I broke into the laboratory that night. Walked down the levels to the incinerators while the alarm rang out. The place would be swarming with police in minutes but I didn't care, because it was almost over.
I had the plastic doll in a container which stared up at me as I opened the door to the nearest incinerator. Only it wasn't plastic and it wasn't a doll.
It was from the house. The one I torched. I got the girl out and the mother, if it was still a mother at that point, tossed me the doll before she committed herself to the flames. She wanted the kid to have it, as if it might ease the trauma of losing her whole family. Who can say what goes through the mind of a mother about to burn herself alive? I'm glad that I caught it with my gloves, because I'm not sure it was the mind of a mother that was desperate to get that doll to her daughter. I'm glad I had that doubt before I handed it to her.
We knew it could infect biological substances. Mimic their structure. But not things like plastic. But flesh, in the right conditions, can look just like plastic.
The doll, in the incinerator. I close the hatch. Hit the button. And wait to see if black tendrils fly from its false flesh.
Paddy Dobson
21st February 2023