Wednesday, November 18, 22:00 hrs.
Fear had mutated into something palpable, a collective pulse that made the air in the waiting room vibrate.
Sarah paced in small circles, her phone pressed against her chest as if it could shield her from the outside world; Lisa bit her lower lip until it bled, eyes fixed on the warehouse door as if expecting Tom—or what was left of him—to burst through at any moment. Martha, the most stable until now, had trembling hands as she checked her phone repeatedly, the screen's glare reflecting in her dilated pupils.
Kane caught the scent of nervous sweat mingling with the antiseptic, a stench that reminded him of endless nights in the lab when everything went sideways.
If I don't control them now, this explodes, he thought. His voice sliced the silence like a scalpel.
"Listen," he said firmly, raising both hands in a gesture he had used hundreds of times to calm hysterical technicians. "First: breathe. Second: contact your families as soon as possible. Only that for now. Tell them simple things: 'Stay inside, doors locked, don't open for anyone.' Nothing else."
He avoided looking directly at Sarah—her boyfriend Javier was possibly already one of them, locked away in some military study camp, or even dead—but his tone was gentle enough not to break her entirely.
The women nodded slowly, panic receding an inch.
Kane approached Martha, taking her by the elbow gently but firmly, pulling her away from the group. "You are the shift supervisor here. Contact police and fire immediately. Use the main dispatch radio."
She blinked, processing, but took her phone and dialed while walking toward the reception desk. "Family first," she murmured into the receiver, her voice shaky but urgent: "Honey, listen to me. Stay inside. Doors locked. Don't go out for anything... I can't tell you anything right now... I'll give you more details later, just trust me for now."
Kane followed her closely, his steps silent on the linoleum, fearing that in her state she might say something like 'walking dead' that would sound like a lunatic's joke.
In the reception area, the air was colder, the fluorescent hum more insistent.
Martha tuned the police radio with fingers that barely obeyed. "This is Eldridge Medical Center. Critical emergency. We need immediate support—aggressive patient, possible contagious outbreak."
Her voice was urgent but professional, years of training surfacing. Kane signaled discreetly from the side: finger to lips, a subtle shake of the head. Not everything, not now.
The police responded instantly: "Understood. Unit on route. ETA ten minutes. Maintain isolation." Visible relief settled on Martha's shoulders; she hung up the microphone with a trembling hand.
She tuned in the fire department: "Eldridge Medical Center here. Critical emergency. Possible contagion. We need backup."
Calmer now, the routine anchored her.
"Received. We are deploying now," came the reply.
Kane walked away with measured steps, returning to the room where Sarah and Lisa hung up their phones, their expressions less shattered.
"All good at home," Lisa said, her voice hoarse but stable. "My brother is warning the neighbors. Doors locked, lights low."
Sarah added, barely a whisper: "My sister is fine, but... she says the military hasn't responded about Javier."
Kane felt the knot in his stomach tighten, but maintained his mask.
"Good. Keep contacting whoever you can—neighbors, friends, anyone nearby. Prevention is the only tool we have right now," I replied, and then requested. "I need materials. The portable vital signs monitor, large syringes, sterile tubes, extra gloves."
With their trust in him bolstered, they quickly agreed. "Of course, Doctor. It's on the emergency cart."
But neither moved toward the back hallway. "He... he's back there," Sarah murmured, her eyes on the warehouse door as if she could see through it.
"I'll go."
Kane pushed the cart alone, wheels screeching in the silence. The back hallway was darker, lights flickering weakly, an odor of dampness and old cardboard filtering from the warehouse, as if everything was attempting to form an atmosphere of oppression.
He pushed the door open with his shoulder—the click of the lock still fresh in his mind—and entered. The zombie was still struggling, low, guttural growls reverberating in the confined space. The leg restraints had loosened; one ankle was nearly free.
Kane quickly grabbed medical adhesive tape from the shelf, secured the ankles and knees with double knots, tightening until the dead flesh visibly compressed.
He connected the portable machine—irregular beeps, minimal cardiac activity, like a heart beating in dreams, but with even fewer signs of life. His investigative instinct surged, old and hungry: mobile samples, something they had been severely limited in obtaining at the lab before the escape.
He stabilized the head with extra straps, the skull immovable against the gurney. Large syringe in hand—a thick needle, designed for aspirations—he penetrated the left eye with surgical precision.
He felt a gelatinous resistance as he watched a grayish fluid fill the cylinder.
He sealed the tube and labeled it. No killing; the virus preserved the essentials.
A tremor hit him afterward: hands shaking, the syringe nearly falling to the floor. Idiot, he thought, taking a step back.
He had never been brave—science from behind glass, not this.
