Wednesday, November 18, 9:30 PM.
Kane's shout—"Don't let him bite anyone!"—hung suspended in the sterile lobby air like contained thunder, causing all heads to snap toward him. Martha, the nurse at the counter, stared wide-eyed, her hand frozen on the door. The paramedic, still holding the 50-year-old man under the arms, stumbled slightly, the patient's groan turning into a wet gurgle.
The air was heavy with disinfectant and the metallic scent of fresh blood dripping from the stained bandages on his arm. Red and blue ambulance lights flashed through the glass, dyeing the white walls an infernal red, as if Hell itself were announcing its arrival. It was night, and the town still breathed under the illusion of normalcy, but Kane knew this moment was the crack that would shatter everything.
"What the hell...?" mumbled the paramedic, a young woman whose face was etched with sweat, as they dragged the man inside.
In their haste and urgency, no one questioned Kane's presence; the nurses on duty—Martha and two others who had rushed out of the emergency room—mistook him for an ally, a doctor passing through who was shouting useful orders.
"To the Emergency Room, now!" snapped Martha, regaining control.
Kane didn't hesitate; his morality propelled him forward to help, following closely as they pushed the gurney down the narrow corridor. The man gasped, his skin pale as melted wax, his glassy eyes focusing on nothing.
Kane assessed him at a glance: incipient fever, erratic pulse, the ragged bite on his arm screaming reanimated in his mind. Bacteria from the zombie saliva accelerating sepsis, lethal fever, death... and then that.
The emergency room was organized chaos: monitors beeping, instrument trays gleaming under fluorescent lights that hummed like dying insects. They placed the man on the central gurney, their boots hitting the linoleum with urgency.
"Open wound, severe hemorrhage!" the paramedic shouted, cutting the bandages with scissors.
Blood spurted in a hot stream, splashing Martha's gloved hands. Kane positioned himself alongside, his own makeshift gloves stolen from the supply cart.
"Direct pressure, saline drip, now," he ordered, his voice calm but authoritative, earning looks of relief from the nurses.
Desperate from the sudden onslaught, they let him proceed without further questions. Together they contained the bleeding: soaked gauze, a makeshift tourniquet, the red flow reducing to a persistent trickle. The man—a local farmer named Tom, Martha murmured—groaned in pain, his face contorted.
But Kane knew it was temporary.
In the ensuing minutes, the TS-996 virus—dormant in everyone, airborne from who-knows-where—began its death dance. Tom grew paler, his skin turning grayish from blood loss. Then came the chills: intense tremors that shook the gurney like an earthquake, his teeth audibly chattering.
"Fever spiking! 40.5°C," announced a nurse named Sarah, adjusting the thermometer.
The cardiac monitor accelerated: bip-bip-bip becoming a frantic drumming, 140 beats per minute. Respiration ragged, shallow, as if the air refused to enter. Confusion invaded his eyes: "Where... am I? The madman... he attacked me..." he stammered, disoriented, trying to sit up.
The nurses moved in a whirlwind: IV in the healthy arm, pumping fluids to hydrate; doses of antibiotics and anti-inflammatories for what Kane had whispered was 'advanced sepsis'—something unusual without days of exposure to infection.
"Adrenaline if he collapses!" he yelled, helping to connect the oxygen mask.
They tried to stabilize his breathing with a portable machine, the bellows artificially inflating his lungs. Sweat soaked their brows; the air grew heavy, oppressive, the stench of blood and antiseptic burning Kane's nostrils.
Ten minutes of hell. Kane intervened where he could: adjusting valves, monitoring vital signs, his hands internally trembling but steady on the surface. The nurses, desperate and confused, looked at him with gratitude mixed with exhaustion.
"Thank you, doctor... I don't know what we'd do without you," Martha gasped, wiping the sweat away.
But it was futile. Septic shock struck like a hammer: blood pressure plummeting, 70/40, persistent, unstoppable. The monitor shrieked: "Extreme Hypotension!" The tremors abruptly ceased; Tom's chest stopped rising. A long, final beep. Clinical death. Silence flooded the room, broken only by the hum of the machines. One of them continued delivering compressions, but the outcome had already been dictated.
Sarah quietly sobbed, blaming herself: "We did everything... why?"
Martha bit her lip, eyes fixed on the motionless body. Internal guilt, a silent poison.
Kane did not blink.
It's coming, he thought, his pulse quickened by anticipation, not fear.
Without wasting time, he moved to the containment cart, grabbing thick nylon restraints. He wrapped them over Tom's chest, wrists, and ankles, securing them with quick knots. The nurses stared at him in confusion.
"What are you doing, doctor?" Sarah asked, her voice tinged with annoyance. "He's dead! Leave him alone."
Martha frowned: "He's dead... why tie him down?"
Kane improvised, his mind screaming the truth, but his mouth lying for survival. He knew that due to the military intervention, they didn't know what they were up against.
