“What is it?” I ask, pressing my left hand against my arm, where a dull ache is beginning to pulse beneath the skin. My lungs burn as I straighten in the chair, an ache that makes each breath heavier. I try to rise, but this ti the cough forces its way out—louder, drier. I feel it splatter warm against my bare arm, where the sleeve of my shirt ends at the elbow.
But it isn’t the red I expect. Thin streaks of blue run across my skin, the texture watery yet clinging in places. The sight makes them shift uncomfortably, their unease deepening.
“E–Eos,” Gene finally says, his voice higher than usual. He doesn’t look at , his eyes search for Paul instead, as if the boy might have an answer.
“What?” My tone cos out sharper than I intend, more irritated than curious.
Gene stays silent. I draw breath to ask again, but Cham speaks first. “We’ve... talked to others. Many. They all said the sa thing. If soone consus too much blood—especially from other kinds—they can die from sothing called corruption.”
He says it quickly, as though trying to keep from fully hearing it. Maybe I’m imagining things, but he won’t et my eyes either.
“And you believe them?” My voice is low, flat.
Cham doesn’t answer; instead, Gene steps in, his bulk towering over as I sit hunched in the small chair. “Eos...” He says my na almost gently, but there’s pity in his gaze.
I swallow hard and clench my teeth at that look. I hate it.
“We killed them all,” he continues. “That was what they said in their last monts. We promised to let them live.”
My hands curl into fists. What now? Don’t they realize I already know sothing’s wrong with ? What difference does this make if I’m dying anyway?
Gene doesn’t stop there. “Maggots... manifest inside the body. Vomiting is common. Blood tries to force its way out.” He stamrs now, his eyes flicking up to mine in a way Cham’s never does.
“How long?” I ask.
As if in answer, the taste in my mouth thickens, tallic and bitter. I spit into my palm—just enough to soak a pencil in crimson.
“A month at most.”
A short laugh escapes , low and humorless.
“It’s said there are three phases,” Gene continues. “The first is what you’re going through now—vomiting, coughing, weakness. In the second, the mind begins to break down. Corruption... It clouds your thoughts. You can’t think straight. You crave only destruction... and more blood.”
He hesitates.
“And?” My voice lashes out, sharper now, forcing him to finish.
“And... in the third phase, you turn. Into one of those brainless things. The ones we call zombies.”
I can’t help it—I laugh again, though this ti it’s tinged with sothing close to amusent. “Any cure?”
He shakes his head. “No—Eos.”
I look down at my hands. “What a life...” The words slip out in a mutter. My tongue runs along the inside of my mouth, pressing hard against the upper jaw until it aches. The pressure travels down my throat, sharp enough to make wince.
A few weeks. That’s what I have left. What does that hold?
This ti, the sound that escapes isn’t laughter. It’s broken, ragged breathing. It shakes my chest and tightens my ribs until the edges of my vision blur. But it never becos a true sob—not until my breath catches and the tears finally co, falling heavy into the cradle of my hands. The skin there is rough, crusted with drying blood, but the tears carve warm trails through it.
I turn my head, my gaze drifting toward the curtain. Just beyond it, the boy sits on a small wooden chair, silent as always. My eyes narrow as I peer past him through the gap in the fabric. Shapes move beyond the window, a family of blues.
I watch them with my eyes stinging, the red bleeding into my vision as the tears continue to fall. I can make out their faces clearly when the curtain shifts to the right. Smiles. Laughter. Light in their expressions.
And it devours from the inside.
The sadness twists, darkens, sharpens into sothing else, sothing deeper, and heavier. It swells until it’s no longer grief but a heat that burns in my chest.
No, not just anger. Sothing far beyond that.
Hatred.
I want to kill them. All of them.
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