This Is the End by Eric Pollarine

so pale. My head begins pounding; my mouth is so dry. I kick out with one leg then another and crawl away from the tube, the machine. My plastic pants are making crinkle-crinkle sounds as I drag myself across the floor. I leave a trail of clear jelly grease slime behind me. There’s a table to my right. I reach up and try to pull. My hands are weak and come crashing back on top of my head. I have no hair. I rub my head; it’s bald. I have no hair.
    I lay down. I curl up into a ball. I begin to shiver. I’m alive, awake and it’s so cold. I’m alive and awake and I’m lying on the floor. Then I hear it—my own voice. It’s small and quiet at first. But it’s mine. I remember it.
    “I’m alive,” I say though my throat hurts. There’s no moisture in my mouth. I say it again and again and again: “I’m alive.”
    I pass out.
    * * *
    The second time I wake up is much smoother; it feels normal, almost natural. I’m still cold and my head still feels like it’s been used as a soccer ball, but my body is more receptive. I’m able to get up without falling over. I’m still not that steady on my feet but I can stand upright. I brace myself on the corner of the table that I tried to crawl to before.
    “Where the fuck is everyone?” I say. I need to use my voice. I need to hear it enough to get used to it again. Everything looks dirty—not filthy, but dusty. I shiver and then start to look around for something that I can put on. There are two lab coats hanging on the wall that appear to be clean. I use the table as a guide and walk myself over to them and put them both on. I’m freezing. I look around for evidence that someone has been here recently to check on me.
    There are some forms outlining procedures to take and levels to check on a metallic clipboard. I scan the piece of paper looking for the last date that someone was here and stop when I come to the last entry. I double-check the date. Then I triple-check it to make sure. I leaf through the rest of the documents and try to find something else that would show me that they stopped using this particular form or maybe even paper in general. Nothing.
    I look back at the date: one year. And the last time anyone checked on me was roughly six months after I was put in the tube.
    “Can’t be,” I say out loud, still trying to recognize every syllable. I scan the room again; nothing looks out of place, but nothing looks touched either. The power is still on or, at least, the lights are. I pull the piece of paper off the metal clipboard and shove it into the pocket of the outermost lab coat and then pull the inner one shut around me.
    “I paid a shit-ton of money to these people and they can’t even do their fucking job right…” Then it hits me. I remember Phil standing with Janet again. They were holding hands, and they were smiling. My brain starts to put two and five together and comes up with I-got-fucked.
    I look around to see if there is anything else in the room. One last time, anything to make me feel like I’m wrong. Then I look over at the machine. The door is still standing wide open; the breathing mask is flopped on the floor just outside. All the monitors are turned off. The power to the machine was cut for some reason. I blink.
    I have to get to my office and find out what the fuck happened. After that, I have some people to find and hurt.
     

2.
    The doors swing open and the motion sensors trip; I hear the click and hum of electricity in the bulbs above me. It takes a few minutes for all of them to flicker on, a few panels stay dark and I wonder where everyone is. There isn’t anything to tell me that anyone has been here in quite some time. I look around and, again, like the other room, nothing looks out of place but nothing looks right either. I start walking and the tiled floor under my feet is ice cold.
    It’s a funny sensation as the blood comes rushing back to my body. I can feel it move through my veins. I feel the pressure in my