Instinct by Jason Hough (best memoirs of all time TXT) 📕

that part of me had been deleted. When he realized the effect his invention had caused, he knew he was onto something. It just needed to be perfected.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Instincts, Mary. Instincts. A reversal of the core behavior within the hypothalamus—our animal brain. Whatever that instinct happened to be. Different for everyone. Difficult to pinpoint, to measure. But in time…”

He smiles at this admission, a little sadly. Then the smile fades.

“Very crude, version one. The instinct reversal is interesting but ultimately useless. Testing was needed. Data. It was the only way. We had to factor in so many variables. Account for signaling from the amygdala…”

He’s descended into Doc Mumble Mode, talking out of the side of his mouth, more to himself than me now. But just as I start to tune him out the intensity floods back into him. His eyes light up and he looks at me again. “And now—now, Mary!—it works! How it’s supposed to. Pathways aren’t reversed, they’re opened up, receptors primed. With proper timing the imprint is strong. Targeted. Amplified. We have to test to make sure, of course. The nose, the fall.”

“So this… whatever it is… removes our instinct to break a fall?” I ask. “To flinch?”

“No, no, you don’t see it yet. But you will, you will.”

He’s rocking back and forth a little now, almost giddy as he watches me make the right connections.

Pathways. Receptors. Imprint.

“You will do whatever I say,” I repeat. The woman in the video. I realize suddenly that I’ve seen her before. Where I can’t recall, though. I try to focus on her, but my mind is still hazy.

Doc’s fully rocking in his chair now, grinning like a child. “Yes, yes! Isn’t that amazing? It’s working, Mary. Finally. No more mistakes, no more guesswork. Now the real work can—”

“Hold on… what do you mean, ‘mistakes’?” I ask.

His face goes red, eyes suddenly wide. Doc stammers for words, and is saved when the door opens.

Ang comes in, along with Tweaker.

“Let her rest, Frank, we have a lot of work to do.”

“Of course,” Doc replies. To me he says, “I’ll be back to check on you. Once the painkillers wear off you’ll be ready to join the effort. It’s good to have you here, Mary. Get some rest.” Then, very deliberately, he adds, “Do not leave this room or speak to anyone else but me or Mr. Ang.”

An order. One he believes I will obey perfectly. He pats my arm, the very picture of confidence, eyes twinkling as he hoists himself from the chair and follows Ang and the thin man out of the room.

The door closes softly behind them.

I lay there for several minutes, listening to the sounds of the house. The electric churn of a dishwasher running, or a laundry machine. A garage door opens, and a car leaves. Farther off is the whine of a lawn mower. Or could that be the ATV? The sound grows quiet, then louder. Captain Tweaker patrolling the estate, perhaps?

As the sound lulls again something new is revealed. Voices. They’re directly below me, I feel certain of this. So perhaps I’m not in the room where Doc dosed me with their drug or whatever it is, but in an upstairs bedroom. The space looks the same, but in these super modern homes, all the rooms kind of look the same.

In the empty, quiet room my mind begins to fill with questions. So many questions. They swirl like angry bees, as elusive as they are annoying. I need to think. Need to clear my head of this medicinal haze.

Pretending to stretch and work a kink from my neck, I scan the walls and ceiling, looking for cameras, sure they’re watching me and that leaving me alone is some kind of test. I see none, though. Just a small motion sensor on the light switch, a fire alarm, and a small air vent. Any of these could hide a camera.

Then I recall Doc’s orders, and figure I can follow them to the letter and still maintain my cover. I won’t leave the room, or speak to anyone but him and Ang.

Slowly I rise, trying to keep my face still. Every little twitch makes the skin around my nose stretch or pinch, triggering a deep and distant pain dulled only by the pills. When they wear off it’s going to be brutal, I think, hoping there’s more painkillers to come.

There’s a single window on the wall behind me, with vertical blinds folded closed. I tug the chain and they rattle, rotating to allow daylight in.

The window faces south. Spreading out below me is the backyard, if you can call something so huge a yard. Grass stretches at least three hundred feet before reaching the ivy-covered wall surrounding the property. Beyond is the steep valley that, somewhere below, meets the river I crossed to get up here in the first place. In the distance I can see the mountain, and somewhere up to the left is Silvertown, Lake Forgotten, and Two-Shits. There’s people up there, friends, perhaps wondering where I am. Wondering when their cell phones will work again, and gossiping about whatever strange behavior is the latest on a growing list. What will they do, I wonder, when the conspiracy du jour is that a missing-persons report needs to be filed on the town’s only cop?

None of them know where I am, I realize. I went solo, again, and didn’t think to tell anyone.

Doc’s explanation still rattles in my head. Instincts. One is strongest. Then the treatment—version one, that is—reversed it. Hence Doc stopped taking care of his body.

I think back to the conversation with Kyle and Clara after we’d rescued her from the silo, when I’d been about to voice a similar theory. I’d given up on the idea at the last second as stupid, despite all the examples in front of me. Because I couldn’t come up with anything connecting all of us.

“Mistakes,” Doc said before he left the room. I rack