Last night, I dreamt I went to see Bob. His heavy, metal door was open. His clothes hung in rags from the swollen white tissue that had become his body. He was almost formless, his human shape overtaken by the bloated matter. What had been an arm still anchored him to the corner, but now, thin strands reached like webbing across the ceiling. He was spreading.
I looked at his head. It was nothing but a lump. His eye still looked out from deep inside, but the tunnel through the fungus was narrowing. The eye looked dead. I leaned closer. I thought I saw the eye move, flicker to a point behind me and then return. I spun. On the inside of Bob’s door was a gun case. Inside the gun case, a pistol and clip. I turned back to Bob, but his eye was motionless. I left.
In the morning, I asked Sergei if there were firearms in the station. He said there probably were, as a safety measure. I asked him if he knew where. He didn't. I went to the lab and picked up the bunch of keys. None of them were labelled. I stood in front of the metal door holding the keys for five minutes. Then I put them back.