The fattening moon above watched a slick black rat skitter across the grass. With its vapid eyes rimmed with dull green poop goop, the rat carefully watched a plain white building without windows on the lower. Its fur matted with old, congealed blood. Its mangy mouth frothed. A repugnant stench of rotting flesh wafted from its body; a smell so foul a nearby owl decided against having it for a snack. 

The building was a warehouse facility, stretching for a quarter-mile north and nearly half that wide, and standing three floors high. The facility remained in seclusion for many years, miles from civilization, hidden in the wilderness in the shadow of the mountain range to the west. An emblem hung over a single entrance in the shape of the Angel of Power rune, with what appeared to be a spike or spearhead down the center of it. 

Some hikers had stumbled upon this building and security would be deployed to get them out of there. The statement given to these witnesses involved it being a restricted government training and research facility. On Google Maps, the facility stayed hidden by a green blur to blend with the surroundings. 

Rumors persisted that it was the Area 51 of the Pacific Northwest. The rumors weren’t far from the truth.

A wrought-iron fence provided little obstacle for the rat to climb, nor did squirming through the spiraling barbed wire. It stayed close to the shadows and froze in its tracks the moment a security camera rotated in its direction. When the cameras turned away, it felt safe enough to move forward. While there were enough blind spots to hide from the cameras, if a security guard came out to check, the rat could do very little to hide its smell, so it needed to sneak with caution. This place took any hint of death, rot, or decay very seriously and would extinguish the source without hesitation. 

Having windows on the bottom floor would’ve made the entire infiltration job easier since there was nowhere for the rat to climb to get to the higher ones. According to the new intel supplied from the rat’s master, there was one small entrance on the west side that it should fit through. 

As it waited for another security camera to look the other way, a voice in its head commanded, “Go!” And go it did, wobbling from side to side along the base of the building. 

The rat halted at a small vent no more than five inches across. It sniffed the edges in a manner of courtship before proceeding to chew on the wire. Once it gnawed a large enough hole, it squeezed through--unconcerned about any wounds the wire left on its skin--and skittered down the long, narrow passageway.

Thick curtains of webbing got in the rat’s way, but it powered through like they were nothing. Strands of web got caught in its fur, draping behind the rat like a gothic cloak. The web’s homeowner and architect, a plump black widow spider, panicked as it found itself along for the ride. As soon as it found its intruder, it sank its venomous fangs into the festering hide of the rat, causing it to flinch from its path. It then rolled the spider into the metal casing of the vent. The black widow spider popped under the rat’s weight, leaving a snotty trail of spider guts that stretched and snapped as the rat moved further down the vent. 

There were a few detours the rat could have exited, but none were the openings it needed. It ignored them, hunting for the right one. It came to a stop and peered through a thin plastic grating, and the sultry voice in its head whispered, “Bingo!” Between the plastic strips, it could see a lit bathroom. Directly below was an empty stall with a toilet bowl open for it to dive into. No feet were visible from the nearest stall, so it knew now was the perfect time to make a splash. 

The rat gnawed through the plastic vent slits, not minding the years of fart dust that stained the plastic. It squeezed through the new opening, dangled from the ceiling, and then dropped with a magnificent plop. Toilet water splashed into a spire upon impact.

“Holy sweet Jesus! Are you okay down there?” The voice came from five stalls down, near the entrance of the restroom. Pants around his ankles with his tie slung over his shoulder so it wouldn’t dip in the toilet water, a man looked up from his phone and waited for a response. He itched his bristly mustache as a foul stench crept its way to his stall. He quickly snorted, trying to keep the stench from entering any farther into his lungs and pulled his shirt up over his nose. He called out again. “You might want to give us a courtesy flush, okay, amigo? Getting kind of ripe over here.” He knocked on the stall wall and waited for a reply.

Though it wasn’t hot in the bathroom, he frequently broke into sweats when dropping the ol’ number two. A pattern of sweat pooled on his shirt, and he wiped his brow on his sleeve.

Still, no response came from the other stall, which made him feel uneasy ... Perhaps the gentleman in the other stall passed out after that last push? He’d heard of worse happening. He recalled when he rushed so fast to the urinal that he had a blackout and smacked his head against the tile in mid-piss. Surprisingly, his aim was better than when he was fully conscious.

He rushed to wipe. He knew something odd was going on and immediately texted security. He paused for a moment before clicking “send,” realizing he had just touched the screen of his phone without washing his hands. Hell, he didn’t even have his pants up yet. Then he shook off the disgust and sent the message. 

He remembered to flush this time, wanting to remove his own mess from the scene, just so no one confused his scent with the bomb in the other stall. 

As he reached for the waist of his pants to yank them up, a sharp crackling pain from his wrist came over him. He cried out in pain with an indecipherable whine. It felt like lightning pulsing into his arm, followed by a dentist drill bit without Novocaine. He forced his eyes open to look and saw a little black rat, covered in dry blood, crusting pus, dust, webbing, and drenched in toilet water, gnawing at his wrist. His own blood spilled on the bright-white hexagonal tile floor. The rat let go and scurried off into another stall to hide and watch.

Gasping, he lifted his arm for a closer view and saw it was already too late. The venom already blackened his veins around the wound. 

He heard the bathroom door open, followed by a concerned voice. “Garrett? We got your message and then heard you cry. Everything okay in there?” 

He recognized Les’s voice. He ran security on this level and even had greeted him as he took his break headed toward the bathroom. Garrett found it difficult to speak, barely managing even a stutter. He reached out and managed to flick the stall lock left to open, wanting desperately to get the hell out of there. Though Garrett was trained in these situations and knew full well that he needed to put a bullet to his head pronto, panic still took over. He just wanted to run. The Order of the Immortuos Venandi had trained its office workers what to do in case of Ghoul Fever, but in the heat of reality, enough panic can kill almost any amount of training. What scared him even more was that this contagion seemed to act faster than what he was told to expect. 

Foaming drool hung from his lips. He felt tranquilized yet hungry, and to his surprise, Les smelled tasty. He bared his teeth as he heard a clomp from one of Les’s boots.

“Hey, man,” Les said with much more clarity. “Give me some kind of sign. Any will do.” He saw a spray of blood on the tile beneath Garret’s feet. He gasped, thinking the guy may have blacked out again and banged his head something serious this time, and then ordered, “Tap your feet together if everything’s swell, man.”

Garret’s feet moved, but they didn’t tap. 

Les groaned and stepped toward the front of the stall, wincing at the idea of seeing the man on the toilet, hoping he at least had his pants most of the way up. He knocked on the stall door, which swayed open a little, letting him know that it was unlocked. He took a deep breath, noticing the rotten smell lingering in the bathroom, and tapped the door open.

The last thing he saw was Garrett with bleeding-red eyes lunging at him. Les tried to reach for his sidearm, but Garrett’s massive weight crushed his back into the sinks behind him, and the pistol fell on the floor. Les’s blood sprayed across the bathroom mirrors as Garrett tore into his neck.

The rat watched from inside the stalls and then creeped on out of the bathroom. 

Soon, after biting a secretary on the ankle and then another security guard on the hand, the Ghoul Fever spread like fire with the rampage of the two infected men from the bathroom. One bit another, and then bit another, and bit another. 

The alarms quickly activated, and a thick sheet of heavy steel slammed shut over every exit of the facility, trapping everyone working that evening inside. 

The rat knew it would die here, all part of the plan, engulfed in an inferno, as the Pacific Northwest Order of the Immortuos Venandi executed its own self-destruct sequence.