The mont Fenric demanded access to the virus vault, the middle‑aged doctor’s eyes changed. Terrorist. That’s what he saw.
He didn’t argue. Didn’t bargain. Survival instinct overruled everything. With shaking hands, he led Fenric through secured doors, badge after badge, until they reached a heavy blast‑sealed cold room.
Soone outside must have already hit an alarm. Fenric didn’t care.
In under ten minutes, the zombie pathogen would sweep Boston. Police response wouldn’t matter.
—--
Frost rolled from the vault as the door opened. The room was a walk‑in freezer: chilled air, tal shelving, rows of cryobox canisters and sealed vials—viruses, isolates, vaccine strains.
The doctor glanced back anxiously. "Please be careful. If anything in here leaks, it could be catastrophic—"
Fenric smiled faintly. "Then tell : Which one infects fast and carries a high fatality risk?"
The doctor stiffened. Confirmation: bioterror profile.
He hesitated—so Fenric pressed the Beretta to his head.
"You’ve got three seconds. Three..."
"Two—"
"KBN!" the doctor blurted. "The KBN strain shows the fastest onset! High lethality!"
(Author note: Fictional code na. No real virus nas used—thanks for understanding!)
Fenric’s eyes lit. He scanned labels, found the vial, lifted it. "Symptoms?"
"Initial: fever, acute follicular reaction—hair loss. After two to three days: vomiting, headache, joint pain, fatigue, nausea, vertigo... even healthy subjects die within seven days."
Perfect.
"How’s transmission? Oral? Injection?" Fenric asked.
"Primarily droplets... injection is faster."
"Excellent," said Fenric, and handed the vial back. "Inject ."
"What?"
"You heard ."
The doctor stared. "Sir, that’s not— You want to infect yourself?"
"Yes."
Fenric’s reasoning was simple: survive ten hours, extract, get full system reset. Injuries, illness—cleared. No long‑term cost. anwhile, a strong viral signature would make him "unappetizing" to the World War Zombie strain—just like in the movie.
The doctor had no way to know that. "Oh my God—this isn’t a joke! Do you understand how dangerous—"
"Do it," Fenric snapped, voice going cold. "Or I redecorate the wall."
"...Okay. Okay. Don’t shoot."
He grabbed a syringe, drew a asured dose from the vial through rubber seal, swabbed an injection site, and plunged the needle into Fenric’s arm.
Then he frantically pulled a mask over his own face, as if that would save him.
"..."
At first Fenric felt nothing. Then heat blood under his skin. Fever climbing. Good—fast take.
Outside, muffled through steel and insulation, voices rose:
"Suspect inside! Release Dr. David imdiately and surrender! Security en route!"
Fenric ignored them. He still had ti. He checked the mission tir in his interface: just minutes now until virus ergence.
The doctor swallowed hard. "Sir... I did everything you asked. Please let go. I have a wife... kids... they need ..."
Fenric turned, smiled without warmth. "That’s really unfortunate. They won’t be your family much longer."
"What?"
Before he could process the aning, a shriek split the corridor outside.
Then another.
"Ahhh!!!"
The outbreak had begun.
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