We are global, you know
by G.C. Byrne
G.C. Byrne is an award-winning author and military veteran whose passion for storytelling began in childhood and evolved from hobby to career. He brings a unique blend of life experience and imagination to every story he writes. Byrne is based in Texas with his wife, Rachel, and two dogs, Hazel and Reggie, where he continues to craft stories that captivate readers throughout this dimension.
There was someone in the shadows when I entered my office. “Who’s there?” I said. “Speak up, now.”
“Dr. Bellington,” the man said. He stepped into the light cast by the single bulb and extended a hand. “I’m Roger Hanna, the reporter from The Times.”
I thought for a moment and remembered I was to give an interview on my latest discovery. “Ah, yes.” I took his hand and checked my watch. “It’s rather late. I thought you’d be here earlier than a quarter past ten.”
Roger smiled. “That wasn’t my intention, Doctor, believe me. There was, er… a delay.
“A delay?” I was curious, as the remote parts of Russia had never cursed me with a six hour travel delay.
“The bus had a flat.”
“Ah, yes. That is quite the delay.” I crossed the room and opened a bottle of brandy from the bar cart.
“Drink?”
He declined and began to somber around the room, curious about the decor.
I watched him as the ice cubes clinked into the low ball. He was tall. Broad shouldered with a jaw that could split stone—just my type. His fedora shadowed the top half of his face. Strange he still wore it inside at such an hour, but I dismissed the thought when his attention came back to me. He smiled again.
I cleared my throat. “How long will you be with us, Mr. Hanna?”
“Oh, not long.” He propped a cheek onto a desk across the room. “I need to be on a train to India by noon.”
“Unfortunate for us.” I took a sip that ended in a puckered smile. He returned it with a beaming one of his own. Those pearly whites warmed my belly more than the brandy.
“Doctor,” he said and took out a small notebook. “Can you tell me what you’re working on?” He clicked the button atop the pen. “All the way out here.”
“Only the discovery of the century, my good man.” I finished off my brandy and went for a refill. “Well, in the world of biology, that is. I, unfortunately, cannot compete with the discovery of radioactivity.”
“That’s a mighty big comparison, Doctor.”
“Please, call me Edgar.” There were those pearly whites, again.
“Sure. What is it that you do, Edgar?”
“I am a biologist. A parasitologist to be more precise.” I took a seat near the bar cart. It was the only seat in the room other than the desk chair. I felt that seat to be more professional than need be, at that hour. “More like the parasitologist. I’m global, you know.”
“I did not.” He rubbed his chin. The sound of his hand rubbing his five o’clock made my toes wiggle with excitement. “That’s fascinating.”
“What’s more fascinating than my reputation is what I’ve found out here.”
“Yes, and what is this significant discovery?”
“Leucochloridium paradoxum.”
He cocked his head. “I’ll need a spelling check on that before I leave, I’m afraid.”
“Yes, of course,” I said and leaned forward. “The green-banded brood sac, in layman’s.”
“Sounds nasty.”
I laughed. “You don’t know the half of it, Roger. You see, this particular parasite begins its life cycle buried in feces.”
Roger stopped writing. “In feces, you say?”
“Yes.” I rimmed the lowball with my thumb. “Bird feces, actually. Finch. The brood sac larvae incubate inside the bird's intestines. Once excreted, the larvae are eaten by snails. The larvae grow inside the snail, replacing one fifth of the snail’s body weight.”
“I’m sorry.” Roger held up a finger. “What do you mean by ‘replaced?’”
His curiosity was attractive. I was obliged to satisfy it. “Well, I mean just that. The parasite buries itself deep within the snail’s body and feeds on certain parts of the snail that are crucial for survival.”
“Such as?” He leaned forward.
“Eyestalks and brains, mostly.”
“Fascinating,” Roger said and leaned back to jot a note.
“I haven't gotten to the good part yet.” I smiled. “Once fully grown, the parasite takes control of the brainless snail and forces it to become prey for the birds. Then the cycle starts over.” I drew a circle in the air with my finger.