"Precaution," Kane replied. "Post-mortem movements are common in severe sepsis—muscle contractions, spasms. We don't want accidents."
Internally, he cursed: The military blackout will kill them all. Unprepared, towns like this will be the first to fall. Health services like these, blinded by the cover-up...
Five eternal minutes passed.
The nurses, catching their breath, wanted to move the body to a secluded room for the morgue.
"We need to analyze him," Martha said, reaching for the restraints.
Kane stopped her forcefully, his hand closing over hers—not brutal, but firm. "No! Wait."
The intensity surprised them all; Sarah backed away. Now they saw him differently: helpful, yes, but an intruder.
"Doctor, thank you for helping, but... please leave," Martha said, polite but tense. Sarah approached the body, fingers near a strap.
No, Kane thought, pure terror: a bite here, and the entire town would fall.
"Wait!" he growled, stopping her hand. Suspicion bloomed on their faces.
"Who are you, really?" Sarah hissed, her voice rising. Martha reached for the phone: "I'll call the police to..."
But fate intervened.
A low crackle, like bones settling. Tom's body moved. Sarah jumped back with a shriek; Martha gasped, hand over her mouth. The atmosphere became oppressive, the air thick as molasses, fluorescent lights flickering as if evil itself defied them.
Tom—not Tom anymore—writhed on the gurney, restraints tightening. His pale skin, waxy as a fresh corpse, contrasted with the guttural growls erupting from his throat. Empty, milky eyes, fixed on nothing and everything. Primitive movements: pure hunger, coordinated by the virus. A zombie, the first Eldridge would see.
"Get back!" Kane roared, placing himself in front of them. He wasn't the strongest—body of a scientist, not a soldier—but he knew anatomy: weak points, lacking brute force. The zombie growled louder, head rotating toward him, jaw slack, black saliva dripping. It tried to sit up, straps groaning.
The nurses retreated to the wall, murmuring in terror: "He's... alive! What is that?"
Sarah sobbed: "God, it's moving!"
Martha, pale: "Doctor, stay away!"
Now they understood the restraints, but the horror struck them: "How did you know?"
Sarah, voice trembling: "Do you... know what's happening?"
Kane nodded, his mind spinning a convincing lie. He couldn't say LyraGen, TS-996, Phase Omega.
"Yes, it happened in another town weeks ago," Kane replied. "I helped a man who was bitten—fever, collapse, just like this, we spent hours helping him. Minutes later... he rose. Just like that."
The words flowed smoothly, a false history woven in seconds: a covered-up rural outbreak, himself as a witness.
"Is it contagious?" Martha asked, horrified.
"Not directly," Kane lied, only sharing some of the data studied in the lab. "Apparently, the bites are their conduit... Both this man and that man had been bitten."
The zombie's growl echoed in the emergency room like a guttural resonance, a constant reminder that the nightmare hadn't ended. Kane remained in front of the nurses, his body tense between them and the gurney, as a strap yielded with a dry snap.
Sarah shrieked again, clutching the defibrillator to her chest like a makeshift shield. Martha stepped back, her face pale under the mercilessly buzzing fluorescent lights. The air was thick, charged with antiseptic, sweat, and the metallic stench of dry blood.
"Dr. Kane!" Martha exclaimed, her voice trembling but urgent, breaking the paralyzed silence. "What are these... things? How do we stop them?" Her eyes darted from the zombie—the man who had been Tom—to Kane, searching for answers on his exhausted face.
Kane swallowed, his mind calculating every word. He couldn't reveal too much; LyraGen was hunting him, and these women were involuntary witnesses.
"They are 'zombies' like the ones in the movies," he said with forced calm, maintaining a professional tone. "The bite infects fast—saliva bacteria cause lethal fever. They die... and rise like this." Kane noted the confusion on their faces and took the opportunity to instruct them for their safety. "Strengths: they feel no pain, they don't tire, only hunger. Weak points: the head. A strong blow there stops them. Aim for the eyes or the temple if they attack."
Sarah gasped, covering her mouth. "God... and the ones the military took away? It's been four days of this. Since the 15th, stable patients who suddenly... turned?" Her voice cracked, her eyes full of horror as she connected the dots.
Kane did not reply. His silence was the confirmation, a weight that fell over the room like lead.
Martha grew paler. "All those... walking around?"
No one said anything; the zombie's growl filled the void, a low, constant sound that kept everyone alert, muscles tense.
Then, Sarah collapsed. Tears sprang forth, her body shaking as she slid down the wall. "My boyfriend... Javier. He was fine yesterday, laughing at home. The military took him for 'study.' They said it was the flu. If it's as you say..." A choked sob cut her off. Martha and the third nurse, Lisa, lunged toward her, hugging her tight.
"Shh, Sarah, don't think that," Martha murmured, though her own eyes glistened with unshed tears.
