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Laboratory 311, home of the Waller-Lobue Particle Accelerator.

It was the perfect day for a high school field trip. The sun was shining, birds were singing, and the staff was… well, dead. All of them. Dead.

“Welcome to Laboratory 311”, the tour guide had said, but when she went to check on the screams coming from the particle accelerator viewing chamber, she never came back.

To the best of our teacher’s understanding, some sort of accident caused the emergency protocols to kick in. That meant a complete lock-down and containment of any breach. Now I’m trapped in the complex with the other students and our teacher, Mr. Panacharian, waiting for a rescue team.

~

“Kids, please stay together,” Mr. Pan said gruffly. Pan was a big man. He wasn’t fat, but he wasn’t muscle-bound either. He was powerful looking, with huge hands and an overly expressive unibrow that looked like two caterpillars practicing the Kama Sutra on his forehead. Picture a Greco-Roman wrestler, but shorter. Probably just a higher concentration of Neanderthal DNA. I mean, give the man a cigar and mutton chops, and he would have been the perfect guy to play a comic book accurate Wolverine.

“Mr. Pan, I have to go to the restroom,” Becky Anderson whined. “Really bad.”

Pan’s shoulders drooped, and he sighed like a man whose job it was to tell the world that humanity was on the brink of extinction. “Becky, we’re supposed to remain in this room until someone comes to let us out. I don’t think anyone will hold an accident against you. To be honest, I have to go too.”

Brad Wilson, team quarterback, snickered. “Don’t be too sure of that. I’m sure there’ll be plenty of judging.”

Pan swiveled his head on the tree stump serving as his neck and glared at Brad. “Don’t be a dick, Brad,” he said, clearly unafraid of potential repercussions. “You’ve been doing the pee-pee dance for the last twenty minutes.”

The rest of the class, including Becky, laughed as Brad’s face flushed a deep, warm crimson.

It took a moment to register amidst the laughter, but a hush rolled through the room as we all recognized the sound of what could best be described as a guttural, primal roar. The roar echoed through the room like a train passing through an underground terminal, and Becky began to cry. I put my arm around her, hoping to provide a little comfort, but I wasn’t feeling all that comfortable myself.

A series of shrieks and screams rang out in the halls, followed by a high-pitched squeal that sounded like the mating call of a cyborg dolphin. Becky, voice shaking like a Yahtzee cup, whispered, “Brad just peed himself.”

~

We stood in the closest thing to silence we could muster. I mean, there were whimpers, whispers, and outright crying, and of course Mr. Pan was busy hushing all of the above, but it wasn’t as bad as the pandemonium going on in the hall and particle accelerator chamber.

Suddenly, the door from the adjoining viewing room flew open and a tall Japanese man wearing a lab coat and yellow safety glasses stumbled through. He quickly closed the door behind him and cursed when he remembered there wasn’t a lock on our side. He turned to look at us, seeming surprised for a moment, and then wheezed, “The field trip! Thank God. Are you all accounted for?” He looked to Mr. Pan for an answer, his eyes desperate.

“Everyone’s here, except Jodi, our tour guide,” Mr. Pan replied. He looked just as shaken as the man standing in front of us. His name tag identified him as Fuun Shishido – Senior Controls Engineer. “Can you tell us what’s happening here?”

Fuun shook his head. “Classified,” he muttered.

Mr. Pan wasn’t a fan of the engineer’s answer. In one solid move, he hefted him against the unlocked door by the front of his lab coat. “I have more than a dozen kids here whose parents won’t give a good god-damn about your classified crap! What in the hell is going on out there!?”

Fuun looked at us through cockeyed safety glasses. As if finally seeing us for what we were – a bunch of clueless kids who just wanted to go home – he sighed and relented. “Let go of my jacket, please.”

It was a request, not a demand, and Mr. Pan obliged.

