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*****
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.
He wanted to bury his face in a woman's neck and bite down in the heat of passion. He wanted to worship their bodies—breasts, thighs, pussies—with his tongue and teeth.
If his saliva was truly a biohazard, he was looking at a sentence of eternal isolation.
He pinned his hopes on the System's 'Race Evolution' feature, but that was a dangerous gamble. When would the option unlock? Months? Years? And even if it did, there was no guarantee it would sterilize him.
So far, every upgrade had focused on optimization, not humanization. The System was evolving into a better predator, not a safer lover.
If the next stage simply refined his current state—enhancing the lethality of the virus rather than removing it—he would be trapped in a cruel irony.
He would be a King in a castle of glass, surrounded by treasures he had conquered but was forbidden to touch.
He couldn't see the future, but the speculation alone was enough to haunt him.
That would be one seriously cursed life! The mere thought of it turned his chill factor from zero to minus.
"Please God," he whispered. "Don't let my fears come true. Don't make me a monster in bed."
He turned to the terrarium. He reached in and grabbed the garden snake. It coiled around his wrist, hissing.
Atlas held it behind the head.
He didn't want to do this. It felt barbaric. But the alternative—waking up next to a zombified Jill—was infinitely worse.
He opened his mouth. He barred his newly reinforced, razor-sharp teeth.
"Forgive me."
CRUNCH.
He bit the snake.
He didn't bite it in half. He bit it just hard enough to puncture the scales, drawing blood. He made sure his tongue swept over the wound. He deliberately mixed his saliva into the open flesh.
The snake hissed and thrashed in pain.
Atlas threw it back into the glass tank and slammed the lid shut.
Then, he waited.
He paced the clearing. Back and forth. Back and forth. His boots wore a groove in the dirt.
He began to pray.
He wasn't a religious man in his past life, but desperation makes converts of us all.
"I pray to God, to Jesus, to the Holy Spirit," Atlas muttered, clasping his hands so tight his knuckles cracked. "To the Father and the Son."
He looked at the stars.
"To Buddha. To Odin. To Shiva the Destroyer. To Zeus the Thunderer."
He spun around, facing the darkness of the forest.
"I pray to the Goddess of Luck. I pray to whatever R.O.B. put me in this body. Please. I am begging you."
Let me bite. Let me kiss. Let me love.
"What is the point of eternal life if I have to live it alone?" he demanded of the silence. "What is the point of power without someone to share the throne? What is the point of happiness without warmth?"
Minute 10. The snake was curled in the corner, nursing its wound.
Minute 15. No necrosis. No aggression.
Minute 20. The snake drank some water.
Atlas stared at it. His heart—his phantom heart—was hammering against his ribs.
"One more test," he said, his voice hoarse. "I need to be absolutely sure."
He grabbed the live chickens.
He didn't bite them. He gathered saliva in his mouth—a potent cocktail of enzymes—and spat it into their water dish. He mixed it with their feed.
He watched them eat and drink. He watched them ingest the virus directly into their stomachs.
Minute 30.
The chickens clucked. They scratched the dirt.
They did not turn.
Atlas stood frozen in the center of the clearing. The pocket watch ticked loudly in his hand.
Minute 40.
Still nothing.
The tension that had been holding his body rigid, the fear that had been gnawing at his gut like a rat, suddenly snapped.
"I..."
He looked at his hands. He ran his tongue over his teeth.
"I am not infectious," he whispered. "Not casually. Not through spit. Not through scratches."
A heavy weight, heavier than the world itself, lifted off his shoulders.
He wasn't a plague rat. He was more of a Vamp. He only turned those he chose to turn, through the direct, intravenous injection of his blood.
His saliva was safe. His touch was safe. His love was safe.
"Ha..."
A laugh bubbled up from his chest. It started low, a rumble of disbelief, and then it exploded.
"HAHAHAHAHA!"
A wild, manic laughter echoed through the dead night of the Arklay Forest, scaring the birds from the trees.
Atlas threw his head back, spreading his arms wide to the moon.
"YES!" he roared. "YES! YES! YES!"
He fell to his knees in the dirt, digging his fingers into the soil, laughing until tears streamed down his face.
"Thank you, Jesus! Thank you, Buddha!" he screamed at the sky. "Thank you, Holy Spirit! Odin! Shiva! Zeus! Thank you to the Gods of the Old and New! Thank you, Lady Luck, you beautiful, fickle mistress!"
He was shaking—his soul vibrating with the whiplash of emotions. He'd been swallowed by violence and motion, only to be released gently into stillness.
He could kiss.
