You Are Here: Entry 13

Most mail arrives by postal services, and yet a black envelope embossed with gold tumbles as you open your front door. It must be for your roommate Rebecca. She recently argued with her boyfriend, and you think, "This must be his idea of an apology," but as you retrieve it, you see it's addressed to you.

You stare at the sleeve and list possible reasons, in your head, why someone would send you something. It's not your birthday for months, same for Christmas, and no major life events have happened; you'd "have to have one," you say aloud.

This wouldn't be a big deal to most people, but you aren't like them. You don't have a significant other like Rebecca, and you haven't even been on a date this year. You don't have a close circle of friends either, because your research leaves no room for socializing. You almost toss it in the trash, but a thought stops you. It's too fancy to be junk mail, and besides, there's no stamp or return address.

"What if it's a glitter bomb?" you think, but quickly dismiss it because what enemies do you have other than maybe the rat that couldn't find his way out of the maze back in your lab.

Tentatively yet excitedly curious, you run your nail under the seal. It slices the tender flesh, eliciting a gasp and a dash for the letter opener in the junk drawer. Sucking on your fingertip, you begin to open the envelope.

A card is inside, also on black card stock and in gold script. Your name is in a larger font than the rest of the words, and it begins with salutations. You begin to read.

"You are cordially invited to a Halloween gathering of like minds."

October 31st. 2300 Bring only yourself and Subject 13.

Your mind swirls. You turn the invitation over, hoping for clarification, but only an address you don't recognize is listed. There are too many questions, and you don't know which is the most pressing.

Still holding the invitation, you take out your cell phone to Google the address, but the results show an old Zillow listing for a dilapidated building. It's low and windowless, and surrounded by overgrown weeds and grass, along with a tall chain-link fence.

The listing is from five years ago and states that the building is an old laboratory facility that was abandoned due to "an unforeseen and abrupt stop to the team's research." No other details were given, so you scroll through the dozens of photos.

Offices, empty corridors, a loading bay, peeling white paint, and exit signs hanging haphazardly from doorframes.

Then there's a wide medical room, the lab; you stop scrolling, something pricking at a familiarity.

The building was long deserted by the time you moved to the state, yet your memory suggests otherwise. You zoom in on the photo, searching, and realize it's only because the equipment looks so similar to what you use in your own work. Same stainless-steel tables, same examination lights, and even the cages line the far wall.

You stare for a few seconds, unable to shake the surreal feeling. Then you see it, a metal enclosure tucked into a dark corner. A number is attached to it. You zoom in more.

13

Goosebumps pimple your skin.

The invitation also mentioned Subject 13.

You quickly exit the page, then throw the invitation in the bin on your way to the shower.

A shower always fixes your mood.

Except it doesn't. Instead, you fixate on Subject 13. Last time you were with the rat, he had just failed his final test.

Subject 13 had always performed well until today. Each and every time his heart stopped and then restarted, he navigated the maze faster. He learned from the past, remembered the correct turns, and adapted to any changes that hadn't been in the maze before. With each trial, he seemed to become smarter.

A thought suddenly occurs to you: "What if someone is after my research?"

Quickly, you rinse the shampoo from your hair and hop out of the shower without bothering to condition. You gather the same clothes you wore earlier from the bathroom floor and hastily put them back on, then grab your work badge from the key ring.

You need to get back to your lab.

The university is still teeming with life despite the hour. Coeds hold hands, throw balls, and talk animatedly as you walk toward your building. The science wing has fewer lecture halls than the rest of campus, but houses more than a hundred labs. Yours is located in the most isolated part of the building.

The isolation never bothered you before. Tonight, the contrast between the noise outside and the near silence inside has you on edge. Your footsteps, even your breath, sound unnaturally loud, and your thoughts keep returning to Subject 13.

Your strides lengthen as you try to reach your subject faster.

The door is locked, just as you remember leaving it, so you scan in. The automatic lights turn on as soon as you enter. A few rats scurry at the sound of your arrival, but everything seems exactly as you left it.

Including Subject 13.

He stares at you from his cage.

You stare back, waiting for the relief that he's here. But something doesn't feel right.

No, doesn't look right.

You move closer to Subject 13's cage.

Inside, things have been moved. Not knocked over or scattered accidentally. Items have been carefully and meticulously organized.

