I come up in a panic and gasping for air. It’s out of habit—my lungs don’t work, so there’s no fear that I might drown. As I bob up and down, I cast my gaze around. We’re in a large chamber, a mix of bedroom, living room and laboratory. Once I have my bearings, I make for the edge of the vat, eager to scramble out of this nightmarish swamp.
“What’s the rush?” Kinslow says.
I look back and spot the mutant floating on his back, arms crossed behind his head, as if we’re in a swimming pool. Mr. Dowling hasn’t surfaced yet.
“What the hell is this?” I splutter.
“A literal bloodbath,” he chuckles, rolling round and dunking his head to take a deep swallow of the filthy soup.
As I stare at the back of Kinslow’s head, Mr. Dowling pops up out of the mess and spits a stream of blood into my face. I screech with outrage and throw a fist at him. That knocks me off balance and I go under again.
As I come up this time, I realize the vat isn’t just filled with blood. There are objects floating it in. Gray, gooey chunks. I guess most people wouldn’t recognize the gunk, but I’ve had plenty of experience where this substance is concerned and I place the bits instantly—brains.
“You can tuck into them if you want,” Kinslow says, sticking his head up out of the blood, “but they’re not particularly appetizing. They add to the kick of the stew. Best just to stretch out and soak up the goodness.”
“What goodness?” I growl, but I’m already starting to feel better. The pain has ebbed and I’m not as exhausted as I was when the babies were holding me.
“This is our version of Oystein’s Groove Tubes,” Kinslow explains as Mr. Dowling dives to the bottom of the vat again. “It’s not as restorative as his syrup, but it kicks in more swiftly. Perfect when you need a shot in the arm.”
“It’ll take more than a quick fix to sort me out,” I grunt.
“Don’t be so sure of that,” Kinslow says. “A dip in this once a day and you’ll be bouncing about the place in no time.”