He could bite.
He could leave hickeys on a woman's neck and wake up to her smile, not her trying to eat his brain.
He could go down on a woman and worship her without turning her into a monster.
The relief was physical. It was better than the evolution. It was better than the XP. It was the return of his future.
He imagined Alice. He imagined Jill. He imagined Ada.
He was so emotional, so flooded with the dopamine of relief, that if Lucy the Manager or Veronica the Receptionist were here right now, he would have pounced on them. Not out of lust—though that was there—but out of sheer, unadulterated joy. He would have spun them around and kissed them breathless just to prove that he could.
He stood up, wiping the dirt from his knees, a feral, happy grin stretching his face..
"I'm normal," Atlas whispered, touching his lips. "I'm a monster... but I'm a man."
He looked at the surviving animals—the snake, the rabbit, the chickens.
"You guys," Atlas said, his voice thick with emotion. "You guys are getting the best food money can buy. You're heroes."
"You guys got lucky," Atlas told them. "You're going to the shelter tomorrow. Drop off, no questions asked."
He packed them gently back into the car.
He was the Apex. He was the cure. And now, he was a lover.
He stripped off the surgical gown and shoved it into the waste bag. He stood there in his tactical gear, breathing the cold night air, feeling the weight of his own biology.
He wasn't just a survivor anymore. He was a vector. A Patient Zero who could choose his disciples.
"I can create an hungry army," Atlas whispered, looking at his hands. "But only the Lieutenants will not bite me. The foot soldiers... they'll eat me alive if I let them."
He packed the equipment back into the trunk. He threw the bag of dead experiments into the back, planning to incinerate in a dumpster fire in the city as burning them here.
Atlas climbed back into the driver's seat of the Ford Expedition. He turned the key.
The engine roared to life.
He looked at the moon one last time.
He shifted into gear and drove out of the forest, leaving the silence behind.
Raccoon City didn't know what was coming. But Atlas knew one thing for sure.
At this stage, only a single experiment stood between him and having a hell of a good time.
—---
Location: Raccoon City – Outskirts / Downtown.
Time: 11:50 PM (Saturday).
Atlas drove the black Ford Expedition back toward the city limits, the engine rumbling low in the oppressive silence.
Raccoon City was dead.
It wasn't just quiet; it was devoid of the pulse that defines American nightlife. It was Saturday night in the Midwest. The air was cool, crisp, perfect for cruising with the windows down. By all rights, the streets should have been alive.
There should have been teenagers loitering in the parking lots of diners, showing off their cars. There should have been older couples walking out of movie theaters. There should have been the neon flicker of "OPEN" signs, the distant thump of bass from clubs, the laughter of drunks spilling out of dive bars.
There should have been hookers on the corners of 4th Street, shivering in their miniskirt and panty hoses, waiting for the next john. There should have been life—messy, loud, vibrant life.
Instead, the streets were a graveyard of concrete and asphalt.
The streetlights hummed, casting pools of lonely yellow light onto empty sidewalks. The shops were shuttered tight, metal grates pulled down and locked with heavy padlocks. Every house he passed was dark, or had only a single, dim light burning in an upstairs window—a signal that someone was awake, watching, afraid.
It felt like the city was holding its breath.
Atlas slowed the car as he passed a row of suburban houses. He saw a curtain twitch in a living room window. A face peered out—pale, anxious—then vanished as the Expedition rolled by.
"They know," Atlas whispered to the empty dashboard. "They don't know what it is, but they can feel the reaper walking down the street."
The "Cannibal Sickness" hadn't fully erupted yet. The zombies weren't roaming in hordes.
But the fear was viral. The disappearances.
The "wild dog" attacks. The strange rashes that were plaguing half the population. It had driven the people into a self-imposed quarantine.
He reached a secluded alleyway behind an industrial park on the edge of the city. He pulled the car in, killing the headlights.
He got out and grabbed the heavy, black plastic bag from the trunk—the one containing the experiments, the needles, bodies, and the bloody gown.
He walked to a rusted metal dumpster. He tossed the bag in.
He pulled a small jerry can of gasoline from the back seat and doused the bag. He struck a match.
WHOOSH.
The fire roared to life, consuming the evidence of his science. The smell of burning plastic and organic matter filled the alley, masking the scent of the Virus.
Atlas watched it burn for a moment, his face illuminated by the flames. He felt nothing for the dead rats or the fish. They were data points.
But the survivors... that was different.
He got back in the car and drove to the Raccoon City Animal Shelter.
*****
Get those stones going boys and tomboys, we need to get those numbers up!
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