"Eloquent as always." crackles the walkie-talkie, the voice has taken on a distinct Russian accent, "I just need you to listen. My name is Robert Arnold. If you want to have any chance of living through this, you'll do exactly as I say. Now, look in the corner."
You glance in a musty corner. Lying there is a dusty, six-inch long syringe. Picking it up, you are startled to see some sort of blob swimming inside
"I'm going to need you to go ahead and inject yourself."