The Forsaken One
Explorer
The room is Dark, lit only by a Bunsen burner. An acrid chemical tang drifts amidst the odor of unwashed flesh. For six days now the young man has worked here alone, without sleeping or eating. For six days he has been working, and now the experiment is complete.
All that's left... is to test it.
"Scott." He calls softly. "Are you ready?"
Scott emerges bleary-eyed from the bedroom where he has been waiting. "Sorry, man. Fell asleep. Yeah, I'm ready."
"Good."
Scott could drink the concoction, the young man thinks. Or put it on a blotter strip, wait 24 hours for it to dry, and then let it dissolve on his tongue. For a moment he even considers having Scott smoke the substance, but he has known all along that injection is the only way to go.
The young man finds the syringe by instinct in the dark and attaches a new needle to it. One must take precautions, after all.
He fills the syringe and holds it up against the light: The liquid inside is thick and dark, almost black in the light of the Bunsen burner. A stained Army surplus sleeping bag lies piled in a corner with a leaking bean bag pillow. Scott leans back into the cushions. He lets his breath out slowly, feels his body relax.
Finding a vein is easy. No fumbling or bruising--the young man is a professional. A quick stab of pain, the needle strikes home, and the young man presses the plunger on the syringe...
And the drug goes to work.
Scott's body goes rigid, then begins to twitch. Sweat oozes and pools in his palms, his chest. His eyelids flutter open, but his staring eye's don't see the darkened room around him. Breathing slowly, shalowly, he forces a whisper past his drying lips:
"Oh God."
The young man smiles into the darkness.
All that's left... is to test it.
"Scott." He calls softly. "Are you ready?"
Scott emerges bleary-eyed from the bedroom where he has been waiting. "Sorry, man. Fell asleep. Yeah, I'm ready."
"Good."
Scott could drink the concoction, the young man thinks. Or put it on a blotter strip, wait 24 hours for it to dry, and then let it dissolve on his tongue. For a moment he even considers having Scott smoke the substance, but he has known all along that injection is the only way to go.
The young man finds the syringe by instinct in the dark and attaches a new needle to it. One must take precautions, after all.
He fills the syringe and holds it up against the light: The liquid inside is thick and dark, almost black in the light of the Bunsen burner. A stained Army surplus sleeping bag lies piled in a corner with a leaking bean bag pillow. Scott leans back into the cushions. He lets his breath out slowly, feels his body relax.
Finding a vein is easy. No fumbling or bruising--the young man is a professional. A quick stab of pain, the needle strikes home, and the young man presses the plunger on the syringe...
And the drug goes to work.
Scott's body goes rigid, then begins to twitch. Sweat oozes and pools in his palms, his chest. His eyelids flutter open, but his staring eye's don't see the darkened room around him. Breathing slowly, shalowly, he forces a whisper past his drying lips:
"Oh God."
The young man smiles into the darkness.