Zombies didn't frighten because of their grotesque appearance; they frightened because of what they represented: a bite, fever, death, reanimation.
He sighed deeply, steadying his pulse. Kane took a few more samples: skin scraped from the forearm with a scalpel, blood from an exposed neck vein, saliva swabbed deep in the open mouth.
He returned to the group; all the nurses were now gathered, their phones active; messages, voice notes, and calls. Their conversations were urgent—"Stay inside, don't open"—but not mournful.
"Good news" Kane thought, but then remembered the samples. "Do you have any kind of laboratory here? Or at least a functional microscope?"
Martha blushed slightly. "We have one... but it's ancient. In the back room, we used it for classes years ago."
They guided him to a dusty room at the end of the hall: a binocular microscope covered with yellowed cloth, loose parts in a box, a thick layer of dust, above all.
A vein throbbed in Kane's forehead; the condition of the equipment was terrible, but it was understandable—small town, rare use. He took a deep breath and simply cleaned: damp cloth, lenses shining again, mounting the base, the eyepiece, and the stage with expert hands.
Kane analyzed it while cleaning: basic capacity—limited magnification, dim illumination—but sufficient for general cellular inspection.
He placed the tubes nearby with extreme care—one spill and everything would be lost. He took the cerebral sample and carefully placed it on slides, improvising a stain with old reagents found in a drawer.
He brought his eye to the eyepiece and noticed several things: cells with abnormal behavior, their erratic movement matching his past experiments.
However, something he was looking for, he couldn't find. Kane was searching for an alien substance—he wanted an external chemical, something to block, or even an easy cure. But no, the results only confirmed what he already knew from his laboratory experiments.
The RNA virus possessed deep genomic integration, complicated as hell.
Could they create a cure?
Yes, it would take a long time, a period that would only increase if the things Kane imagined became reality.
Develop a drug for immunity?
It could be, and it would even be technically easier, but like the previous case, its development would become impossible if things worsened.
Lost in thought—cells dancing under the light and crushing implications—he didn't hear the noise at the entrance. Sirens were close, boots on the linoleum. Only when relieved voices rang out—"Guys! They made it!"—did Kane lift his head, hide the tubes somewhere on the table, and go join them.
At the medical center entrance.
Kane approached the entrance with measured steps, the sample cart momentarily forgotten in the back room. The main lobby was bathed in the steady white light of the fluorescents, the faint hum of the tubes mixing with the aroma of freshly brewed coffee someone had made in the reception machine.
Outside, through the glass doors, the town lay dormant: steady streetlights illuminating cobbled streets, a neighbor walking a dog on a loose leash, the distant sound of a television on in a nearby house. Nothing out of the ordinary, just a night shift in a small place where everyone knew each other, but with a tense atmosphere that no one knew where it came from.
The nurses were much more relieved; their faces relaxed for the first time in a long while. Martha was chatting animatedly with the arriving group: four firefighters with reflective jackets and helmets under their arms, two police officers with freshly ironed uniforms and radios on their belts.
They greeted each other with back slaps, quick jokes about 'the last time we saw each other at the town picnic.' It was obvious to Kane—in a place like Eldridge, everyone was neighbors, schoolmates, distant cousins.
But he observed them with clinical attention: checking exposed necks for fresh wounds, pupils for early signs of fever or weakness, visible pulse in the temples... But, nothing. Everyone was in optimal condition, sweat only from the rush from the station.
He looked at Martha and subtly signaled with his chin toward the back hallway—the pending issue.
Martha understood instantly; her smile evaporated, her face returning to the seriousness she had carried all night.
"Guys, thanks for coming so quickly," she said, lowering her voice a tone. "We had a serious accident. We notified the military as usual, but they said they were busy. If it weren't for Doctor Kane here—a passing physician—we could have suffered or worse."
One of the police officers, a robust man with a gray mustache and a badge that read "Sgt. Harlan," frowned in confusion. "Accident? What kind of accident needs fire and police at this hour?"
Martha exchanged glances with the other nurses—Sarah still pale, Lisa biting her lip—and gestured for everyone to follow her. "Come on. I'll explain on the way."
Kane accompanied them in silence. The group moved down the lit corridor, boots echoing on the clean linoleum, the smell of fresh disinfectant guiding them.
"A man arrived earlier—Tom, the farmer from the outskirts—with a severe bite on his arm," Martha began, her voice professional but strained. "Inflicted by someone behaving strangely, according to the paramedic. We stabilized him: controlled hemorrhage, IV fluids, antibiotics. It looked like we had him. But the infection was... unusually frantic. His fever spiked rapidly, then he suffered septic shock within minutes. We did everything we could, but he eventually died."
