Countdown

There was only one rule: don’t open the door.

Charlie suddenly noticed that the empty screen above the orange button in the center of the panel, which was now glowing, registered “1:00” and was counting down. From behind the glass window, he saw that the girl was pounding on the large industrial door, screaming words he could not hear.

50 seconds.

It seemed like an awfully weird rule for a participant in research study, but for a $3000 one-time stipend, Charlie wasn’t there to ask questions. When the researchers told him that the orange button would open the door instantly should he opt to forego it, he had almost laughed. Even if $3000 wasn’t the amount he needed to settle his gambling debts and avoid broken bones or worse, who in their right mind would surrender that to open a door?

35 seconds. A thick, yellow mist seeped from ceiling vents. The girl reeled back from the door, clawing at her throat.

As though lashed by a whip, the girl flung herself at the window, almost nose-to-nose with Charlie. He had assumed the glass was one-way, but the girl’s eyes now bore into his, bulging and bloodshot. “Help me you fucker,” her soundless mouth gasped, palms furiously slapping the window before she reeled back again. The way she grasped at her neck almost made it appear as though she was strangling herself.

20 seconds. The yellow mist had begun to create a haze in the lab chamber. The girl’s body crumpled to the floor.

Charlie stood frozen, deaf and numb except for the terrible pounding of his pulse in his temples. His hand hovered in paralysis above the button. 10 seconds.

The girl’s hand shot up and slowly dragged her fingers down the window.

2 seconds.