Let's just get this out of the way: I wanted nothing to do with any of this shit. It was Roth who put me up to it. I knew, first time I laid eyes on Randall, he was bad news. This was the kind of guy who thinks he's charismatic, when really, he's just giving everyone the creeps.

"Are you sure you can trust him?" I asked.

Roth said he was legit, but that didn't give me much confidence. Roth was gullible as fuck and had one too many friends in low places. But hey, it's his body, I figured: let him do what he wants with it.

Our first meeting was outside the gym, by the bike racks. Randall would only ever meet late at night, usually around 1 in the morning. Fine by me. That's when I prefer working out- less people, no waiting around. Besides, this wouldn't take long. I was just there to make sure Roth didn't screw himself. My plan was to see what Randall had to say, and then maybe talk Roth out of buying into it.

See, for weeks, Roth'd been going on and on about this so-called 'vein enhancer' that Randall was selling. Imagine that: Roth, the guy who couldn't handle pot without going completely skitzo on me, talking about 'performance-enhancing drugs'. He made it sound like Viagra.

"It's not recreational," he says. "It's for guys like us. Guys looking to gain."

"So it's steroids," I say.

"No," he says. "It's not steroids, steroids affect your hormones. This doesn't do that." He was clearly excited. "Listen, bro, I've got guys who swear by the stuff."

Obviously, I was skeptical. If it looks like a rat, smells like a rat, sounds like a rat... Not to mention, the guy couldn't even explain how it worked.

"Randall knows the science," he says.

The science. Right.

So Randall arrives, greasy-ass hair slicked back, sporting the kind of 5 o'clock shadow you just know it took him five months to grow. From the way he dresses – track pants, undershirt, loafers – it's clear he wants you to think he just got out of bed. But it's too practiced, too affected. Anyone with eyes can see right through that shit.

"Hey," he says, smirking. He was always fucking smirking. We shake hands.

I should mention, for someone who spends so much time skulking around gyms, Randall is a scrawny little shit. Wouldn't be a problem if he didn't always make out like he was tougher than he is. So when he squeezes my palm, testing his luck, I take the opportunity to squeeze right on back, watch him try not to wince. It gives me a pang of satisfaction, but it's not enough. Something in my gut is telling me this guy's dangerous. That I should run.

But I don't. I didn't. Nah, I did what I'd promised Roth I would. I heard Randall out.

Big mistake.

"Steroids are a hormone," Randall says, nursing his hand. "This stuff is for your blood, man."

I was standing, arms folded, flexing a bit, just enough to show him I meant business. "That doesn't make sense."

"Look, bro. Just trust me on this... You don't even need to inject it. It's been tested."

Trust him. That's rich. Deep down, the guy must have known he was a weaselly fuck.

So I tell Roth, straight up, I'm not gonna gamble my physique, everything I've worked for, on some mystery pills. I said, either this fucker's lying about it not being steroids, or he's lying about it helping you build muscle mass. Best result, it's a placebo, worst, your testicles shrink and your dick shrivels up- do you want that?

Thing is, competitions didn't matter much to Roth. He wasn't like me. He was my friend, maybe even my best friend, but he didn't have the drive- he didn't have the raw ambition that it takes to get up on that stage and show the world what you're made of, you know?

There's nothing like it. The glisten, the sheen, the lights – and everyone's eyes on you. Everyone wanting to fuck you. Everyone wanting to be fucked by you. It's like a mating display. When I'm up there, I feel like a fucking god, and when I get off, the women, god, the women- and men too, if you're into that kind of thing. They don't say anything, but they're all begging you for it, just take your pick. You wouldn't believe the women.

Roth joined me for my second local competition and just bitched the whole time. He thought three months of dieting was excessive, but you do what you gotta do to get toned. He wasn't willing to go the extra mile, to put himself through hell and come out better for it. Roth was no hustler, he didn't live by the grind. Some people just aren't cut out for sport.