She paused dramatically in front of the warehouse door, her hand on the knob. She took a deep breath, her face as serious as stone.
"That wasn't the end of it. A few minutes after he died... he came back to life."
She threw the door open.
The zombie—Tom—was tied firmly to the gurney, restraints groaning with every erratic movement. Low, guttural growls filled the dusty room, unnatural even in their restriction. The skin was waxen pale, empty eyes fixed on nothing and everything, jaw hanging with black saliva dripping. The vital sign monitors beeped weakly: minimal activity, "dead" indicators in red.
Varied reactions hit the group like waves.
Sgt. Harlan narrowed his eyes, making the connection: "This... looks like old Miller's case three days ago. Bitten on the farm, the military took him away."
The other, younger officer stepped back, his hand instinctively on his holster, his face frightened. The firefighters had mixed reactions: one laughed nervously, another cursed under his breath, the third—the first aid officer, a tall guy with a badge reading "Chief Ruiz"—stepped forward.
"Are you kidding, Martha? Coming back from the dead? How in hell do you think that's possible?"
Martha shook her head, serious. "It's not my hypothesis." She pointed to Kane. "Ask the doctor."
Kane stepped forward, feeling all eyes locked on him. "I am Dr. Kane, passing through the area. Advanced studies in virology," he said in a calm, professional voice, as in past conferences.
"The person is medically deceased. Every indicator supports it: zero blood flow, zero blood pressure, absent pulse, respiration stopped, flat brain activity."
He pointed to the machine: red screen, flat lines save for minimal irregular spikes. "Corroborate it yourselves."
Everyone had basic knowledge—police with emergency training, firefighters with advanced first aid. Chief Ruiz checked the machine, frowning; Harlan nodded slowly. They didn't question the facts, but doubt clouded their faces: furrowed brows, evasive glances.
Harlan, the one who had connected previous cases, asked: "What is the problem then, Doctor? If he's dead..."
Kane maintained his neutral tone. "Before coming here, I passed through another town. Similar case: a man bitten, complete organ failure, death... and then he comes back. Then, they attack more people, biting them."
The impact was immediate.
"Attack..." the young officer murmured.
Everyone understood: this was propagation. This could endanger the entire town—families, children.
Some faces paled as they connected the dots: previous cases delegated to the military—"strange" bites, "stable" patients taken in federal ambulances.
"God... Miller's case... and the woman at the factory..." a firefighter whispered.
Ruiz took an urgent step. "We have to alert everyone! My wife, the kids..."
The spark ignited the group. Collective haste: portable radios crackling, voices rising.
"Central, code red—possible contagious outbreak at the medical center. Alert all units."
They poured out of the warehouse, boots resounding, glass doors flying open.
Harlan shouted into his radio: "Precinct, wake up the reserves. Close off all Eldridge entrances."
The firefighters acted similarly: "Station, prepare trucks—possible partial evacuation."
Kane watched from the warehouse door, surprised.
He attributed it to the lack of absolute power in a small town: everyone knew each other, trusted each other, acted by community instinct. In a large city, he doubted they would agree so quickly—bureaucracy, individual panic. Here, it was collective survival.
Martha locked the warehouse door, her face a mix of relief and worry.
"They're going to save lives," she murmured. Kane nodded, but his mind was already racing: the samples and the microscope in the back room awaited him.
The night continued, and the town awakened due to the new state of emergency.
Sarah approached, her voice trembling but determined. "Doctor... what do we do now?"
Kane looked out the window: blue and red siren lights slicing the darkness, radios crackling in the distance, neighbors peering through windows with their house lights newly turned on.
"We keep informing," he said. "And we prepare whatever we can to help everyone."
Chief Ruiz ran back, his face sweaty.
"Doctor, how do we stop them?"
Kane responded: "The brain is the source of their movement; if you destroy it, they will stop moving. Any other damage would only slow them down."
Ruiz nodded and transmitted Kane's recommendations over the radio.
.
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[A/N: CHAPTER COMPLETED
Hello everyone.
Sorry for the delay, but here's the chapter at last.
By the way, we're still going with long chapters, but as I said before, I'll leave out the interludes. They were useful when Kane was in the lab, but now they seem anticlimactic.
However, I'm already thinking about some full chapters focusing on LyraGen's executives and agents, or even the other researchers who will be part of the story.
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Read my other novels
#The Walking Dead: Vision of the Future. (Chapter 86)
#Vinland Kingdom: Race Against Time. (Chapter 114)
#The Walking Dead: Emily's Metamorphosis. (Chapter 32) (INTERMITTENT)
You can find them on my profile.]