Steven
woke up face down on a pile of what looked like flattened cardboard boxes, and
when he lifted his head he noticed that he was staring out of the doors of an
open trash compactor.
Pain exploded through his arm, and as he slowly sat up he
cradled it against his chest, his good hand carefully pulled the torn remains
of his lab coat away from the wound. He swore to himself at the deep
lacerations that crossed his arm like tiger stripes, and it was then that he
remembered the strange man that he’d fought beside in the street.
His heart lurched
in his chest and he cast about wildly, only to stop dead when his eyes focused
on the dark shape of a man crouched a few inches away from him. The doctor’s
pulse raced in his throat, and he suddenly felt warm wetness running along the
collar of his shirt.
The
man-shaped shadow was absolutely still, and despite their closeness, Steven
couldn’t hear the rush of the other man’s lungs expanding, nor could he feel
the gentle puff of air from his exhale. Instead, the man might as well have
been part of the wall, since he felt as human as a granite slab. He was just
about to question his sanity when the shape spoke.
“Don’t
be scared. We’re safe, at least for now.”
Everything
came flooding back at the sound of the man’s voice, and he found himself
remembering his last few seconds of consciousness with the same sort of
jerking, foggy recollections of someone remembering a nightmare. He threw
himself backwards, aware that he was incredibly lightheaded and that his skull
throbbed like a bruise as he did so.
“What
did you…what did you do to me?” Steven’s voice was weak and hoarse, and when he
turned his neck he felt a thick crust of dried blood break at the side of his neck.
He put a hand to it, and immediately felt something warm and wet brush the skin
of his palm, “Did you…bite me?”
Roland
remained as readable as a cement wall, “Yes. I’m sorry, but it was necessary.”
“Necessary?
For what?”
Roland
ignored his question. “I have some bad news for you, Dr. Yeats.”
“What?”
There
was a long and ugly pause, and finally Roland cleared his throat, “You
understand that the people of this town are…sick. They are infected, which is
why they are so violent.”
“Yes,
that’s why the CDC sent us here.” There was a sudden look of horrified
realization on his face, and Steven clutched his arm closer to his chest, “Oh
my god…the secondary wave of the disease is contracted through biting…”
“I’m
sorry,” Roland studied the human’s face for a moment, “You already have a
fever, it won’t be long before…”
“Before
it kills me and then makes me one of those things.” Steven tried to keep his
head, “I read Dr. Wagner’s reports, I know what happens next. I also know that
there is no cure.”
“Not
like what you are thinking of, no.” Roland’s mind wandered to the stories that
he’d heard of the powerful vampire prince of the South. The legends spoke of
Ol’ Papa’s strange hold over undead thralls and his rumored ability to bring
them back from their horrific, animal states. He had always chalked it up to
mere myth, but he’d seen enough in the last few days to make him seriously
question his paradigm.
Steven
was silent for a moment as his brain furiously ran through everything he
remembered about Dr. Wagner’s report. In general, it had not given him much to
be optimistic about. Finally, he let out a long breath and leaned back against
the wall of the compactor, trying not to jostle his arm as he did so, “How long
was I out?”
“Three
hours, maybe a little longer.”
“Alright,
so given the time table that Dr. Wagner set up, I mostly likely have another
three before I am dead.” Steven felt around in his pockets for a moment before
he found a notepad about the size of a deck of cards and a pencil. He flipped to
an empty page and carefully wrote out ‘infectious pathogen analysis.’ He then
added with a shaky hand, ‘subject: Dr. Steven Yeats. Infected at 5pm.’
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