To Become a Husk

“It burrows into your spinal cord and controls the mind, turning you into its puppet. It feeds until you’ve nothing left to give and, by the time you know it’s there, you are beyond saving.”

For the first time in his life, Dr. Mikhael Harvester is confident in his words. Without a microphone in front of him, his voice carries across the room. Without the flashing cameras and insectoid press with their interrupting questions that tend to accompany public meetings, the room seems barren. Twenty chairs seat the most important people in the country, and their focus is entirely on him.

“It transfers in many ways. As of right now, we are still researching, but we know it can be airborne or through direct contact with an infected person. Maybe it’s both. Even in these cases, however, it is not guaranteed that the person will become a host.”

Mikhael adjusts his sleeves, his hand spasming at the end. The cuff folds awkwardly, tugged too far past his wrist. His heart races but it is unnoticeable, something distant and unlike him keeping his typical anxiety at bay. This is, by far, the most important thing he’s done– not just as an epidemiologist, but in his entire life. As a kid, it was something he dreamed of. This importance, this power, this ability to command an entire room of influential people. Now, it’s a waking nightmare.

Inside the room, there are no cameras. No electronics, even — anything that could transmit information has been locked away on the opposite side of the building. The walls are soundproof, the door locked. The isolation of it all should have terrified Mikhael, leaving him stuttering and sweating, but instead he stands up taller in it. He doesn’t mind the lack of nerves, though — he knows what he’s talking about.

If only he didn’t.

“As I’m sure you all understand, this has been difficult to research. We do not know the specimen’s motives — we don’t understand it at all. It is, effectively, unreachable beyond those it infects. Even among those sick, we only are aware of their sickness by the second of three stages, when it is long past too late to do anything for them.”

Though he would never dare say it out loud, his research team is far below standard capacity. Mikhael can’t blame those who left when he offered for them to go — people fear the unknown, infection, the loss of their humanity. There is no cure and no confirmed way to protect yourself. Parents, caregivers, those who valued their lives or had someone who valued their life — they all left quickly. Lonely Dr. Mikhael and a handful of his closest and oldest colleagues were the only ones to stay behind and weather the storm.

And a storm it was. Sleepless nights and days that blended together led Mikhael to blacking out in the midst of an observation or crashing mid-interview. Was it only a few days ago that, while compiling his notes for this meeting, he woke to find the work completed in his hands before he even realized he had fallen asleep? Exhaustion underlies every action now and Mikhael hasn’t seen a bed since the research started three months ago. His home is a distant memory, replaced with the sterility of the research labs and glass dividers keeping the infected away from his team.

“We have been unsuccessful in our attempts to extract the specimen and discover its intelligence. Once it’s settled, it can’t be extracted without killing the host’s body. Even touching it causes intense pain. The specimen leaves before the host is dead, killing the body in the process. Where it goes after that, what it has gained, is unknown.”

The people in front of him nod, bobble-head toys with a spring for a neck, trusting every word he says. He shuffles through stacks of paper, hands twitching even as his shoulders relax. He isn’t afraid — far from it — but his brain and body are in two separate worlds. His heart races and his muscles twitch, but his mind is clear. Unthinking beyond the present moment. That, at least, is a blessing. It wouldn’t do to appear unsure during a meeting of such importance. 

His folder is full of everything he has gathered throughout these months. Notes, firsthand accounts of infected but lucid hosts and their family, lists of symptoms, related events in history, timelines. Everything he could need, all neatly organized with paper clips that shine even under the dim lights. He was rarely so tidy, but this must’ve been done when he was less aware.

The paper bends beneath his twitching fingers. His top knuckles lock, pain from a motion rarely done. He winces, trying to hide it by staring at the top sheet of paper. A timeline of infection and symptoms. A good enough place to start, especially as his ability to flip through pages and search for something better is questionable. Through the pain, Mikhael breathes, determined to speak clearly.

“Symptoms in the first stage are the most nebulous. We have yet to be able to directly observe anyone in this stage, as they almost never realize the danger they are in. From the retroactive reports, we understand that stage one symptoms are minor things. Mild headaches, mysterious bruises along veins, an increase in clumsiness, a struggle to fall asleep. Things that one would never think to be symptoms. There are certainly more that we are unaware of.” 

Gears turn in his audience’s minds. They are worried, sorting through their memories for whispers of a menacing figure within. Are they, too, hosts? Are they doomed? Mikhael cannot assuage them of their fears — he has no way of knowing — but instead continues down his list, mechanically moving through the meeting.

“The second stage occurs one to two months following the initial infection. These are when symptoms become obvious. Many families report a shift in the host’s personality, claiming that they become uncannily opposite of what they were before. The meek become courageous, the boisterous are dimmed. We believe this is the specimen’s attempt to adapt to the person, to learn their habits and behaviors. Perhaps it is even to learn how humans in general act and experience the gamut of emotions. However, this is unconfirmed.”