“Thank you,” Fuun said, offering a slight bow. “I’m sorry. You see, everything is classified, even the number of sugars I take in my coffee. Chalk it up to habit.” The man looked around the room. Seeing nothing but terror, he continued. He must have thought Mr. Pan was a priest, because he spilled the beans on everything except how many sugars he’d taken in his coffee that morning. “A strange black stone, unlike anything we’d ever seen. A power source beyond comprehension. We used it to power the accelerator. It worked well the first time. It opened the multiverse like a beautiful patchwork. We could see everything, everywhere. But the second time, the investors got greedy. They wanted to do more than just see. They wanted to explore. But it was an accident. An accident ripped a hole in the complex fabric of spacetime, and it appears the multiverse is now collapsing into a single nexus. That nexus is our lab. It’s contained for the moment, but the strain of the entire multiverse pressing against the tear is just too much for even spacetime to hold. The rip is expanding. Soon it will exceed the confines of this facility, and there will be no place to hide.”

“Unless someone closes it,” I said matter-of-factly. I was trying to impress Becky, who’d clamped onto my arm like a human vice; a very pretty, incredibly nice smelling human vice. But it was still a valid statement, right?

Everyone in the room looked at me like I’d just professed my virginity or something.

“Seriously? Are you going to tell me you can’t close it,” I asked.

“He’s got a point,” Brad said, no longer trying to hide the drying stain on the front of his Levis.

I hadn’t really expected validation from anyone, especially Brad.

Fuun sighed and pursed his lips. “I’m only a controls engineer. I’m not allowed to operate the systems necessary to-”

“Doesn’t matter if you should do it.” The new voice was Jamal Stone, a generally quiet self-described science nerd, who probably understood what was happening better than anyone on the field trip, including Mr. Pan. “The question is, can you?”

Fuun looked really nervous. He was obviously a rules guy. But we were teenagers. We broke rules for breakfast.

Jamal continued. “Look, I’ve been taking particle physics classes through MIT’s online program since junior high. If you need an assistant, I’ve got your back. But you’ve got to be straight with us, alright bro?”

Fuun nodded. “Yes. It is worth a try. I think dodging any sort of liability went out the window when the rip appeared, and as far as I can tell, I’m the only employee left alive. I’ll try, and I’ll take whatever help I can get.”

Becky was looking at Jamal with a newfound level of admiration. We all were. I’d had a crush on Becky since the fourth grade, but unless her last name was Higgs-Boson, Jamal wouldn’t have even known she was alive.

I stepped forward once more. “Are there any weapons around here? Like a security station or anything? Someone has to keep everyone else safe while you guys figure this thing out.”

Fuun nodded. “Yes, but I wouldn’t bother with the security station. They’ve only got tasers and batons. There’s another chamber, not far from here, with tactical exploration gear, just in case we were successful.”

Mr. Pan shook his head ruefully. “Looks like you were successful.”

I nodded. “Jamal, you help Mr. Susudio. Whoever wants to come with me, I’m going for the tactical gear.”

Becky squeezed my arm, Jamal all but forgotten. “I’m coming with you.”

Brad stepped forward bravely. “I’m with you too, nerd.” His facade of bravado was as thin as our survival odds.

“Not so fast, kids.” Mr. Pan put up his hands. “I’m responsible for all of you, so-”

“No disrespect, Mr. Pan,” I said, “but things are only getting worse out there, and time is not on our side. You can’t stop us all. If you want to protect us, come with us and gear up.”

Several kids agreed out loud. While the screaming outside had ceased, the alarms continued to blare at a, well, alarming level.

Mr. Pan looked flustered, but he couldn’t argue, not about that, not considering what we all knew. He finally nodded and looked at Shishido. “Ok, some of us will get the tactical gear. The rest will assist you and Jamal.” He glanced around the room at my classmates. “Or stay out of the way.”

A few of the students who were neither scientifically inclined, nor particularly excited about carrying a firearm, nodded sheepishly.

Mr. Pan looked satisfied. “So, Mr. Shishido, tell me. Where is this munitions depot?”

~

A few minutes later, eight of us, including Mr. Pan, Brad, Becky, and I, escaped the locked room using Mr. Shishido’s keycard. He had limited access inside the facility, meaning the keycard wasn’t going to open any exits leading to the outside world, but he assured us he had access to the munitions room. It turns out our humble Mr. Shishido was more important than he made himself out to be. Our unwitting savior had overseen the development of most of the systems that controlled everyday life at Waller-Lobue, including security. His card allowed him to go anywhere his expertise might be needed. Apparently, he was needed just about everywhere.