When you're posing up there, you really gotta flaunt it, you gotta want it, you gotta put your ego on overdrive, tap into that primal, masculine part of you and outdo those other fucks. Roth didn't have what it took to perform. He lacked confidence, he was too self-conscious, and it showed.

After the competition was all said and done with, Roth did some soul-searching and decided that what he really wanted out of bulking up was the sex and power that came with it. He made it his mission in life to fuck the living daylights out of every taut-abbed Pilates instructor who'd let him- and if it wasn't strictly necessary, why break a sweat doing it?

If Roth wasn't afraid that steroids would mess with his sac, I'm sure he would have hopped on that train in kindergarten. And that's where Randall comes in.

So I say to Roth, if fucking is your end goal, all the power to ya, but you don't need 'vein enhancers' to do it. I say, trust Randall if you want, but don't come crying to me when you start to grow tits.

Of course, Roth wouldn't listen to reason. He was adamant. He said he'd seen results in some of these other guys. He wanted to believe Randall, so he did.

"Just tell him what you told me."

Randall smirked. Like I said, always fucking smirking. Like he thought he was above us. "If I told you the chemical compound, then would you believe me?" He kept saying how this drug had nothing to do with hormones, nothing to do with testosterone, nothing to do with estrogen, that it was nothing we could ever hope to understand, yadda yadda. What a crock of shit. He said how it couldn't be tracked in the bodybuilding circuit. How effective it was, how there were absolutely no side effects, how they couldn't even detect it in your piss.

"Then how comes nobody's fucking heard of it?!" I yell.

"Cuz it's new."

And how did Randall get his claws on it, you ask?

"I got connections."

I didn't like that. He was being intentionally vague and I was starting to get pissed. So I tell Roth, if you wanna be this creep's guinea pig, be my guest.

You can't say I didn't try.

​

When I got home, I did the natural thing and checked the internet. I spent a good couple hours scrolling through forums, searching for any mention of this vein-enhancer, or whatever he called it, but came up short. Randall claimed these pills 'optimized your blood flow,' but that didn't make a lick of sense. How could a drug make your heart better at conducting blood? I'm not a scientist, I don't claim to be, but I do know a bit about the human body, and I know a bullshit artist when I see him. These had to be your run-of-the-mill steroids... right?

The next time I saw Roth, after that initial meeting, I said to him, "You have no idea what this shit is or what it does. You could be signing your death sentence."

"Relax, man," he laughed. "I already took a dose."

Color me surprised. "And?"

"And nothing. Nothing happened."

Which brought me to the next question. "How much are you paying Randall for the pills?"

"He gave them to me for free."

Free? Was Randall trying to get Roth hooked before he pulled the rug out from under him? Roth maintained they weren't addictive, but Randall didn't seem like the charitable type to me.

"Doesn't it seem strange?" I pressed Roth.

He just shrugged.

​

I flirted with the idea of bodybuilding for a couple years before committing to a regime. Like, I've had muscles since I was fourteen, but I was always hesitant to go the extra mile. That was before I met Bo. I'm not gay or anything, but damn, respect where it's due: Bo was one gorgeous motherfucker.

I liked the way his body looked, I'll say it. I wanted to look like that. The dude was jacked with a capital J, I'm talking He-man, Schwarzenegger shit. When this guy flexed, grown men swooned. He even had a side gig posing in kilts for harlequin covers, that's how ripped he was.

So yeah, I admired him, I'll admit it.

Too bad he was such a fucking prick.

The man was as full of himself as he was full of shit. Every chance he'd get, he'd be waltzing around the change room, twirling his ropy-veined horse dick in your face and making helicopter noises. He had this way of looking at you, turning you inside out with his eyes, that made you feel so goddamn pathetic. And he was real handsy, always showing off his grip.

Well, long story short, eventually I said fuck it. Bo would be my benchmark, that was the kind of body I was aiming for. If that's what it took for him to stop terrorizing me, challenge accepted. Spite is a powerful motivator.

