You are in a long corridor. The walls are a chitinous, steely grey, nearly translucent. Ridges and veiny outgrowths crisscross the walls and ceiling, and the dim lighting seems to exude from two channels of liquid along the upper parts of each wall. The floor, too, is lit. It alone appears to be metal. As you walk, the lights dim behind you, and become brighter a few yards ahead.

You make your way along this corridor til you come to a T intersection. To the left, you hear sounds that make the hair at the back of your neck stand on end. All the fillings in your teeth ache and whine with that acidic tang, as if you’d bitten down on aluminum foil. The sounds are reptilian, or perhaps insectile. You shy away, backing down the other branch of the T. You turn and move more quickly, looking over your shoulder every so often. The horrific noises fade away. They are replaced by a chugging, churning liquid sound, punctuated by a burbling noise.

You come to a door. As you approach, the door slides up, revealing a chamber on the other side. In this room, giant glass cylinders hold frothing green liquid. The green is a glow all its own, different from the fluid lighting the halls. You approach the liquid and see particles suspended in the viscous flow. To your left, a collection of analysis equipment is lined up and activated, and the green goo has been smeared on slides and cultured in petri dishes. You can’t read the reports, but then you’ve never been able to read much in situations like this, moments like these. You look at what could perhaps be an electron microscope, or at least something similar, and peer into the odd and widely-spaced eyepieces.

It’s almost as if you’ve sunk through the plastic and glass and metal and are standing on the slide, immersed in lime-colored liquid. The syrupy flow surrounds you, and particles float by. One particle in particular takes notice of you and floats, with seeming autonomy and motive, toward you.

“Hello.” The particle smiles and addresses you. You respond in kind. “What are you doing here? Aren’t you supposed to be out in a cornfield somewhere?”

You can’t quite understand how this conversation can be happening, but as is usually the case in situations like this, you don’t mind after a moment, and all seems normal enough. You explain to the particle that you plan to be back in the cornfield as soon as you are able.

“Oh, I see. Well, good luck with your examinations. I’ll be in the cornfields myself, soon enough.”

You are a skeptic, and ask the particle who he is, and what he means by that comment.

“Oh, how rude of my. I’m Erik. They plan to distribute me throughout the region soon. I think they’re testing the water lately and making sure the radiation levels are high enough for my propagation. I need about 10 picocuries per liter to really make a good show of things.”

You tell Erik that you can’t believe this, but that you were afraid something strange was going on.

“Well, by what rubric are you measuring the situation to arrive at a designation of ‘strange’? I mean, really, it’s not so unusual in this day and age to have chemical exchanges between cultures as part of the colonization/conquering process.”

You feel your mouth getting dry, and lick your cracking lips as you try to internalize “conquering.”

Erik continues. “A caveat, I suppose, is that this hasn’t even really happened yet. And I’m not sentient. Nor is my name Erik. But otherwise, we’re really discussing virtually the same thing as what’s about to happen. I’m surprised that you’re not taking more active steps, what with all the evidence surrounding you.”

You question Erik about the nature of this supposed evidence, and what he means that he is surprised.

“Oh, come on, dude. The zombified lunk in your apartment. The radioactive water. The fact that it’s absolutely impossible to get decent radio, tv, and cell phone reception in town. What, do you need to start pissing glow in the dark urine before you get it that something is a little sketchy here?”

Wait a minute, you want to know just who Erik is and how he’s qualified to speak so authoritatively on such matters.

“Well, you know my name. But I suppose you want to see my vita or resume or something. I do have some letters after my name, but they’re not Ph. or D. Try AZV.”

You have no idea what AZV could stand for. But as soon as he says the letters out loud, Jackson 5ive music starts running through your head. “one two three, do re mi…”

“What you haven’t figured it out yet?”
You’re forced to shake your head in the negative.

“I’m the alien zombie virus.”

***