switch.
Tick. Tick. Tick , went the mechanism.
He could breathe again.
He marched on his way, out of the Compound, across the cement.
Clutching his side, his breaths came hard and shallow.
As Mitts stumbled through the hole he had cut in the wire fence, he was dimly aware that the sun was out. And that its rays streamed down. He felt them warm the space between his shoulders.
Gently— ever so gently —cooking him alive.
Every step, he was losing energy.
He was certain that, sometime soon, he would lose the ability to put one foot before the other.
But he found the drive to keep going.
To keep himself going.
He had to.
As Mitts had lain on the floor of the Autopsy room, he had felt the pain shuddering through him.
He had felt the hot, sharp sensation digging into his side.
From the bullet.
And yet, he had still felt that strength—the same strength which had been visited upon him when he’d first come across the creature—when it had been alive.
Mitts had known that he would only get one chance.
And that he couldn’t make a mistake.
As Heinmein had stood above him, he had explained how he had murdered every member of Mitts’s family.
How, when Heinmein had noticed Mitts had gone missing, he had put the gun to each one of their heads and— simply —blown them away.
They had all been dead by the time Heinmein had shone the spotlight.
At that moment, Mitts had felt his fingers forming fists, quite aside from his inner will.
It was a wonder that he hadn’t launched himself onto his feet.
Had a go at pummelling Heinmein with his fists.
Right there and then.
But he had found a larger inner strength.
Patience.
To play the waiting game.
Mitts had waited for Heinmein to draw close, and then, with a single rush of blood through his veins, he had kicked out, caught the back of Heinmein’s leg, sent him plunging backward, the gun firing off a shot into the roof of the Autopsy room.
Mitts recalled how he had winced when the back of Heinmein’s head struck the drawer which contained the specimen.
For a long few seconds, Mitts had felt his pulse pumping hard, working to accompany the pain he felt pounding away in his side as blood eked out of him.
Mitts thought about Heinmein’s face, about how he had lain on his back, his mouth opened in an eternal yawn.
The worst part of it—the very worst part of it—was that Mitts had been right all along.
About Heinmein.
About not trusting him.
But none of his family had seemed to feel the same danger, none of them seemed to have slotted the pieces together as Mitts had.
Realised that the reason their neighbour, Heinmein, the strange old loner across the road, had chosen them over all the others on their street, was because they were a family.
Because he had known, somehow, that Mitts’s mother had been pregnant.
Because he had known he could perform his experiments.
In peace.
Mitts thought about how Heinmein must’ve had some sort of advance-warning system set up throughout the Compound. He had known that Mitts had slipped out of the Restricted Area, and that he was planning to leave.
Mitts supposed he hadn’t been subtle in his escape efforts after all.
And when Heinmein had caught wind of Mitts’s fledgling escape, he had panicked, decided there was no reason for keeping Mitts’s family alive any longer.
Not if Mitts himself was planning to abscond.
Only now, as Mitts felt his trainers crunch on the dirt outside the fence of the Compound, did he realise that he had been Heinmein’s experiment all along—all through these seven years.
Despite his father’s well-intentioned demands that Heinmein leave Mitts alone, Heinmein had merely been biding his time.
Waiting.
With Mitts alone, in the Autopsy room, his family already dead, Heinmein had clearly panicked.
He had had no idea what to do now that his pet science project was so determined to leave.
To escape him.
Once Mitts had checked on Heinmein’s pulse, felt that skittering
Tick. Tick. Tick , went the mechanism.
He could breathe again.
He marched on his way, out of the Compound, across the cement.
Clutching his side, his breaths came hard and shallow.
As Mitts stumbled through the hole he had cut in the wire fence, he was dimly aware that the sun was out. And that its rays streamed down. He felt them warm the space between his shoulders.
Gently— ever so gently —cooking him alive.
Every step, he was losing energy.
He was certain that, sometime soon, he would lose the ability to put one foot before the other.
But he found the drive to keep going.
To keep himself going.
He had to.
As Mitts had lain on the floor of the Autopsy room, he had felt the pain shuddering through him.
He had felt the hot, sharp sensation digging into his side.
From the bullet.
And yet, he had still felt that strength—the same strength which had been visited upon him when he’d first come across the creature—when it had been alive.
Mitts had known that he would only get one chance.
And that he couldn’t make a mistake.
As Heinmein had stood above him, he had explained how he had murdered every member of Mitts’s family.
How, when Heinmein had noticed Mitts had gone missing, he had put the gun to each one of their heads and— simply —blown them away.
They had all been dead by the time Heinmein had shone the spotlight.
At that moment, Mitts had felt his fingers forming fists, quite aside from his inner will.
It was a wonder that he hadn’t launched himself onto his feet.
Had a go at pummelling Heinmein with his fists.
Right there and then.
But he had found a larger inner strength.
Patience.
To play the waiting game.
Mitts had waited for Heinmein to draw close, and then, with a single rush of blood through his veins, he had kicked out, caught the back of Heinmein’s leg, sent him plunging backward, the gun firing off a shot into the roof of the Autopsy room.
Mitts recalled how he had winced when the back of Heinmein’s head struck the drawer which contained the specimen.
For a long few seconds, Mitts had felt his pulse pumping hard, working to accompany the pain he felt pounding away in his side as blood eked out of him.
Mitts thought about Heinmein’s face, about how he had lain on his back, his mouth opened in an eternal yawn.
The worst part of it—the very worst part of it—was that Mitts had been right all along.
About Heinmein.
About not trusting him.
But none of his family had seemed to feel the same danger, none of them seemed to have slotted the pieces together as Mitts had.
Realised that the reason their neighbour, Heinmein, the strange old loner across the road, had chosen them over all the others on their street, was because they were a family.
Because he had known, somehow, that Mitts’s mother had been pregnant.
Because he had known he could perform his experiments.
In peace.
Mitts thought about how Heinmein must’ve had some sort of advance-warning system set up throughout the Compound. He had known that Mitts had slipped out of the Restricted Area, and that he was planning to leave.
Mitts supposed he hadn’t been subtle in his escape efforts after all.
And when Heinmein had caught wind of Mitts’s fledgling escape, he had panicked, decided there was no reason for keeping Mitts’s family alive any longer.
Not if Mitts himself was planning to abscond.
Only now, as Mitts felt his trainers crunch on the dirt outside the fence of the Compound, did he realise that he had been Heinmein’s experiment all along—all through these seven years.
Despite his father’s well-intentioned demands that Heinmein leave Mitts alone, Heinmein had merely been biding his time.
Waiting.
With Mitts alone, in the Autopsy room, his family already dead, Heinmein had clearly panicked.
He had had no idea what to do now that his pet science project was so determined to leave.
To escape him.
Once Mitts had checked on Heinmein’s pulse, felt that skittering
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