In the beginning, competitions didn't cross my mind. I figured, maybe in time, if I got to that level, I'd give it a try. I wanted to see how far I could push it, you know? Some people just don't have the body to go pro. Luckily, I'm not one of those. As the months rolled on, I made a lot of headway, morphing myself little by little into a bigger, better version of Bo. I felt more powerful than I ever had in my life; a force to be reckoned with.

​

What you gotta understand is that everybody needs something. Something quintessentially 'you'. Something you can define yourself by. Something you eat, breathe, and sleep. Something you know inside and out. Something they can't take away from you.

For me, that something was bodybuilding. Once I found it, I knew what I'd been missing in my life. It became more than just a hobby, more than just a passion. It became my identity.

But just like with any sport, you got your allegiances and you got your rivalries. At the end of the day, friends or no, everyone's competition. Before the pill-popping, Roth was never a real threat. He was lazy and... remember how I said some guys simply don't have the genetics? It is what it is. There are some things no drug can fix.

He was a hell of spotter, though, I'll give him that.

Anyways, the entire time I was dieting leading up to the next competition, Roth kept pressuring me to try the pills out, to be his fellow guinea pig. He was like that, always cutting corners. I told him I couldn't risk it, that this was about more than just aesthetics.

He never put in the effort I did. He couldn't possibly understand, and honestly, I think he envied me. Not for my bulk or my brute strength, but for my willpower. I thought he'd learned his lesson after embarrassing himself in the last competition. Imagine my surprise when he told me he'd be trying out again. The pills, he said, had renewed his confidence.

"What if they catch you?" I asked.

"Even if they knew how to test for this, they don't even know it exists," Roth giggled.

I told him he was taking a massive risk. That it was his funeral.

"We'll see," he said.

​

Over the coming weeks, no matter how much I quizzed him, Roth wouldn't admit to any adverse side effects from the pills. He wasn't changing outwardly, at least not that I could see, but he insisted they were having an effect. Said he could feel it internally. He told me he always woke up feeling fresh, borderline overcaffeinated. He admitted he was hungry a lot more, that he dehydrated pretty fast. Supposedly, Randall told him that was to be expected.

He wasn't even dieting.

"And what about the dick?" I asked. "Sex drive?"

"Dude, I can keep it up for so fucking long now," he said.

He told me he could orgasm multiple times in a row, if he wanted to. More than that, he thought it was getting bigger. Girthier.

I was incredulous.

"The penis isn't a muscle," I said. But I couldn't deny the change when he showed it to me. It was veinier, somehow. It made me uncomfortable to look at.

​

As the weeks wore on, Roth's physique started to change in distressing ways, this despite the fact that, once again, he wasn't putting in the hours like I was. He was slacking off every chance he got, stuffing his face full of every junk food on the planet. By rights, he should have been putting on the flab. But no. If anything, he was gaining on me. He looked magnificent.

Sooner or later, I had to admit to myself: the pills were working. It was the only reasonable explanation. In the span of a couple months, Roth went from benching forty under to forty over what I was. That kind of shift is unprecedented.

So, of course, I began to resent him.

You don't know what it's like. For one thing, I was wrong to doubt the pills, and for another, no matter how much harder I pressed, no matter how much I doubled down, I couldn't match his progress. It was like there was this tectonic shift in his whole physique. If he didn't have the body to go pro before, suddenly he had that and more. He probably even grew a couple inches. Here I was, working my ass off, and here he was, doing nothing and gaining exponentially. How was I supposed to compete with that?

But yaknow what, maybe I would have been a little happy for him... if he wasn't so fucking smug about it.

​

I remember him spotting me at the bench press, stuffing his mouth with a jelly donut, crumbs raining down on my face, telling me there are easier way to go about this. In his defense, he freely admitted his growth was all thanks to the pills.

"Dude, imagine the progress someone like you could make if you were on this shit. You'd be fucking Hercules."

Of course, he was right. If a lazy slob like Roth could make these kinds of gains, someone like me would be fucking unstoppable. Then again, I couldn't help wondering if there were still future side effects Randall hadn't mentioned.

Roth went on and on about how the offer was still on the table. He insisted how this shit was a supplement, it wasn't doing anything I wouldn't have achieved myself, in due time.