Shishido, Jamal, and the other five kids remained in the waiting area, as there were unimaginable horrors lurking on the other side of the unlocked door leading to the lab; horrors yours truly needed to take down before the science nerds could repair the rip. We wedged a chair under the doorknob, effectively preventing any accidental openings. Unfortunately, if something in the lab had even a bit of upper body strength and an inkling of determination, the chair wouldn’t stop it for long.

As it turns out, Mr. Pan was a former marine, and pretty badass. We won’t talk about the time he ran out of a classroom full of kids during an earthquake. Everyone’s allowed a phobia. Interdimensional cosmic horror, it seemed, wasn’t one of his. As part of the first marine raider battalion, clearing rooms was second nature to our warrior turned science teacher. Had we been learning from freakin’ MacGyver all along?

“Stay close, kids,” Pan whispered.

With the alarms still blaring, I doubt anyone but those of us closest to him could hear. He used hand signals to guide us. Even if most of us didn’t know what the signals actually meant, his body language told us everything we needed to know. Two fingers up, three fingers sideways, who the hell knew, but when his hand shot up like a high-five as he was about to turn down another hall, we all recognized stop.

Pan looked back to see if the path behind us was clear. He raised two fingers and circled them in the air. Maybe he wanted us to turn around? Before any of us could register the signal, a mass of wet, albino-white tentacles that resembled extra-long ears of overcooked, slimy white corn, slithered around the corner, and coiled around Mr. Pan’s ankle and calf. Our teacher grunted. Impressive, considering the rest of us would’ve shrieked like babies if the things touched us. He tried to kick at the tentacles, before realizing that was the worst possible response. Once he lifted his foot, whatever was attached to the tentacles yanked him off-balance and dragged him, screaming and flailing his arms like a cartoon character, down the hall and out of sight.

Then we all shrieked like babies.

~

The shrieking, it turned out, was also a bad idea.

A high-pitched chittering sound, followed by a rapid succession of wet, guttural yelps, echoed from somewhere in the corridor behind us. Stan Bautista, a big, quiet Samoan dude with hair like John Travolta in that really old movie, Grease, ran from the back of the group, towards the corridor Mr. Pan just disappeared down.

And the stampede was on.

Becky started running before I did. I only started moving because she was pulling on my arm, and one of us was bound to fall if I didn’t go with her. I might have started pumping my legs like a madman when an odd clicking, like the sound of hundreds of tiny feet running, began swarming up the hall in our direction.

The problem was, everyone was running down the wrong hall. Mr. Pan had the map, but I’d memorized it. The hall our teacher disappeared down, where the class was now running, was the wrong one. We were supposed to go straight, not left.

I pulled on Becky and hollered, “This is the wrong way!”

She slowed and looked at me, and finally stopped. Brad and Stan, who’d inadvertently started the exodus, stopped as well. Everyone else kept running, unable to hear my shout over the alarms and screaming.

I tugged at Becky’s arm, nodding back to the hall we’d come from. Without another word or gesture, the four of us ran back and turned left. As we passed through the junction of intersecting halls, I spotted Mr. Shishido’s keycard on the ground. Poor Mr. Pan dropped it when the tentacles pulled him off his feet. I scooped up the card and kept running.

Then I made the mistake of looking back. About two or three dozen pregnant cat-sized creatures stopped at the juncture we’d just run back through. I tugged at Becky and shushed, pointing back down the hall. I wasn’t she could even see the gesture in the dim emergency lighting. We stopped, transfixed by the mind-numbing sight. Brad and Stan stopped and looked back as well. There was a collective skipped heartbeat as we watched. Suddenly, Brad wasn’t the only one with pee in his pants. Hey! It might be Stan I’m talking about, or Becky. No judging, alright?

