As she moves about, her feet kick something that sets off the sound of rolling glass. Her eyes find the syringe in its last motions before stopping against the drum of her stethoscope. The two huddle together, wanting to be used. She searches the room for the missing third—the dutiful, blue-dog patient—but to no avail. A bloody towel, stripped stems, but otherwise empty concrete. No trace of blue fabric.

She turns back to the body and frowns. Carefully, she places her hands on its arm and pushes the creature with little effort to the side, lifting its shoulder blade off the ground. The stuffed blue dog squeezes out from under the body, only now it is stained red and heavy with soaked-up weight, nothing but a bloody sponge. She picks it up, stuffing threatening to fall out of its gash, and crushes it in her hands. A few drops drip from its fabric and join the mess of blood below.

She turns and picks up the stethoscope, plugging it into her ears. She takes the drum and presses it against the dog.

Nothing.

She kneels and places it on the creature’s ribcage.

Nothing.

But couldn’t I hear it thump before?

She hesitates and holds the drum against her own chest.

Nothing.

. . . nothing . . .

She looks to the body, then to the dog, her face glazed over with sizzling confusion.

And then her thoughts explode.

But I’m not nothing!

She growls in frustration, squeezing the dog to a pulp before chucking it at the wall. It bounces against the concrete with a pathetic squish and falls to the floor, regaining its helpless form. She rips the stethoscope from her ears and screams, lifting her arms to pound down on the silent chest before her with agonized grunts.

I’m not nothing! I’m not nothing! I’m not! I’m not! I’m not! I’m NOT!

There’s a crunch like shattering teeth. Her fists sink and catch on something sharp. She looks down. Her hands are gone, buried beneath chest, wrists trapped between protruding branches of jagged bone. She shrieks and yanks, ripping open the body’s ribcage so that it unfurls like a flower of beige spikes. Shriveled pieces of meat jump and suspend in midair before falling in clumps across the body and her thighs.

Upset at the sight—upset at how the pit of mulched flesh makes her drool—she stands and runs from the room.

She stumbles down the hallway, holding her hand to her stomach as though she could trap its contents, keep them from bursting out of her throat. But that’s not the problem. That’s not truly what horrifies her. It’s the hunger. It’s the slobbering over creatures. It’s the want for more.

Always more.

She travels down the stairs and bolts toward the big wooden door, placing her hand on that golden knob.

She stops herself, or rather, a sudden wave of insight holds her back from entering the Outside.

Out there they’ll do so much worse.