And then I saw it. The vein in his temple. It had probably happened before, but this was the first time I was conscious of it. I almost didn't believe my eyes.

It was moving... wriggling in place.

"Are you doing that?" I asked.

The vein pulsed dangerously, pressing against his skin like a squiggly, blue worm.

Roth absently scratched his forehead. When he removed his hand, the vein was at rest. "What are you talking about?" he asked.

I started to notice his temples a lot more after that. All of his veins, really. He gave out tickets to the gun show pretty regularly. Every time he'd flex, I'd see it. It was like a tic. The way the veins would squirm for a second, as if itching to breach his skin. The way they'd twitch when he wasn't doing anything. How he wasn't even conscious of it.

It didn't matter if he was exerting himself or not, they were always prominent. It was hard to look in his eyes sometimes, his temples would command my attention. They were always squiggling, erratic, and if I stared real close, it was almost like they were branching off in two.

I chalked it up to hallucinations, a result of my severe dieting. I was underfed and I was getting delusional. Maybe Roth's heart was working overtime or something. But what if the pills caused blood clots? Roth brushed off my concerns. He didn't want to see a doctor. He said he felt like a god. The best he ever had. I didn't press.

​

I held out on the hope that, come the day of the show, Roth would get his just desserts. What can I say, I was jealous. A guy can only take so much. Roth was jogging for longer stretches, completing harder sets, all without breaking a sweat or needing to catch his breath, and I was tired of it. He never got sore, either, no matter how much time he spent – or didn't spend – at the gym

Surely, someone would figure out he'd been roiding, and I'd be able to show up Bo, fair and square, like fate intended. There'd be a new king of the gym. Otherwise, what? Just accept that all my slaving away had been pointless? That no matter how devoted I was, I would never make gains at the same pace?

Roth had surpassed me in the span of two months – two months! – without putting in even half the effort I did. He'd become a goddamn powerhouse without even trying.

Even Bo had started to take notice.

​

So what if Roth was my friend? He didn't deserve this. He didn't deserve to win. So I waited. They would catch him. I was sure of it.

The day of the competition, Roth wiped the floor with us. Everyone else, it's like we weren't even there. The Roth who strut out on that stage was a changed man, glazed like a donut, infinitely confident, reaping the applause for all its worth. A showstopper in every sense of the word.

I gotta say, the way he looked, he deserved it.

Anyone who knew him, though, anyone who'd seen his recent growth spurts, they must have known he was a dirty cheat. But the judges checked his piss. Twice, maybe three times, even. He was clean.

And so there you have it. All that training, all that dieting, what do I get? The leftovers. Hard not to feel like all that time, all that sweat, was utterly wasted. Roth went home with some yoga teacher, happier than a pig in shit, and I went home with a massive headache and a hard-on that just wouldn't quit.

The only bright side to all of this was the expression on Bo's face when Roth took center stage, the realization that he'd been displaced. If only it'd been by my hand.

I say all this so that you understand why I did what I did.

The day after the competition, back at the gym, back to the grind, Roth had the gall, the fucking gall, to brag about his win. And suddenly, I'd had it. I'd had it with his bullshit. I told him it wasn't fucking fair.

He fanned his hands. "You wanna talk to Randall?" he asked. The veins in forehead were flailing around like rat tails, somehow more active than usual. But you know what I thought to myself? If wriggly ass little veins are the only side effect of these pills, then sure, what the hell? Sign me up.

​

"Take two a day. One when you get up, one when you go to bed." Those were Randall's only instructions.

So I started using. Sue me.

At first, sure, I felt shitty about it. For one thing, the pills didn't seem to be having any immediate effect. For another, I was still debating the ethics. It was unsportsmanlike, sure, but I kept reminding myself that as long as Roth was on them, he would always be two steps ahead.

I was a fool. In more ways than one. Any doubts I had about the pills went out the window once I started to reap the benefits. Roth wasn't exaggerating, not even about the dick shit. I didn't even need to do anything. My muscles started to build on their own.

