Doctors Meola, Ramos, and Lalas stood in a darkened lab room, crowding together around the glow of a computer monitor.
“You’re sure we can track it?”
“Uh, yeah,” said Dr. Alexi Lalas. “In fact, we’re doing that now. We’ve been doing that for the last twenty minutes. That blinking light? On the map? The one we’ve been following around with our finger? That’s 37-E.”
“Oh,” said Dr. Meola, “right, yeah. I knew that.”
“Christ. You fucking girl,” said Dr. Lalas, “I can’t believe you’re still rattled. You weren’t even mauled!”
“It was a psychological mauling. There was, you know, trauma… and stuff.”
Dr. Lalas held up his shiny new cybernetic forearm.
“You’re a fucking pansy.”
“Yes, it certainly appears so.”
The surviving interns entered the room, pushing a hand-truck laden with various weapons and the coordinating ammunition. The interns were equal parts robotic implants and bandages, both terrified and terrifying. Judy, the one with half a face, was wearing a burlap sack with eyeholes cut out over her head. There was a crude smiling mouth drawn on it with marker.
“Judy,” said Dr. Ramos, “that seems a little…”
“No,” she said. “It’s not.”
“OK, maybe, but why a burlap…”
“That was all I could find.”
“I’m pretty sure I saw…”
“I’m fine.”
“Why would we even have a burlap sack in a state-of-the-art gene research facility in the first place?”
“I don’t know.”
“You look ridiculous.”
“I am well aware, thanks. Fucktard.”
“That’s Dr. Fucktard to you.”
“Yes, sir,” said Judy sheepishly.
“Enough!” barked Dr. Lalas. “We started this… and we’re the only ones who can end it.”
He pumped his shotgun, the sound resonating dramatically throughout the lab.
“It’s hunting season.”
The interns were barely able to stifle their laughter.
“Seriously?” asked Dr. Ramos, raising an eyebrow. “’Hunting season?’”
“Well, yeah, I was, uh, I was just trying to, you know, fire us up…”
“Yeah, don’t…”
“I got a little caught up…”
“Yeah…”
“I thought…”
“Don’t do that again.”
“OK.”
“Thanks.”