Page 1 of Spread Me
The specimen is breathing.
Kinsey is the first to see it.
Most of the people on her team are looking at the horizon, where a dust-brown stripe has been growing thicker over the course of the past hour.
A sandstorm is on the way. Kinsey’s been peering at it intermittently through her binoculars, trying to figure out how fast it’s moving.
How much time they have to study the creature they found buried in the sand before it gets buried again beneath a layer of windblown dust.
She’s the one who makes the call: the storm is moving too quickly to risk staying out here to study the creature.
Even without returning to the research station so Domino can consult Weatherman, she can tell.
It’s time to bring the specimen inside. That brown belt between the ground and the sky is growing fast, gaining height as it draws closer with every passing second, and it’s making her nervous.
She’s nervous and her team can tell that she’s nervous and her being nervous makes all of them nervous, because it takes a lot to make Kinsey nervous.
And it doesn’t pay to be nervous in the desert. So she’s got to get them inside.
The team stumbles as they move across the sand toward the research station, trying to keep their eyes on the hell that’s coming for them. And because their eyes are on the horizon, Kinsey is the only one watching when the specimen draws breath.
She doesn’t tell anyone on the team at first. If she tells them, shock will loosen at least one pair of hands, and then they’ll all drop the shitty tarp they’re using to haul the specimen inside.
They’re already struggling to keep a grip on the weathered plastic, their sweat-slick hands slipping, their knuckles white, their thick-soled, dust-caked boots sliding across the sand.
She doesn’t want them distracted, so she doesn’t offer explanations; when they get to the base, she just slams her elbow against the big red button next to the exterior intercom.
“Mads, come let us in. I need an exam table. Now.”
The answer is immediate. “Did you forget your keycard again? Why aren’t you calling on your walkie?”
“Hands are full. We need help. Make it quick, there’s a storm coming.”
“On my way.”
Domino reacts first, which isn’t unusual.
Domino is always the first to notice things, quick to speak up.
They were the first to bring up the possibility of the storm today, when they spotted the incoming data on Weatherman.
When Kinsey mentions the storm, Domino’s eyes meet hers, and the space between their brows slams shut.
Domino is gripping two fistfuls of tarp at the far end of the specimen.
They’re wearing a faded pink crop top with the words Baby Slut emblazoned across the chest. It’s threadbare, damp with sweat, riddled with holes that will leave cheetah-spots of deep tan across Domino’s shoulders.
Kinsey has tried to forbid this shirt at least twenty times, a dress code edict that Domino always insists “doesn’t count.
” Now, as they contort their neck to wipe their dripping forehead on the cutoff sleeve, their expression is one of naked confusion.
“Boss? We should have another hour or so before the storm really—”
Kinsey shakes her head. “We’ll talk about it when we’re full-in,” she snaps, meaning don’t ask me any more questions until we’re past the airlock .
She doesn’t like brushing off Domino’s confusion, especially in a way that she knows will raise more questions.
Normally, when the team finds something that needs to come inside for further study, they carry whatever they’ve found into the airlock and stop there.
That’s where they decide their next steps, assign tasks and catalog observations, comb through all the little tangles of detail that feel impossible when they’re standing outside under the relentless eye of the desert sun.
That order of operations is less feasible with a sandstorm on the way.
The airlock is too exposed to the freight-train howl of the wind and the lashes of driving sand that will hit the base.
And even if there wasn’t a storm coming, procedure stopped mattering once Kinsey saw the specimen’s lips part.
Once she saw the sand fall onto its tongue.
Once she saw it choke on a tiny, silent cough .
Seeing that should have made her tell her team to drop the tarp. Living things don’t get brought inside —that’s the rule she’s ignoring, and soon, her team will know she ignored it. They’ll want to know why.
She doesn’t know how to explain it to them. She can’t explain it to herself, either.
There’s the beep of a card reader near Kinsey’s left shoulder and then the door behind her swings open. The doorframe immediately fills with the towering rectangle that is Mads. “Exam table, huh? We got an injury? Jacques, I told you to drink water today.”