Roger stopped writing and looked at me, half his face still shadowed by his hat. “How does it force the snail?”
“Ah, the best part,” I said and finished my last brandy. “Well, the parasite not only feeds on the eyestalks, it replaces them.”
Roger tilted his head again.
“With brood sacs,” I answered before he asked. “Bright green, white, and orange banded sacs of larvae. The sacs pulsate up and down, mimicking the movement and appearance of a caterpillar. The finch’s preferred meal.”
“Good thing the snail no longer has a brain.”
I bit an ice cube. “Oh, the host is fully aware the entire time.”
“Even without a brain?”
“Absolutely. Isn’t nature fascinating?”
“More like terrifying.” He uncrossed his leg and leaned forward with his elbows on his knees, hands clasped. “Can this parasite infect humans?”
“Oh, yes. Very much so. Which is why we kill each one we study. They’re too dangerous to keep in containment out in the field. Otherwise, the whole lot of us would’ve been infected by now.” I chuckled. “We would be driven outdoors, like biological vehicles, to wait for the birds to pluck out our eyes and feed on the little buggers. Could you imagine the pickle we’d be in then?”
I stood and returned to the bar cart. Roger’s shadow crept across the wall in my peripheral vision. “Change your mind about that drink?”
“No.” His hand squeezed my arm. He spun me around.
“If I’d have known this was on your mind, we could’ve saved the lecture until after,” I said.
My nose found itself in the opening of his shirt, and his musk danced into my nostrils.
His hand pulled my chin upward. Our lips locked. They were warm. He tickled my lips with the tip of his tongue.
I was eager to accept.
Roger's tongue entered my mouth fast and deep. I swallowed and pulled away.
“Oh, my,” I said, and let out a tiny cough.
“When you write your paper on the parasite,” Roger put a hand on each of my arms, “say it cannot be ingested by humans.”
I laughed at the absurdity of the request. “What?”
His hands squeezed my arms, with the strength of Hercules. “What do you mean?"
“You’re going to tell the world the parasite is not a danger to humans.”
I looked into his eyes. They were transparent, and stuffed with pulsating green, white and orange bands that pumped back-and-forth in a linear motion. The grotesque twin horrors seemed to turn my legs to stone, and I froze in place.
“We’ve traveled a great distance to this planet. You’re going to help us conquer it.”
I felt a tickle in my throat. Then a sting.
THE END
In The Hollow Black
by Katrina Schroeder
Katrina Schroeder is a dedicated book coach, editor, and (ghost)writer. She's not only the Founder of The Fiction Lab, she’s also an editor for Luna Station Quarterly, and has a Certification in Editing from ACES/Poynter. She's published a handful of short stories and ghostwritten several fantasy and novels.
Nell wakes with a gasp. The air is thin but the weight of it crushes her chest. I can’t breathe. Darkness squeezes her and she scrambles to escape. I can’t get up. I can’t breathe and I can’t get up. She shoves her feet and throws her hands out, only to slam into a barrier. Her head bangs against a wall. Lightning splashes across her vision and she yelps.
Panic tightens around her throat and she claws at the invisible wall. She can’t get a full breath and every gulp catches halfway.
Then it all comes back to her. Her life. Her desperation. Molly. She remembers where she is and why she put herself there.
Calm down, Nell. You’ll be fine. She feels the photo shift on her chest and fumbles for it, grasping tightly. Don’t forget why you’re here.
She forces herself to relax. She doesn’t completely, but at least her body settles down. She wonders if this is a bad idea. She hadn’t considered just how… suffocating this would be. But she doesn’t have a choice. Getting on this ship is the only way to save her daughter.
She allows her muscles to settle into her cramped space. Ernie should be by soon to get her out of here. That’s what she paid him for. To smuggle her onto the next ship going off-planet and then get her out when they’ve left orbit. He’d walked her through the whole plan last night as she crawled into the shipping container.
But she hadn’t been able to bring herself to scrunch down so he could close the lid. She stood there, paralyzed. Her legs wouldn’t fold beneath her.
“Hey, love, what’sa matter? You gonna chuck? You should do that before you get in there.”