One day it was like I could feel the blood coursing through me, like I could channel it. It's indescribable- the feeling, the control I gained over my own body. I could just think of an area to reinforce, go to sleep, and come morning, I would notice the difference. If I directed the blood to my dick, I could keep it up as long as I wanted. And I could make it bigger. Permanently.

I'm serious, every day, I was looking as good as I did at my peak, getting closer and closer to my dream body. Better yet, I didn't have to make any sacrifices at the altar of my diet. I could eat what I wanted, when I wanted, all the fucking time, no consequences. I felt better than I ever had.

Within two months, I was giving Roth a run for his money. I knew I'd catch up to him in no time. He clearly couldn't control it as well as I could, he didn't understand the mechanics, the power he had coursing through his veins. Roth was my friend, but let's face it, he wasn't the brightest bulb. Once I outgrew him, my plan was to show him a thing or two. I estimated, at our respective rates, it would take me another three weeks to reach his size.

But Roth didn't have that long.

His veins were becoming more apparent with every passing day. Getting girthier. Purplier. Angrier. In the shower, it was like his circulatory system was on full display, his femoral the steel cable to a suspension bridge, his jugular just this thick, winding tendril of ivy. You could practically see the blood coursing through him. It was impressive, but unnerving at the same time. More and more it was like his body was stretching to the breaking point, like he was one flex away from a vein slicing through his skin like a whip.

I ignored the warning signs. Right up until the end, I wanted to look just like him.

​

It happened almost a month ago. I get to the gym at 1 in the morning – Randall called saying there was something he wanted me to see, that I better hurry if I wanted my next dosage.

Randall wasn't charging me anything for the pills, but he was really particular about how many he would dole out at a time – usually six – which meant I had to go meet him two, maybe three times a week.

So I get to the gym, nod to the receptionist. The place is pretty fucking dead. The only person I see out on the floor is some chick on the treads. Both her and the other guy are wearing headphones, barely aware that I'm there. I give the jogger a wink as I pass and continue on back.

Usually Roth would arrive before me, and we'd shoot the shit for a few minutes until Randall showed up. I'm pretty sure Randall liked to arrive late on purpose, but hey, as long as he was giving me shit for free, how could I complain? When I entered the locker room, though, the first person I saw was the last person I expected.

"What the hell are you doing here?" I ask, panicked for a second. It's Bo.

Bo's presence meant one of two things: either he'd come to rat us out, or he was trying to get in on the action. I don't know which I would have preferred.

Turning the corner, though, I see Bo's not alone. At the other end of the room, skeevy as ever, is Randall, and next to him, slumped against a set of lockers, Roth.

Roth's completely naked and pale as can be.

"He just collapsed," Bo says. "Do you want me to call an ambulance?"

"No," Roth moans.

I walk over and kneel before him. "What's going on?" I say.

"Just don't feel so good," he says.

In the days leading up to this, his skin had been getting whiter, the veins even more prominent, accentuating the blue and red lines in his cheeks. But I was in my honeymoon phase. I hadn't thought much of it.

While I'm looking over Roth, Randall is standing off to one side, smirking his stupid smirk. "Does this have anything to do with the pills?" I ask him.

Bo can't help himself. I can hear the sneer in his voice. "So you guys are using."

"I'm fine," Roth says. He shambles up, using the lockers for balance, but he can barely manage. His body is practically vibrating with the force of his pulse.

"You almost missed it," Randall says.

I look up at him and gulp. "Missed what?"

It's here I notice Roth's left temple is hammering more visibly than I've ever seen it.

"Roth, are you alright?" I ask. I'm starting to sweat.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah-" Roth's legs give out from under him and he puddles to the floor. I'm staring down at him, dumbstruck. It's not just the veins in his head, I realize. All of them. All of him. Every fucking vein and artery in his body is dancing, jiggling, like soundwaves.

Roth coughs into his arm. It sounds wet. His jugular tightens, purple and power-wire thick, full to bursting with piping hot blood. It gives me the creeps. His skin, his muscles, seem to ripple for a second.

