think?”

“Y-yeah,” he stammers, “Weird.” A sheen manifests on his forehead.

“You want to know what’s really weird?” her question carries a tone of mock innocence. With one long stride, she closes the distance between them so her body is just brushing against his. She trails her free fingers lightly up his neck. He gasps but does not answer her, his breaths short and quick, heart pounding with anticipation. Loosing her grip on the can, she allows it to clatter to the floor and delves her fingers into his hair, clutching it tightly. Raising herself up on her toes, she tilts her head toward him, her lips almost touching his earlobe. Her moist breath prickles his skin, raising the hair at the back on his neck. Without warning her grasp on his hair tightens, and she presses the jagged shard of chair up between his legs “They both smell just. Like. You!” she growls the last word and pushes him backward, against the wall, with an unnatural strength.

Caught off guard, he stumbles backward, slamming into the observation window. Baring her teeth, Emily snarls at him, her normally hazel eyes glowing a vibrant yellow-gold. Shaking off his momentary daze, he focuses his strength and twists away, tumbling her into the nearby armchair, eliciting a cry of primal rage. Wasting no time, he bolts through the door, but before it can swing shut behind him she propels herself off the chair and after him, grinning madly. She is finally running.  

They bound through the hallways, eerily dim, lit only by the secondary pot lights. Frantic, he topples over a cart of medical supplies. She leaps over it without breaking her stride. She snatches at his lab coat, managing to grab hold of the tail and pull him back toward her. Hastily he discards it, tossing the garment over her head, buying him a precious lead. Chest heaving, Heath slides around corners and cuts through labs, yet somehow she is never more than two steps behind him. At last, he manages to swing shut a heavy security door and latch it with seconds to spare. 

She presses her palms against the door’s inset glass pane, tapping her fingernails on it. Her face only inches from his, he retreats to find a wall at his back. “I’ll find you,” she purrs with  promise in her voice. With that, she turns and disappears back into the labyrinthine halls. 

Free from confinement, Emily finds her way back above ground and escapes under the cover of night. Heath, shaking, remains in the closet until Doctor Windrow retrieves him the following morning. 

~

About a month later, we find Heath walking home from his new job, drinking a post-work soda. It’s near midnight and he’s bundled up tightly against the cold with his hat, scarf and too thin plaid jacket, but it’s definitely him. The pregnant moon is reflecting off of the high banks of snow and illuminating the darkness. Something about this night is different. The air is charged and tense. Heath appears nervous, from his constant shoulder checks in either direction. He pops the collar on his jacket and tucks his chin down against an errant blast of icy wind that is howling through the approaching tunnel. It leaves a stillness in its’ wake, the crunch of snow under his boots and the hum of distant traffic the only sounds. As he passes beneath the shadowy lip of the overpass he cocks his ear sharply, slowing but not stopping. A deep shiver shakes him, trying to dislodge something other than the cold.

This time he is sure he hears it, a soft tapping. “Hello?” he calls uncertainly. The only response is his own echo on the concrete. A few steps later, there it is again – tap, tap tap. He pivots about-face but sees nothing. From behind, a hand squeezes his shoulder, and he yelps, dashing forward and turning to face his assaulter. 

“Hello, Heath,” a smooth, feminine voice flows into the surrounding blackness, engulfing him. “I told you I would find you.” Emily takes a step toward him, far reaching moonbeams highlight the golden incandescence of her eyes and her crooked, toothy grin.

“What do you want from me?” he demands with forced bravado.

 Each time she advances, he retreats, slowly being herded out of the tunnel. The rest of her features materialize as they move toward the impending light. Her hair has been tightly braided along one side, the rest falls loose and bedraggled. She is wearing a secondhand fur coat, her hands immersed in the deep pockets. A smudge of dirt highlights her cheekbone.   

Her grin grows wider still. “What I want… is for you to know how it feels to have someone watching you when you’re not aware. To not know what is waiting for you in the dark. I want you to know what it’s like to be hunted.” 

Outside the tunnel’s overhang, Heath pauses. Emily remains beneath, shrouded in shadow, moonlight catching on her pale skin. Nothing moves in the street but their crystalized breath; the winter night’s eerie stillness accentuated by the sporadic rumble of vehicles passing overhead. Hesitantly he proposes, “So.. you’re not going to hurt me?”

An unsettling laugh bubbles out of her, heartfelt, with her head tipped back to the sky. Then she smirks and produces a set of twin blades from her pockets. “Not if you’re fast!” she declares, lunging at him, a ferocious snarl coming unbidden from her throat. He staggers backward, snow crunching beneath him as he falls to one knee. Emily’s feral visage looms over him, blades protruding from between her knuckles like a single deadly claw. Stumbling to his feet, he launches the soda can at the predatory woman, distracting her long enough for him to turn and run. Lashing out gleefully, impaling it midair, she cackles as she tears the flimsy aluminium, wrenching it open then tossing it aside. She grinned; now her prey had a head start. Howling with excitement she sets to the chase, loping through the streets by the silver light of the moon.