The discarded pieces of yarn have been gathered into a single ball. Tunnels have been rearranged. Flex bridges have been moved to places they weren't before.

You crouch in front of the cage.

Subject 13 still stares at you.

He looks the same. Just as any lab rat: long, white fur and beady red eyes.

You look back at the work he did to the maze then back to him.

Subject 13 has not moved. Hasn't blinked!

You reach for the clipboard hanging beside his cage. It contains all of the notes on Subject 13. You skim the familiar entries.

Trial One: Successful.

Trial Two: 13 seconds faster.

Trial Three: 33 seconds faster.

Each entry is nearly identical. Cardiac arrest induced. Resuscitation successful. Maze completed. Time recorded. With each trial, his performance improved in ability, agility, and adaptability.

You know all this. You were there.

Your eyes drift to the bottom of the page. There, beneath your usual notes, is a line you don't remember writing.

Final Trial: Cardiac arrest induced. 09:00 Resuscitation successful. Maze initiated. 09:13

The timing cannot be correct. 13 seconds, maybe, but minutes, no way.

Your pulse slightly quickens. Of course you could have written the time wrong. It's not an error you usually make, but you're only human. Accidents happen, you tell yourself. It's actually good you found it, and since you video-record all your tests, it's an easy mistake to fix.

Still, there is an uneasy feeling you can't quite shake. You check your smartwatch, and your heart rate still hasn't returned to its resting rate.

You pause, take a deep breath, hold for three seconds, then exhale, repeating the cycle a couple more times before you can continue your task.

The videos for each subject are kept in the wall cabinets and are arranged in numerical order of subject. You reach toward the end of the cabinet since Subject 13 is last, but find the spot is empty.

Your heart rate speeds back up, and the bumps from the chill return.

Directly below is a drawer with a flashlight, so you reach for it. With the light on, you use it to search for the tape, but no matter how much you look, it isn't there.

Tears start to form. You're frustrated, confused, and now a little frightened. You are unsure of what to do. You just let the tears come fast and unashamedly. The flashlight falls from your hand, accidentally forcing you out of your emotions.

You drop to your hands and knees and crawl after the now-rolling flashlight. It moves quickly, but finally hits one of the subjects' cages and stops. You grab it and rise slowly; you see it's 13s, and he is still staring at you.

"That's it!" you say to Subject 13, "I am going to that old lab."

You race to your car, flashlight still in hand. You pull up your phone, type the address into your map app (with several typos), and minutes later you're pulling onto a gravel driveway.

The gate is still there and is locked, so you have to get out of your car. The chain-link is so worn that you can wedge your body through an opening.

Weeds snake through the sidewalks, and you catch yourself on one several times. The flashlight cuts through the darkness, though, so you easily see your way to the front entrance.

The door is surprisingly untarnished. It's not boarded up like the rest of the building, so it's remarkable when the door opens without protest. Before you walk in, you wait, listening for an alarm to announce your presence. When it doesn't, you light your way in.

The light reveals peeling paint and overturned furniture. The air smells stale, yet a disinfectant stench still lingers, and your stomach turns.

Dust motes dance in your vision; you follow them down the corridor to the reception area. A desk sits under a thick layer of dust, and behind it hang a collection of photographs.

You lean in closer.

The first shows a group of researchers standing in front of the laboratory when it was new. The second shows the same row of cages from the Zillow listing. The third is a close-up of a white rat.

A small tag marked 13 hangs from its ear.

Your breath catches.

Below the photos, filing cabinets are labeled with a subject number. You instantly go for 13.

Inside is a folder with your name.

Your hands tremble as you open it. The first thing you pull from it is a photograph of someone lying on a metal examination table, electrodes attached to their head and chest.

You recognize the face immediately.

It's yours.

Your hands shake; you drop the photo and pull the second item from the folder.

A data sheet like the ones you use on your subjects. You only look at the final entry.

Subject 13: Final Test: October 31st.

You stumble backward, knocking a framed photo from the wall. Glass shatters at your feet. You look down; the fallen photo is of the research team you saw earlier.

You recognize every face.

And then there you are, standing at the very center, wearing a white laboratory coat.

Except you notice you aren't smiling or even looking at the camera.

You're looking directly at the thirteenth cage.

You shouldn't be here; you have to leave.

But just as you're about to, a voice comes from behind you.

"You are here!"