"What's happening to him?" I ask, trying to keep the panic out of my voice.

Roth hacks again and the next thing I know, his whole right arm is drenched in red phlegm, too dark and sticky to just be blood. I feel like I'm going to throw up.

"Is it the pills?!" I yell. Randall purses his lips.

"I think we should call an ambulance," Bo murmurs. He sounds more out of it than I am. I get the feeling he can't handle blood.

"What the fuck'd you do to him?" I say. I'm fucking desperate. My hands are shaking. Randall backs away from me, still with that stupid smirk. Getting to my feet, I stride across the room and grab his arm, shaking him like a ragdoll.

"Wait," Roth says. He's hoarse as all hell. I let go of Randall and spin around.

Bo is standing over Roth and he's got his phone out. Roth reaches for it, trying to snatch the cell from Bo's hand. His muscles spasm again- distorting, almost like they're made of liquid. His veins thresh.

Suddenly, Roth lets out a piercing scream.

Randall devolves into laughter.

"What the hell?" Bo looks like he's about to shit himself.

Roth's eyes are bugged out, bloodshot, filled to the brim with tendrilly blue veins. More than I would have thought a human had. The whites are practically blue, these things are so thick. I look him up and down. All over, he seems to have more veins than the average person. His arms, his legs- he's full of the things, and they're all writhing, flush with his ghostly white skin, pressing outwardly, as if his body were just some kind of... cocoon.

"Call an ambulance!" I shout, but I can barely hear myself over Roth. He's yowling now. His muscles sag and slosh. His limbs flail and flop. And all I can do is watch.

"Roth?" I whimper.

Roth reaches out to me, his terror plain as day. He can't blink, his eyeballs are so swollen. They literally balloon from their sockets, those wriggly blue veins worming here, there, and everywhere.

All of a sudden, the pressure's too much.

Roth's left eye explodes. Flecks of a red and white substance geyser out of his face, hitting Bo square in the chest. Bo looks down and stumbles into the nearest wall. Gawking in disgust, he drops his phone.

Roth cups his face. He's jerking around, screeching in pain. I watch the veins expand and constrict in his cheeks like roots to a tree. He lets his hand fall for a second, and that's when I see it. Tiny veins protrude from his empty eye socket like the tentacles of a sea anemone. He cups the hole and they poke through his fingers, feeling their way around, curious.

I gag. Vomit fills my nostrils. I'm frozen in place. You hear about deer in headlights and you think, nah, that would never happen to you, I'm a man, but no, I legitimately could not move. My knees lock. I can't swallow I'm so fucking out of it.

Veins and arteries are leafing out of Roth's mouth, intertwining with those coming out of his eye socket, and he's clearly still screaming, but I'm deaf to the world.

What happened next happened in a matter of seconds.

The vein in Roth's right temple splits through his forehead like a guitar string tuned too taut, literally dousing me in blood. The thing's flopping up and down his face like a tentacle and Roth's gurgling at me, trying to form words. The pupil in his right eye is massive, but it still hasn't popped. He reaches out to me again-

As he does, a vein in his arm snaps, tearing through his skin as easily as if it was a flap of parchment. It extends from his outstretched wrist, blindly probing in my direction.

I take a step back and fall on my ass just as his jugular tears through his Adam's apple like an out of control firehose, splashing everything – the roof, the walls, the floor – in red. I wipe my eyes and watch it flop, unspooling down his chest, while the vein in his wrist continues to paw at the air before my face like the feeler to some giant mutant squid.

I slap at it instinctually and it springs forward – literally lunges at me – snaring my palm. I try to pull away, but the vein coils through my fingers, forcing my hand into a fist and tugging me towards it. Towards Roth. Towards whatever Roth is.

A whole host of veins and arteries are sprouting from the gaping hole the jugular made in his neck, like snakes rising from a fucking basket. They move drunkenly, swaying to and fro, all ranging in length and thickness. They latch to the lockers behind Roth, to the floor, getting their bearings. Somehow, Roth's still alive. I don't know how, but he is. He's jerking his head back and forth, screaming noiselessly, fighting back in any way he can.

