So, after yesterday's votes, I see many readers want to keep the character of Rebecca in. So, here I am confirming that choice. Of course, some people took it the wrong way. I am not removing the Jill character; when did I say I would do that?
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*****
"Eeny, meeny, miny... moe."
His gaze landed on the white rabbit. It was twitching its nose, innocent and unaware.
Atlas opened the cage. He grabbed the rabbit by the scruff of its neck and its belly, lifting it out. It kicked its legs, soft and warm.
"I am sorry, buddy," Atlas said genuinely.
"You're taking one for the team."
He didn't bother finding a vein. He went for an intramuscular injection in the rabbit's thigh. He pushed the needle in and depressed the plunger.
0.5ml of Apex Blood entered the system.
He put the rabbit back in the cage and locked it.
He grabbed his pocket watch.
"Start."
By the first minute.
Nothing happened. The rabbit hopped around the cage, sniffing the corner.
By the third minute.
Still nothing. Atlas frowned. "Is the dose too low? Or is my blood inert?"
By the fifth minute.
The rabbit froze.
Then, it screamed.
It wasn't a normal rabbit sound. It was a high-pitched, gargling shriek. The rabbit threw itself against the bars of the cage. It began to thrash violently, rolling on the floor, kicking its legs with enough force to bend the thin wire.
The other animals in the clearing went silent. The dog tucked its tail between its legs and whimpered. The cat hissed, arching its back. They sensed the predator being born.
By the seventh minute.
The transformation began.
It was horrific to say the least
The rabbit's fur began to fall out in clumps, revealing skin that was turning a sickly, bruised grey. But the skin wasn't rotting—it was cracking under pressure.
SNAP. CRUNCH.
The sound of bones breaking filled the clearing.
The rabbit's frame expanded. Its muscles bulged, tearing through the remaining fur, visibly pulsing with unnatural growth. The cute, pink eyes filled with blood, turning a glowing, feral crimson.
Its teeth—the incisors—grew longer, serrated and sharp as needles. Its claws elongated, turning into miniature versions of the Licker's talons.
By the tenth minute.
The thrashing stopped.
The creature in the cage was no longer a rabbit. It was a hairless, muscular monstrosity, steaming in the cold air. It looked like a miniature Crimson Head zombie.
It panted, drool dripping from its jaws.
Atlas stepped closer.
The Zombie Rabbit snapped its head toward him. Its red eyes locked onto Atlas.
Atlas held his breath, waiting for the attack. The rabbit sniffed the air.
It lowered its head. It didn't hiss. It didn't lunge. It made a low, submissive chittering sound.
"It seems to recognize me," Atlas realized, his eyes widening. "It smells like the Source."
He tested the theory. He stuck a gloved finger through the bars of the cage.
The rabbit sniffed his finger. It licked the nitrile glove. It didn't bite.
"Interesting," Atlas whispered. "Direct infection creates a thrall. A subordinate."
He pulled his hand back.
Then, the rabbit turned.
It looked at the cages next to it—
SCREEEEE!
The rabbit went berserk. It threw itself against the wire mesh separating the cages, biting through the metal with terrifying strength. It wanted to kill. It wanted to feed.
"Aggression toward non-infected targets is extreme," Atlas noted. "Higher than a normal zombie."
He decided to test the secondary vector.
He opened the chicken crate and grabbed the hen. It clucked wildly, flapping its wings.
He opened the rabbit's cage and thrust the hen inside, keeping his hand clear.
The rabbit lunged instantly.
CRUNCH.
It bit the hen on the wing, tearing out a chunk of flesh.
Atlas quickly pulled the hen out before the rabbit could finish it. He threw the bleeding bird into a separate, empty box.
"Now we wait," Atlas said, resetting the watch.
[ The Secondary Infection ]
The hen didn't scream or thrash. It just lay there, bleeding.
Within five minutes, the bird died slowly.
Five minutes later, it woke up.
It stood up jerkily, its movements
uncoordinated. Its eyes were milky white—the classic cataract of the T-Virus. Its feathers were matted, but it didn't grow muscles. It didn't lose its plumage. It just looked... dead.
"A shambler," Atlas observed. "Standard T-Virus resurrection."
He opened the top of the glass tank. He slowly lowered his hand toward the Zombie Hen.
The hen looked up. It hissed.
PECK.
It lunged at Atlas's hand, trying to tear a piece of flesh from his finger.
Atlas pulled back just in time.
"So that's how it is," Atlas murmured, a chill running down his spine that had nothing to do with the cold.
He sat back on the hood of the car, looking at the two monsters he had created.
Theory Confirmed:
* Direct Injection (The Sire's Blood): Creates a "Crimson Head" variant. Enhanced speed, strength, and aggression. Crucially, it does not attack me. It recognizes me.
* Secondary Infection (The Bite): Creates a standard Zombie. Mindless. Hunger-driven. It does not recognize me. To the secondary infected, Atlas is just meat.
"Am I like a Vampire," Atlas realized. "My blood creates Ghouls. But their victims just become Walking Dead."
He looked at the other animals.
"I need to be sure."
For the next forty five minutes, the clearing became a house of horrors.
He repeated the experiment with the rat. The rat turned into a skinless, incredibly fast mutant that scuttled up Atlas's arm and did not attack him besides showing aggression towards all uninfected life.
