Title: Trials of an Analytic Cure

Summary: Imagine that your next breath is your last. Imagine that your next move could save your life, or end another. Don't lose focus. And don't trust anyone. There are no friends here, and allies are only temporary.

Disclaimer: Idea is far from original and I have no ownership ties to DN.

Author's Note: Based on a rather interesting dream I had. Hope I can write it as well as I've envisioned it.

...

INTRO

"There's a survivor."

"Impossible! There's never been-"

"No, we found a survivor. In the back bedroom."

"Male or female?"

"Male, and he's just a kid."

"Bring him in. Now."

…

Escorted by five large men, all in business suits and sunglasses, all sporting nice neat facial hair and white latex gloves, a small boy in an over-sized jacket with a blood-soaked left sleeve was held firmly by the shoulders and guided up the front steps of a media-infested institute. Reporters slammed into each other, all pressing microphones toward the child and the large men, all demanding answers.

"Who is the boy?!"
"What of his parents?!"
"Can we just get a word with him?!"
"Is he okay?!"
"Does this have anything to do with the string of abductions lately?!"
"Would you be willing to tell your story to Oprah?!"

The onslaught of questions kept coming and coming, a barrage of words no one cared to heed.

Yes, there had been several cases of abduction without a trace of evidence left behind, save for a single piece of paper with a bold-faced number ranging between one and eight, which had been left at the residence of the abducted. It had spammed every news channel and paper; over the past couple of days, news had reached nearly every corner of the globe... because it has happened before, and it was happening again.

An even number of victims, chosen by an unknown person(s), vanished for a number of days, only to turn up as corpses strewn about a blood-spattered house in an inconspicuous location. And those corpses, all of them missing a left hand for reasons unknown.

As far as authorities know, this has happened at least three times, most likely done as a sick game or ritual.

Usually, seven or eight corpses turn up, not a left hand to be found on or off the bodies.

The authorities had an address sent to them from an anonymous untraceable source -this is usually how it went, as if the person behind it all was mocking their lack of competence and giving them a personal FAQ on where to go. Then, as customary, several squad cars, no less than three ambulances, a coroner, and a vast number of nosy reporters and the occasional nosy citizen would all make their way to said address.

CAUTION tape would line the perimeters and the authorized personel would storm the entrance, gun and flashlight in hand and authoritative voice in check as they announced their entrance and began to explore and collect photographic evidence before allowing the next stream of investigators.

It was on such an investigation that the authorities found, for the first time in what is being called the HLiS-C murder case, a living victim, left hand gone and bloody wrist crudely bandaged as he sat in the bedroom reading an encyclopedia... as if nothing was wrong. Then...

"There's a survivor!"

...

Each step the boy took looked agonizing, his knobby knees and lanky frame seemed to move on sheer will alone as gashes wound up his legs and blood marred his the majority of his body, staining pale flesh and tattered clothes a grisly scarlet. Beneath the too red left sleeve was a gnarly stump where a hand once was.

A living specimen of a live-action horror flick.

Entering the institute, he remained stoic, eyes calculating and expression stony. He bit his lip as he was led to an office, and only once he was seated in a chair in front of a big desk did his escorts leave and shut the door behind them.

An old man with ring-rimmed glasses sat behind the desk, a scowl of disbelief on his face. "So, you're a survivor of the HLiS-C murder case, how fortunate of you. Medical attention will be provided shortly, as will a psychological evaluation. But first, I'd like to have a word with you... Now, what is your name."

"B-Beyond."

"Beyond? That's quite an unusual-"

"Beyond Birthday."

"Well, Beyond, I know this is going to be a bit uncomfortable for you, but would you mind-"

"You want me to tell you what happened in that house."

"There's no rush, child. You're probably very upset, and-"

"I'll tell you..."

And the child, with black hair and eyes as red as the spatters on his clothes, he sat back and took a moment to reminisce. His eyes glazed over as if recalling something fond, and his mouth quirked into something of amusement.

Inhaling deeply and exhaling long and slow, he spoke...

"It's happened before, and it'll happen again. But never in the same place twice."

"What?" The old man spoke softly, encouragingly. "What happened?"

"It's probably happening right now, actually. You can't stop it."

"What?" He tried again, less patient.

The child shrugged. "Get me some jam, and I'll tell you."

"Jam?"

"Yeah, strawberry. I like it." With those words, the child shrugged off his jacket and revealed the full gore of his would-be hand. The mess of torn flesh and decaying tissue surrounded by coagulating blood gave off a foul stench that reeked of infection. Further inspection revealed a collection of small white maggots burrowing.

"Your hand," the old man said with a sour expression, face turning a sickly shade and bile rising in his throat. "What-"

"Jam," Beyond said simply, paying no mind to the obviously painful injury or the old man's concern.

The elder man grit his false teeth and sighed before pressing a button on the intercom and requesting the desired item: in this case 'jam.' Only a few minutes passed in silence (save for the child's occasional hum or question about some decorative figure or another), and then a suited man came in, placing a jar of strawberry jam on the table before making an unceremonious exit.

Beyond quickly snatched it up, curling his injured arm around the jar to hold it close to his chest as he twisted the lid off with the spindly fingers of his good hand, breaking the seal and dropping the tin cover to the floor.

Then, "Would you like a spoon, Beyo-" and the man tried to ask but stopped, watching with knitted brows as the child dipped his fingers into the slop of red before bringing the substance to his mouth and eating, groaning in an unsettling manner between mouthfuls, repeating this ritual hurriedly and devouring the entire contents of the jar in what had to be record time.

Once finished, Beyond carefully maneuvered the jar onto the desk and wiped his hand on the hard oak top, seeming to marvel at the smeared mess left behind. Then, after another moment, he made eye contact with the elder man and began again...

"It starts with a house. Nothing special about it. Just a normal house. And they put people in it."

"Beyond... What house? Who's 'they'?"

Beyond giggled and kicked his feet, eyes glinting mischievously. Then, he stopped. Stopped kicking his feet, stopped laughing, stopped showing any emotion in his eyes; he just fell flat. He slowly wrapped his arms around himself in a makeshift hug before whispering "Nobody knows who 'they' are. They just... put people in the bedrooms. Everyone gets a special watch and a set of rules..."

"Special watch? And, what kind of rules?" The old man was intrigued, he leaned close, eying the child and taking in every detail the child was willing to offer.

"The watch goes on the left hand, always; it doesn't tell time in hours and minutes. It counts in days, and it only goes to THREE. It also has a sensor on the underside of it, where the batteries usually go in watches; the sensor monitors body temperature and pulse."

"Why would something like that be-"

"The watch is so 'they' can tell if you're alive or dead. It's important. Please don't interrupt my story, or I won't tell you anything anymore. And, can I get some more jam?"

...

And, here's the intro to what I'm thinking should be 5-7 chapters long.