Kane stood still, his heart tight. He said nothing; what could he say? The virus offered no forgiveness.
Sarah looked up, shaking her head as if she could push away reality. "Dr. Kane... is there a cure? Something we don't know about? You know more... tell us it can be controlled." Her voice was pure plea, hands clutching Martha's arm.
Kane hesitated, searching for gentle words. "We are learning," he began, but his voice wavered. "In the other town, we tried antibiotics, serums... and nothing. It's not reversible. It's too fast, far too fast."
The inconsistencies leaked through: long pauses, an evasive gaze. Indirectly, he admitted it: there was no cure. Sarah sank further, deep sobs shaking her body.
But then, a frantic spark crossed her eyes. "What if we find a cure in the future? Could Javier... come back? Like before?"
Everyone looked at the life support machine, still connected to the zombie. The monitor showed slight cardiac activity—irregular, weak beeps—but no breath, no real pulse. Only the virus maintaining the bare minimum: primitive functions for hunting.
Kane didn't answer; his silence screamed the truth. A cure, if it existed, would only yield a decomposed corpse, not Javier laughing at home. Deep down, everyone knew it. The zombie growled again, struggling, and the monitor's beep seemed to mock their broken hope.
Total silence.
Only Sarah's sobs, the groaning of straps, occasional growls. Martha rubbed her friend's back, Lisa wiping away her own tears. The emotional weight crushed the room, a collective mourning for the impossible.
Finally, Lisa cleared her throat, her voice hoarse. "Dr. Kane... what do we do with... him?" She pointed to the zombie, her eyes full of conflict.
Kane took a deep breath. "The best course: Destroy the brain to kill it, then burn the body. Quick, clean." Direct, straightforward.
Immediate reaction: horror.
"That's Tom!" Martha exclaimed, backing away. "We've known him since childhood. We can't!"
Sarah sobbed louder: "Even if he's not human...!"
Lisa shook her head: "It's murder."
Kane noted their refusal—raw emotions, local loyalty—and adjusted. "Alright. Isolate it, as the military instructed. No one in, no one out. Until the military arrives." More aligned with them; visible relief.
"Yes," Martha nodded. "To the back storage room. Secure, isolated."
Kane steeled himself, ignoring the pulse throbbing in his temples. "I'll help."
He checked the restraints: added two more to the neck and thighs, double knots. The zombie growled near his face; Kane suppressed a shiver but held firm. Together they pushed the gurney down the back corridor, wheels screeching on the cold linoleum.
The nurses looked at Tom with pure fear: empty eyes, slack jaw. A sudden movement—an arm tensing—made Sarah jump, releasing the gurney. Kane pushed alone for a few meters, groaning with effort.
"Careful!"
Nervous laughter broke out: Lisa let out a choked laugh, "Like in a bad movie," but it died quickly. Sarah's sobs made the journey mournful, heavy footsteps, elongated shadows under dim lights.
The storage room was a dusty quarter: shelves with supplies, the smell of old cardboard. They locked the door, the final click like a sentence.
"No one enters," Kane repeated.
They returned to the entrance, collapsing into plastic seats. Exhaustion hit them: Martha with her head in her hands, Sarah huddled, Lisa staring into the void.
Kane broke the silence. "What has happened these days in town? Tell me."
Martha sighed. "It's been strange around here. Since the 15th, patients with rare, aggressive fevers began appearing. Then the military arrived with orders to contact them. Every time cases like this appear, they take people away with excuses of secret clinical studies."
"Like the early days of COVID—panic, quarantines—but worse," Lisa added. "In the city, protests are growing. Here, everyone is scared, neighbors keep their doors locked."
"I see... I saw similar situations in nearby towns," Kane said, his voice tired. "I helped there as I did here, but despite this, there are similar cases and people dying everywhere... The military knows, and they are doing nothing."
Martha looked up, an epiphany striking her. "We only know because of you! The town... no one knows. We must inform people!"
Kane nodded. "Call family, friends. Slowly, without panic."
They rose, hands reaching for phones.
But Sarah froze. "Wait... if someone bit Tom. Are there more... wandering around?"
Instant tension. Pale faces, wide eyes.
Martha whispered: "God... are there more in the streets?"
Lisa looked out the dark window: "How many?"
Sarah trembled: "Javier... is he already...?"
Kane felt the collective fear like a wave.
.
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[A/N: CHAPTER COMPLETED
Hello everyone.
Here we continue with the previous chapter, but to everyone's surprise, we have the longest chapter published so far, and also our first zombie outside the labs.
However, I want to say that I won't be here too long. Kane will only be staying one more day, as there's some action coming up in town.
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Read my other novels
#The Walking Dead: Vision of the Future. (Chapter 86)
#Vinland Kingdom: Race Against Time. (Chapter 110)
#The Walking Dead: Emily's Metamorphosis. (Chapter 32) (INTERMITTENT)
You can find them on my profile.]