Mikhael steels himself as he goes into a case study. This was a family interview following the infection of a woman, a grandmother. She had been sick before this point, nearing the end of her life and mean with dementia. When the specimen took her over and she reached stage two, the family was overjoyed with the woman’s turn in health. She was less repetitive and nicer, even if she couldn’t recall her past. 

And then the worst happened. The granddaughter, a teenager with her toddler brother held in her lap as she gave the interview, cried as she explained the end of her grandmother’s life. The toddler brother, too young to understand, placed a hand on her face, an uncomfortable knowing in his no longer childish eyes. He moved with a stillness, an adultness, that even without knowing the boy Mikhael knew what had happened. Mikhael was grateful‌ to be behind glass windows. One month later, sequestered into labs for further testing, both were transformed into husks. Dead.

“The second stage can include more symptoms than many notice. A loss of motor functioning, particularly in the extremities. Twitchiness. Patients become lightheaded and feel feverish despite their temperatures remaining perfectly average. Their blood tests are so standard they could be used as examples in a textbook. By all accounts, these people should be at the peak of their physical health. And yet they degrade, bodies shriveling no matter how much they eat. They begin to lose time, moving like normal but left unable to recall what happened. They lose blood to no apparent source. Their brain functioning decreases, but they continue to operate normally.” 

Mikhael prepares for the description of the third and final stage. He has seen so many husks by this point, he’s become desensitized to the image of them. One stares at him as he flips the page, a picture clipped to his papers. He removes it carefully, fingers struggling to behave, and passes it to the people in front of him. They have identical reactions — horror, mouths agape, tears in their eyes at the sight. He waits until they have all seen it, all twenty of them, before continuing.

“The third stage, occurring one to two months after the second, is before you now. This is what my lab has taken to referring to as a husk. The specimen, having achieved whatever it is it wished to achieve, drains the host body of everything it has. The husks lack blood or fat, their brains shriveled and decayed with organs appearing long dead.”

Somewhere in the third row, an official raises her hand. She questions how long it takes for a person to become a husk.

“Anywhere from a week to a day, we’ve found. The host slowly loses their blood and drops in weight rapidly. As soon as the specimen leaves, however, the host shrivels as they lose everything they have within a short period. We’ve seen it happen as quickly as an hour or as long as a day. It’s unclear at what point they are considered dead.”

The researchers could never figure out when exactly the transition from host to husk would occur. It could happen anywhere, at any time. In the hallway on their way to lunch, in the middle of the night, during a conversation. Once the specimen was satisfied, the host was abandoned. Sucked dry and destroyed. 

Questions pop up from all sides, respectful and orderly. Mikhael grips the podium before him tightly to keep his hands from going further out of control. His heart races as the questions begin. Mikhael focuses on the paper and waits for the anxiety to cloud his mind, twist his tongue, but it seems to be running late. He stares at the words written in his handwriting. But when? When had he written this note on the death of a subject, one which he could’ve sworn he never witnessed? When had he done this?

Mikhael blinks.

“—and thank you for your time and you…and your questions.”

Mikhael is aware of the room around him once again, as though waking from a deep and terrifying sleep. When had he started speaking? Better yet, when had he finished? He blinks again, trying to focus as people file out of their seats, questions and gratitude on their lips. 

They are shaking his hand now, thanking him for all of his hard work. Asking things they couldn’t before. Mikhael, though, doesn’t hear a thing over his heart’s rapid — too rapid, unhealthily rapid — beating in his ears. He still stands near the podium, one hand gripping it ever tighter as though he could break through the wood itself and shatter it.

It had been three months since Mikhael began research. Two months since the first death he had observed.

Two months for symptoms to set in and progress to the second stage. Two months to reach the point of no return.

Someone is grabbing his hand now. From Mikhael’s position at the front of the room, he should’ve seen the person’s approach, but it’s as though the person teleported before him. He has lost time again. Mikhael’s hand is tossed up and down, relief clear in the gaze of someone who doesn’t realize.

None of them knows what is happening. None of them realizes what he has done.

As quickly as he can, Mikhael rushes out of the room. A private bathroom swallows him up, the door locked tightly. He shoves his sleeves to the elbows, physically unable to do it in an orderly fashion — when was the last time he had thought to look at his own body for symptoms? — and finds a series of fading, weeks-old bruises lining his wrists. His legs appear pockmarked with the same blue-green circles. Bruises along the veins.

With shaking, unwieldy hands, he reaches for the base of his skull. Pain rushes through him all at once, vomit coating his tongue. He leans over the sink to keep him from falling, porcelain digging into his ribs. Black dots burst in his vision, his entire nervous system screaming. Like pressing a hand to a hot stove — it’s a warning of danger, to never do such a thing again.

Mikhael struggles to catch his breath. When he finally can look up at the mirror, he sees a dead man.