Malignant

Universities are plagued with lax security, side doors left unlatched by weary graduate students heading for beer, bed, or both. The lab was ours.

Nate stumbled as though drunk.

Blood in a needle from my own kit.
Blood on a cold glass slide.
Black seams like stained glass.
Revelation.

“It’s a virulent strain of Pump.”

No reply.

I looked up. Nate stood, fists and jaw clenched.

There was no etiquette to guide me. I plunged ahead, blind. “There’s a way to track the practitioner, using your blood, but I need your permission. And your help. Please.” Before it’s too late.


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