Oh, yeah, the creatures. The creatures looked like they were very, very distant relatives to spiders. Their bodies were roughly the size of volleyballs, and their color was a sickly, translucent, milky hue, like an amphibian’s eggs. We could see through to their innards. While their skin was clear, there was an awful mixture of red and pink tones swirling around in what looked like their digestive tract. Most likely human flesh. Becky dug her nails into my forearm. I was fairly sure I was bleeding by now. The bodies were bad enough, but their legs made me wish I was wearing brown pants. It’s a pirate joke my dad likes to tell. Look it up. Their legs were long and spindly, but sturdy looking. They were the same milky white hue, and covered with spiky, white hairs that seemed to move independently, like a cat’s whiskers. The worst thing about the legs wasn’t the length, the color, or the fact they needed a waxing in the worst way. It wasn’t even that they had so many we couldn’t count them. It was the tiny tongues. From each joint, on each leg, and there were a lot of both, what looked like a tiny tongue protruded, licking eagerly at the air, tasting it. Maybe smelling it? And it might have been the diffused lighting, but I couldn’t seem to see a single eye on any of the things. They appeared to be blind.

The four of us had stopped in the hall, right out in plain sight. We’d be sitting ducks if the things decided to come our way. As I said, though, the things had to have been blind, because they’d stopped at the T-juncture, seemingly confused by the two directions available to them. Their tiny tongues lapped at the air, like a cat at a puddle of milk, and their leg whiskers moved as if pushed by an unseen wind. Then the tapping started again. It was nothing in comparison to the awfulness of the alarms, but it was so consistent and rhythmic that the emergency systems couldn’t overshadow it. The sound was like hundreds of tiny tap dancers sending out messages in Morse code. But creepier, like if the tap dancers were mimes.

Then someone farted.

I refuse to believe it was Becky, even though she excused herself. It must have been Stan or Brad. She was just being polite.

But when one of the two cretins cut the cheese, the collective tap dancing monstrosities' whiskers all swayed in our direction, and a thousand tiny tongues started licking at the air in our section of the hall.

Then they took a step towards us. And when I say they, I mean all of them.

One step became two, two became four, and before we knew it, they were practically skipping in our direction singing “Zippity Doodah”. I don’t know about them, but I wanted to go away from the fart, not towards it.

Several more steps and the multi-legged nightmares were practically on top of us. The way we huddled together, if they brushed past one of us, they’d find us all.

I lifted my foot to step on the closest one, though I was certain all that would do was make it mad. Seeing as we were already doomed.

Then we heard the roar, the screams, and the stampede of footsteps coming from Mr. Pan Memorial Hallway. Our classmates found something else, or something else found them. The spiderlings decided the screaming and running was far more interesting than a fart. Without so much as a ‘see y’all later’, they were off to dinner.

A moment later, the screaming increased. A few seconds after that, everything became quiet again.

~

“Move,” I whisper-shouted.

We continued our panicked race towards the safety of the munitions room. A shriek from behind us froze us in our tracks. It was human.

We turned to see Aleah Lopez stumbling towards us, her eyes wide with terror. She screamed again when she saw us and reached out for help.

We all bolted towards her, but stopped short when we saw the opaque, whisker covered leg stalks creeping over her shoulders and around her upper torso. The whiskers seemed to do nothing to the fabric of her hoodie, but as soon as they touched the exposed flesh of her neck and face, they burrowed in like sentient porcupine quills. They pulled the legs and those awful flicking tongues up against her neck and face, but that was just the terrifying beginning. As the legs made contact, Aleah’s flesh dissolved like a hot knife passing through a hard stick of butter, or maybe a lightsaber through metal. There was definitely some bubbling. Man, I don’t mean to sound callous. Seriously, in that awful moment, I think the four of us screamed at least as much as Aleah. She was our friend. We grew up together. I still remember the first day of kindergarten. Aleah sat next to me. We got in trouble for talking. The photographer had to take a second picture because of us.

We could only assume Mr. Pan, Tegan Short, and Karsten Jablonka were dead. In Aleah’s case, though, we were sure of it. We had to watch her die. Her voice suddenly turned into a gurgling spurt, and it was over.

Bile filled my mouth at a ratio equivalent to the tears filling my eyes.

Becky was shaking uncontrollably. “Oh my God! Oh my God!”

I hugged her tightly. “We’re going to be alright. Right, guys?” I looked to Stan and Brad for reassurance.

They were holding each other the way Becky was holding me. Brad let go of Stan. “Not a word, nerd! Do you hear me?”

Stan looked like he still needed a hug.

“Yeah,” I stammered. It wasn’t time for jokes. “Not a word, man. I promise.”

We all backed away from Aleah’s corpse and the thing that was greedily consuming her....