But this is bigger than him.

The hole in his neck widens, unzipping his skin like a turtleneck. Something tells me whatever this thing is, it's almost fully hatched.

My survival gear kicks in. I wrench away from the throbbing vein wrapped around my hand, but it tightens like an elastic. I can't feel my fingers. Any more pressure and my wrist just might snap.

Roth's head hangs on by a stubborn patch of skin and filament. He can't speak, he can't move, he can't breath, but there's something in his right eye that tells me he's still conscious. The veins spill out of him like ivy trailers, like vines from his neck, whirling around in all different directions. I'm running out of time.

I sink my teeth into the vein wound around my wrist and my mouth fills with warm, sticky blood. The thing jolts, loosens, and I'm able to force my hand free.

This is it.

I get to my feet. Bo is trapped in a corner, cowering. He has no choice but to either dodge past Roth, or to play a game of octopus with the host of veins if he wants to get to the exit. Randall is... nowhere to be seen. Must have bailed when I wasn't paying attention

I don't have time to feel bad for Bo. Don't have time to curse Randall. I make a break for it.

The second my foot leaves the ground, another vein, a bigger one stretching from the hole in Roth's neck, lashes out. The next thing I know, my face is pressed against the tile floor and there's blood in my mouth. The vein digs into my ankle. I scream out. It yanks me into the air and I find myself dangling upside down, three feet off the ground. Another couple of veins leech to my arms and legs, starfishing me in the air.

Roth stares out of his half-severed head, the one eye bulging, unblinking. Apologetic.

Soon, the veins branching out from all the different holes in Roth's body join in. They hold me up for inspection. Tentatively, at first, they feel their way up my face and under my clothes. I try to fight back, but the more I resist, the tighter their collective grip. They probe my skin, trailing up and down my chest, clinging to me, smearing me with Roth's blood.

A meaty vein slips into my mouth, rooting around my gums, breaching my esophagus. It's slick with blood. I try to puke, but can't. As more of them enter me, widening their search, I can't even scream. They invade every inch of my clothing, worming their way into every hole, breaching every orifice. They slither into my ears and nostrils. Smaller ones funnel under the lids of my eyes. I can feel them rooting around my throat, creeping around into my stomach. One snakes up my ass and another wriggles its way up my dick like a sentient fucking catheter. I'm utterly powerless. I can't breathe. It feels like I'm being ripped apart from the inside, like they're weaving through me. All I can see are flashes. Blues and reds.

I figure this is it. I'm dead.

And then it's all over. The veins unhand me, all of them, all at once, and I find myself suspended, strung up like a puppet, three feet off the ground, covered in blood, staring into Roth's one scared, remaining eyeball. The shackles on my arms and legs come undone. I fall onto my head.

I'm spluttering so hard that I barely register what happens next.

The second the veins drop me, they lash out, snatching Bo, literally reeling him in. No messing around now. Two veins furl around his ankles and another grabs his hair, holding his head in place.

They do to him what they did to me.

Bo screams and screams, doing everything he can to get free, like a fly in a web of veins and arteries. The more he struggles, the harder they cling. They shoot down his throat, muffling all sound, spinning him round and round, like a spider casting a net, plunging into everything. I can see them inside of him, flush against his perfectly sculpted flesh, threading through his own veins as if a part of him.

I sit there, nursing myself, waiting for it to be over, wondering what the hell's gonna happen next. Everything stings. My urethra's on fire. There's so much blood in my throat and nostrils, it feels like I just swam through an oil slick. It hurts to breathe.

When they're done with Bo, I figure they'll let him go. Like they did me.

But then Roth's chest starts to heave. It splits in two, right down the middle and all the veins and arteries that were still curled up inside of him are now fluttering around like a thousand tongues to a demonic, gaping mouth.

I can barely make out Roth's stomach and intestines, but I can see his heart alright. All of his internal organs have been displaced by this thing. It's distorted, yellowed, stretched out of all proportion, and secreting some blackish substance, the biggest muscle of all. It beats magnificently.