He tested the fish. He dropped a drop of blood into the bowl. The goldfish died, then began to thrash against the glass, growing serrated fins.
It ignored Atlas's finger in the water but attacked a worm instantly.
He looked at the dog and the cat in the large carriers.
They were huddled in the back, terrified by the smell of blood and monsters.
Atlas picked up the syringe. He looked at the dog.
The dog looked back, its brown eyes pleading.
Atlas hesitated.
He looked at the "Crimson Rabbit" trying to chew through the bars to get to the "Zombie Hen." He looked at the "Mutant Rat" in another cage he was also trying to break free.
"I have enough data for this one." Atlas said abruptly.
He put the syringe down.
"Turning a dog into a Cerberus won't teach me anything new. And I don't need a zombie cat."
He walked over to the cages of the monsters.
"This experiment concluded."
He killed them.
It was quick. A twist of the neck for the rabbit. A crush of the skull for the rat. A smash of the tank for the fish.
He didn't enjoy it. He felt dirty.
He gathered the remains—the rabbit, the chicken, the rat, the fish—and shoved them into a thick, bio-hazard plastic bag. He added the used syringes, the bloody gloves, and the vials.
He grabbed a bottle of industrial bleach and poured it into the bag, then sealed it with duct tape.
"No loose ends," he muttered.
The forest was silent, save for the rustling of the wind in the pines and the whimpering of the dog in the back of the SUV. The air smelled of bleach and ozone—the scent of the cleanup Atlas had just performed on his "failed" experiments.
He stood over the remaining cages, his chest heaving slightly, though he required no oxygen.
He had confirmed that his injected blood created monsters. That was useful for who knows what. But now, he had to confirm something far more terrifying. Something that would define his existence going forward, not as a monster, but as a man for who knows how long.
He looked at the survivors—the second white rabbit, the snake, the lizard, and the chickens.
"Time for Phase Two," Atlas whispered, his voice trembling with a vulnerability he would rarely show a living soul.
He grabbed the second rabbit. It kicked feebly, sensing the death that had befallen its kin, but Atlas held it firm.
He didn't use a needle this time. He looked at his hand. He only had his fingernails for this—which were still harder and sharper than a normal human's.
"I need to know," he muttered. "If I touch... does it kill?"
He gripped the rabbit's flank and scratched.
RIIIP.
It wasn't a deep gouge, just a surface laceration, enough to break the skin and draw a bead of red blood. He made sure his own skin cells, the microscopic debris under his nails, made contact with the wound.
He shoved the rabbit back into the cage and locked it.
He sat on the hood of the Ford Expedition, staring at the pocket watch.
Minute 1.
Minute 5.
Minute 10.
The rabbit groomed itself, distressed by the pain but showing no signs of the T-Virus fever. No aggression. No necrosis.
"Maybe it requires intent," Atlas theorized, his brow furrowing. "My biology is kinda like a vampire's in a few ways. Maybe I have to want it."
He grabbed the rabbit again. He opened the wound further.
This time, he focused. He closed his eyes, channeling his self thoughts. He visualized the virus flowing from his fingertips. He visualized the spiral double-helix of the T-virus, and his blood invading the rabbit's cells.
'Turn,' he commanded mentally. 'Infect. Mutate. Turn into a zombie.'
He poured his will into the scratch, sweating with the effort of trying to force a biological reaction through sheer telepathy and contact.
He threw the rabbit back in.
Minute 15.
Minute 30.
The rabbit sat in the corner of the cage, chewing on a piece of lettuce. It was fine. It was just a rabbit with a scratch.
Atlas let out a breath that rattled in his chest.
He quickly grabbed the bottle of disinfectant alcohol and a cotton swab. He reached in, ignoring the rabbit's flinch, and cleaned the wound he had inflicted.
"I'm sorry," he whispered. "But you're safe."
But the scratch was just the baseline. That was for accidental contact. That was for the rough play of combat or... other things.
Now came the real fear.
"The Bite," Atlas said, the words tasting like ash. "And the fluids."
In the lores of Zombies, the zombie bite and scratch were the death sentence. It was the primary vector. Saliva mixed with blood.
But Atlas wasn't a shambler. He was an Apex.
He thought of Alice.
That was the reason he hadn't hesitated. That was why he had claimed that kiss the moment he truly saw her, skipping the slow courtship a normal man might offer.
It wasn't just the electric pull of the "beauty" or just the thrill of the moment. It was a darker, sharper thought.
He may be a carrier. A vector. To be intimate with a normal woman—to truly touch someone like Ada—would be a death sentence. Maybe His fluids, his very essence, were a plague that would turn a lover into a rotting corpse in his arms.
But not Alice.
She was an anomaly. She was the only one whose biology could withstand the storm raging inside him. She was the only thing in this world he couldn't break. That kiss wasn't just desire even though there was plenty of it; it was the desperate relief of a monster finding the only woman who wouldn't die from his touch.
It was his emotions that got the better of him.
"If I can't kiss..." Atlas looked up at the moon, his eyes glistening. "If I can't taste a woman without turning her into a rotting corpse... then what is the point?"
He wasn't a monk. He was a man with enhanced testosterone and a lust for life that matched his lust for power, battle. He wanted to love to be loved just like any man.
*****
Get those stones going boys and tomboys, we need to get those numbers up!
If you want to discuss the story or just meme about join my discord server: