I was brought in as the science guy. "Ask the science guy," they'd say, never really engaging me until something needed to be looked at. But I was with them when they raided the lab.

I saw assets, they saw targets. 

They didn't even glance at the notes on the whiteboard (covered in brains as it was). They didn't see the cryopreservation cylinder. They didn't pay any attention to me going through it. In picking up the notebooks. They didn't care. There was too much screaming. Too much arguing about what to do with the bodies. 

I was the science guy, what else was I supposed to do? 

I have a hot lab in my walk up off Gramercy Park. It wasn't that hard to make. Negative air pressure and a scrubber and everything. I've been working on what I found in that lab for the last four months.
Ivan is a Wistar rat. He's the first subject of the new virus, drawn from that anonymous lab with that $750,000 particle scrubber below a Pet Smart in Brooklyn, and he's extremely healthy.

After the first injection, he spent thirty hours twitching on the cage floor, and then went through an hour and half of convulsions. After that he vomited up his stomach, esophagus, other things. I still have them in a freezer somewhere. I was more interested in his blood. Because after that, after he chewed off his own esophagus, he was fine.   

He hasn't eaten in twenty-two days. He hasn't defecated anything but the rotting remnants of his intestines, and he has not urinated at all.  

Ivan doesn't eat, anymore.
Yet, there he goes, crawling across my hand like he had all the time in the world. And I think he does. I'm pretty sure he does.