“It’s not for me,” Jacques objects.
“Who, then? Ah, shit, you weren’t kidding about the storm coming in. I should have been checking Weatherman.”
Kinsey can feel the solidity of Mads’s body coming close to hers.
They get that way when there’s an emergency, losing their typical strict regard for personal space in the interest of attacking whatever problem has presented itself.
Their chest presses flush against her back, their omnipresent stethoscope digging into her shoulder blade.
Their chin brushes the crest of her ear as they try to peer around her at the horizon.
She feels their breath catch as they spot the specimen. “What in the—”
“Exam table,” Kinsey repeats, barreling past Mads since they decided to be in her way. “Right now. Help or don’t.”
“What is that thing?” Mads yells as they jog to get ahead of her, their holey white sneakers crunching across the sandy linoleum.
They pass the pegboard wall where the keys to the largely disused Jeep hang, then swing around the low IKEA shelves that hold everything the team discards on their way in and out of the station—jackets, flas hlights, sunglasses, spare keycards, walkie-talkies in their charging stations.
The interior card reader beeps as Mads scans in, and then comes a soft sucking sound as they tug the interior door open. A gentle rush of air from within pushes Kinsey’s hair into her face and sends ripples across the sand on the airlock floor.
Jacques, who never wears sunscreen and is hungover one hundred percent of the time, is the first to answer Mads’s question.
“Domino found it,” he says, one corner of his mouth lifting with wry affection.
It’s impossible to see his eyes behind his mirror shades, but guaranteed he’s casting an adoring glance at Domino.
Those two have been fucking for about four months as far as Kinsey knows.
Jacques is definitely in love. Domino is definitely not.
“Should have been helping me map the grid for tomorrow’s samples.
Not that there’s much point since it’ll be buried by the end of the day anyway,” Nkrumah snaps, her tongue ring clicking against her front teeth on the th s.
She’s pissed about Domino and Jacques fucking.
Kinsey isn’t sure which of them is the target of Nkrumah’s possessive jealousy.
Could be both. “What were you doing digging, anyway?”
Domino replies without meeting Nkrumah’s bid for conflict. “I had to piss.”
“Who digs a hole just to piss?”
“Fine. I had to take a shit. I just didn’t want to say so. You happy?”
“Go left,” Kinsey says.
The team knows where they’re going. Of course they do. But she doesn’t want to have to listen to Nkrumah and Domino bickering. Especially knowing that they’ll both come vent to her about it later—Domino frustrated, Nkrumah heartbroken, both of them tired and dehydrated and pissed off.
She knows they’ll vent about it to her because she’s the person everyone vents to.
That’s the consequence of not participating in the lacelike web of hookups and breakups and romances and letdowns that develop in a situation like this one—she’s treated as a neutral party.
For months at a stretch, Kinsey’s isolated six-person research team curls in on itself, touching itself and talking to itself and mutilating itself and eating itself, and—when it comes to the members of the team who aren’t Kinsey—fucking itself.
And complaining to her about all of it. Kinsey loves her team, but she sometimes thinks that managing them is like having a lab partner who won’t stop talking about how they cry after jerking off.
Maybe it’s just because she’s hot and tired from cataloging lichens in the sun all day, and maybe it’s because the storm is coming and coming fast—but right now, Kinsey doesn’t want to deal with the seepage of their entanglements.
Not when there’s about to be something that looks like a six-legged multi-segmented coyote on a rat-gnawed tarp in the exam room.
She needs time to look at it more closely.
To count the joints on those six legs. To figure out if there’s a tapered wasplike waist or just a rotted belly sinking into the barrel of the ribcage.
She can’t memorize the feel of that patchy, coarse fur, not if she’s dealing with her team and their endless, recursive drama.
She needs space. She needs to be alone with the thing they’ve found.
She needs it.
“Boss,” Domino says again. “Why are we taking this thing full-in? There’s still time left before the storm hits us, we could just tag it and head back out. ”
“Load it,” Kinsey says brusquely. It’s the kind of nonanswer the team hates from her, the kind that supplies no information. Too bad.