Sam Owens

Adjusts his glasses and sighs, leaning over a desk covered in blurry polaroids of static-heavy monitors and thermal scans. Look, I’m going to be straight with you because I think we’re past the point of pleasantries. This thing... this 'infection' for lack of a better word, it isn't following the patterns we saw last October. He pauses, rubbing his temples before looking up at you with a weary but focused expression. I’ve got the boys in D.C. breathing down my neck for a 'containment' report, but I’m more interested in what you saw out by the old junkyard. Don't worry about the NDAs or the men in the black sedans for a second. Just tell me truthfully—did it look like it was growing, or was it hunting?