The Hangover from Outer Space
After sleeping like the dead through multiple alarms and phone calls, Dora Skirth was snapped awake by a sudden cramping in her gut. She was starving.
Blinking at the too-bright sunlight streaming through her window, she stumbled into the kitchen. Her head was pounding and she swayed, fighting a wave of nausea. A tray of brownies she had stress-baked the day before caught her attention. They hadn’t been cut into yet and she had a half thought of searching for a knife—before a sudden, irresistible impulse took her and she tore a piece out by hand and stuffed it in her mouth. She sucked in a breath at how good that tasted, and grabbed more pieces with both hands, cramming them into her cheeks faster than she could chew and nearly choking herself in the process. God, this is like pregnancy cravings but ten times worse!
The fridge opened behind her and she whipped around, almost growling at the intruder before she caught herself. Eddie Brock, the journalist who had somehow driven them both back to her house last night, was throwing back a quart of milk so fast it spilled down his chin, soaking the front of his shirt. His hair was damp with sweat. Something finally clicked in Dora’s brain.
“Mr. Brock!” she motioned to him as he turned toward her with his gaze unfocused for a moment.
Then he spotted the brownies and was on them before she even registered him crossing the kitchen, stuffing his face and chewing with his mouth open. “God, what is in these?”
“I don’t know, but we need to find out soon. There are certain chemicals the symbiote needs to survive—we were having trouble figuring out exactly what in the lab, they—mmf—” she had gone back to eating while she was speaking—“ah, one of them starved to death and the others were not far behind.”
Eddie washed down some brownie with more milk before frowning at it, setting it down and getting a glass of water. Then her words caught up to him. “Hold up, the symbiote? What are you, what are you saying, exactly?” He slurred a bit, unable to keep the panic out of his voice.
Dora swallowed a chunk of brownie and fixed him with an anxious look. “We were infected last night. The symbiotes, two of them, they entered our bodies.” Her voice dropped to a horrified whisper. “We are hosts, now.” She was shaking, and she dimly observed that her body temperature had been steadily rising, just like the other hosts. The others who all died, either by rejecting the symbiote or being consumed by it…
She felt something uncoil in her brain, like a sword being drawn from its sheath. It was…resolve. She was not going to die. She was not going to die. She opened the freezer and rapidly took stock of its contents, pulling out likely possibilities, taking note of things she would need to buy. Her vision felt too sharp, her thoughts rapid and analytical. She moved several packages of meat into the fridge, and one in the microwave set to defrost—beef liver. If the symbiotes eat organs then we’ll just have to feed them organs, won’t we? Hunting through a drawer for a pen and notepad, she began furiously scribbling out a grocery list.
Eddie frowned. “Whoa, Dr. Skirth, what is…?”
Dora shook her head. “Listen to me Mr. Brock. I can’t, we can’t be seen working together. I have kids and Mr. Drake has already threatened them once—” the flash of rage she felt suddenly made her gasp, her mind filled with images of violence, with eager bloodlust. She snatched Eddie’s half-empty glass of water and downed the rest of it, reminding herself forcefully that she’d already sent the kids to stay with her sister in Portland, they’d be safe there.
She had known for months that once she made this choice, once she crossed Carlton Drake, she might never see them again.
She took a deep breath, still shaking and tasting the salt of sweat dripping onto her lips. “Let me handle keeping us alive,” she said. “But you, Eddie, you need to get this out there. Take those photos and drag Carlton Drake’s evil into the light.”