I've got a front row seat. I watch the veins lash to Bo's face, binding him, hauling him bit by bit into the entrance of their the nest. He thrashes around, helpless, dancing like a marionette.

"Help," he begs me, gasping for air. I can barely see his face through the gangling mess of Roth's veins. For the briefest of seconds, we lock eyes. "Help!!!"

I remain seated.

Then the veins retract, yanking him in, smushing him up against Roth's gigantic aorta, subsuming him, and Bo's final screech peters out. Roth's ribs sling shut, like the pronged teeth to a Venus fly trap.

Goodbye, Bo.

I sob, dreading what happens next, but for a moment, all is quiet.

Then the thing, Roth, stands. But not like a person. The veins spread out, like the legs to a millipede, and Roth's body skitters past me, feeling its way up a locker, into the vents. His head is hanging on by a filament, but there are veins coming from the neck stub, keeping it tethered.

The look in Roth's one remaining eyeball tells me all I need to know. He may not be in control, but he's alive in there. Somewhere.

I fall back, staring at the ceiling.

My clothes are torn, my breath is ragged. I don't know how long it takes, but eventually I roll over and go look in the mirror. I look like Carrie. I'm completely covered in blood. I've pissed and shit my pants.

I don't bother wondering why it didn't eat me. The answer is obvious.

​

I suppose I should have warned the others, but by the time it occurred to me, the screaming had started. So I hung back.

When I finally stumbled out of the change room, the woman on the treadmill was already dead. There was a ruptured hole in the roof where the thing in Roth's body must have pooled out of the ventilation shaft. I imagine it dragging her, kicking and screaming, into its chest.

A pair of headphones. Some blood on the treads. That's all that was left to remember her by.

The receptionist got lucky. He made it as far as the bike rack. I found a single, severed vein, tangled up in the spokes of his tires, flailing around like an electrical wire. I picked it up in my hand and ripped it in two, but that didn't stop the halves from squirming. I threw them in the trash.

After that, I followed the trail of blood as far as the sewer grate.

And then I went home.

​

I figured the police were bound to come looking eventually. And that they would have questions. Questions I wasn't prepared to have asked. So I showered, shaved, packed my suitcase, and resolved never to take whatever those pills were again.

The next day, the local news underplayed it. Chalked it up to a gang killing. No mention of the bloodbath. Cops probably didn't know what to think, that or they're keeping this one close to the vest. I don't know if they suspect me, or if they really think I died in the incident. If they caught everything on video, they're not telling. All I know is there hasn't been a manhunt. No APBs for my arrest.

Within a week, everyone had forgotten all about it.

​

Like I said, I wanted nothing to do with any of this shit. Randall's still at large, I don't know what happened to him, and Roth... I hope the real Roth is dead. I hope it let him die, whatever it is.

For the past month, I've been monitoring the veins in my wrist, my forehead, and my dick, and I think I'm alright. My biggest problem now is, what am I gonna do after this? I can only hop around motels for so long, and I haven't worked out, really worked out, in thirty days. Don't get me wrong, I'm still in tiptop shape, but I'll start to sag if this keeps up.

I still have one pill. Just one. I've debated taking it to a scientist, having it analyzed, but I figure, not until I'm absolutely sure I'm safe. I don't want them putting me in a cell or anything. It's probably coming on time, though. I've been quarantining for long enough and there haven't been any signs. I'm 99% sure I'm clean.

I mean, sometimes, in the night, I see them. I know it's just my imagination, that they're just dreams, but it's still scary. The cold sweat. The lump in my throat. The creeping dread. I'll wake up, blood tossing and churning, pulse going a mile a minute, and I'll feel them, running up and down the length of my wrist, reverberating.

So I'll turn on the light, tell myself everything's fine, praying it's not what I think it is. But they'll always be there to greet me. Every time. My veins and arteries. Splitting. Reforming. Swelling. Throbbing. Growing stronger with every passing day.

I just have to remember it's all in my head.