“No, I just… what if I get caught? What if Molly’s meds aren’t there?” She searched Ernie’s face for reassurance. “You’ve done this before. Do your passengers ever get caught?”
Ernie slipped his hands into his pockets and shuffled closer to her. He moved his toothpick from one side of his mouth to the other and cocked his head, peering at her through green eyes.
“Don’t fret, love. We’ve done this a right few times, and I’m still here. And we ain’t never been nicked by the coppers. Just think ‘bout what you’re legging it for. You know that desperation you feel? Keep it tight like that photo you got there, and it’ll see you through. Don’t forget it, yeah?”
Nell straightened and gave Ernie a firm nod. She squeezed a smile and lowered herself down into the box. His face peered over the top as he reached for the lid.
And then he closed her in, sealing the deal.
She heard the click of a lock on the other side and she wondered why that was necessary. But if he’d done this loads of times, then she didn’t feel the need to question his methods. She just wanted to get her daughter’s meds. Nothing was more important than that. She’d given Ernie every last cent she could steal to get a place on this ship. She had no plan once she landed, but she’d figure it out. She always did.
“Shave and a haircut” thumped against the lid. That weirdly calmed her worries. Even if he was a smuggler, Ernie was a charmer. Nell stifled a giggle and gave the two bit response.
In the dark, Nell runs her finger along the photo, tracing the image she knows by heart. Molly crouched, poking a finger at a slug. Mud caked on her face, just like her smirk. She’s the sort of kid who knows she's a handful and does what she can to keep Nell on her toes. A gaunt face flashes across the cheeky smirk.
Nell squeezes her eyes shut, focusing on the picture. Her forehead relaxes again, and she finally notices the hum of the ship against the box. No wonder she fell asleep. The rumble is comforting, even if the box is not.
Something shuffles outside. A crewmember, come to inspect the cargo? Ernie, here to let her out for a bit? She holds her breath. Something slams on the floor next to her container. She hears more thuds murmur through her walls, but eventually the activity dies down. A crewmember then. Where’s Ernie?
What feels like days—or has it only been hours?—pass and there’s still no sign of Ernie. No shave, no haircut. She’s lying in her own urine and vomit, past the point of caring about the smell. Will I die in here? Her throat constricts more and more with each passing moment, and she starts to feel like she’s drowning in darkness.
Shapes and colors appear in the hollow black. She imagines fingers brushing against her skin. She’s gasping for breath, wheezing and sweating. Molly whispers in her ear, begging for help.
Nell claws at her coffin, wood splintering under her fingernails. She doesn’t care. She doesn’t care if she’s caught. She doesn’t care if they send her back. At least she wouldn’t die alone. She could hold Molly while they both suffocated. She kicks at her walls and chokes out a scream. The black clamps onto her lungs, squeezing as though holding on for dear life. She sucks in more and more and moreandmore—
***
Mac slings his bag off his shoulder. Time to get to work. He pulls out his apron, wrapping the string around himself twice before cinching it at his waist. Not that he’s worried about ruining his fine clothes. But they’re his only set, and fine they are not.
He makes his way through the warehouse, inspecting the date chalked hastily on each container. Ships launching from the port a mile out rumble up through his thin soles and rattle his teeth. It seems like there’s always a ship leaving or entering. What he’d give for a chance to take Terry on one of those.
Mac dips down to check the date on the next one. His belt grinds against his hip bones. Nothing here. He leans back up and his spine crackles. “Back-breaking work this is.” He grunts softly and tenderly touches the raw skin at his hip.
He moves on to the next. Mac doesn’t make much, but it’s just enough to feed his boy, and that’s all that matters. No mark on this box. He shuffles on, eyes roaming the outside of the next.
There it is. Today’s date.
He pulls out his key ring and works his way through each key until he finds the right one. The lock clicks open and he pulls his bandana up over his nose before opening the container.
From his bag, he pulls out a saw and scalpel and gets to work, placing each piece one by one in a separate cryobag.
Mac doesn’t get paid until Ernie gets paid, and Terry’s waiting for him at home.
THE END