Chapter3

When the corrugated iron door was kicked open, I was squatting on the dirt, counting ants. Three black ants were hauling a breadcrumb along the baseboard crack—single file, antennae twitching, marching in perfect unison.

Three tactical flashlights attached to assault rifles blinded me simultaneously, the harsh white light forcing my eyes to narrow. The leader was David, in his thirties, sporting a freshly healed knife wound on his cheekbone where the flesh was still jagged. His gun hand was steady, but his breathing was erratic—twelve breaths per minute above the normal baseline.

"Get up." David tapped my shoulder with the barrel of his rifle.

I stood up slowly. Halfway up, I feigned a stumble, grabbing a nearby iron pipe to steady my center of gravity. The empty tin cans I had licked clean rolled away from my boots with a hollow clatter.

One of his guards kicked my canvas bag. A few cans of beans and a bottle of purified water spilled across the floor. One bean can dented upon impact, its thick sauce seeping out through a hairline fracture.

"You're wasting resources," I spoke. After three days of rest, my vocal cords could string together complete sentences, though my pitch remained flat, lacking the natural cadence of a human. "That’s enough caloric intake to sustain a man for two days."

David shoved his gun barrel into my chest. The chill of the metal seeped through my thin jacket directly into my skin. "You showed up three days ago, and the infected outside the perimeter spiked by thirty percent." He spoke through gritted teeth, his jaw muscles pulsing. "What the hell did you bring in with you?"

I looked down at the barrel pressed against my sternum. It bore an engraved code: B-07. Likely a serial number or a squad designation. I memorized it.

"I don't know," I replied. It wasn't a lie. I genuinely didn't understand the transmission mechanics or the maximum range of the signal—I only knew they were being pulled toward me.

David's hand was trembling. He wasn't afraid of me; he was terrified of the pale grey shadows multiplying outside the walls. The night guards reported that when the searchlights swept the perimeter, they saw rows of infected pressing their faces against the concrete, staring upward. When the wind died down and the rain stopped, you could hear the wet, guttural rattling in their throats.

"Boss, more of them at the East Wall." A guard poked his head in, keeping his voice low, though it echoed clearly in the cramped shed. "Almost four hundred jammed up against it. Jack says we don't have enough ammo for a single volley."

David's face shifted from flushed red to a deathly pallor, as if all the blood had drained back into his chest cavity in seconds. He stared at me, his eyes darting frantically before locking onto a grim resolution.

"Take him to the East Gate." He lowered his rifle, the sling digging a deep crease into his shoulder. "The monsters followed him here. Let's give him back to them."

Two guards stepped forward and twisted my arms behind my back, their fingers digging viciously into my biceps as if trying to snap the bone. I didn't struggle. As they shoved me out of the shed, a group of kids squatting by the neighboring shack looked up. A little girl clutched a ragdoll made of scraps; one of its button eyes was missing, and she covered the empty socket with her small hand.

The camp was descending into chaos. The frantic footsteps echoing between the shacks were three times denser than usual. Someone was dragging an iron trunk toward the western sector, the metal scraping against the gravel in a long, piercing screech. Another woman squatted by her door, clutching her head and weeping. A man tried to pull her up, failed, and abandoned her to run alone.

I was shoved through the panicked crowd until we reached the East Gate. It was the camp’s Achilles' heel—the metal was half as thick as the main gate, patched with overlapping layers of scrap iron held together by dozens of haphazard rivets. Seven or eight fingers were already thrusting through the gap at the bottom. The bone was exposed, fingernails peeled away, and brown, necrotic flesh curled outward from the ruptured knuckles.

David stood by the control console, his hand resting on the red lever. The sweat from his palm left a smeared watermark on the metal.

"I'll say this one last time." I stopped and twisted my neck to look at him. His eyes avoided mine, fixing instead on the writhing mass beyond the gate. "Barricade the inside of the East Gate with sandbags. Set up two rows of chevaux-de-frise behind them. It’ll buy you at least three more hours than throwing out bait."

"Open the gate." David's voice sounded like crushed glass forced up his throat.

The hydraulic pump whined. The gate rose slowly—a palm's width, then a fist's width, then enough for an entire forearm. As the gap widened, the stench of putrefaction surged, as pungent as a jar of three-year-fermented meat paste splashed directly into my sinuses.

The guard behind me shoved. His palm pressed flat against my spine, forcing my weight downward. I stumbled forward with the momentum and face-planted into a muddy puddle outside the wall.

The massive gate crashed down with a deafening boom, vibrating the earth beneath me. The impact knocked two rivets loose from the inner plating, rolling right to my boots.

I pushed myself up from the muck, wiping the sludge from my eyelids. Three hundred, maybe four hundred pairs of dead, ashen eyes converged on me from all directions. The closest one was less than half a step away. Its jaw was entirely dislocated, dangling askew against its neck, and the severed stump of its tongue lashed the air like a desiccated tapeworm.

It raised a claw. The fingernails had grown so long they curled like rusted corkscrews. The tip snagged a loose thread on the front of my jacket, pulling a single strand of cotton free with a gentle tug.

I closed my eyes.

My blood caught fire.

The crystal core deep within my marrow detonated like a miniature star, pumping searing, incandescent energy through every vein. My spine began to tremble. From my tailbone to the base of my skull, every vertebra hummed in resonance. The frequency climbed higher and higher, surpassing the threshold of hearing, but I could feel the gravel beneath my feet vibrating in sympathy.

The infected with the curled nails froze.

Its claw was still hooked in my lapel, but the motion to rip me apart halted mid-air. A wet, muffled gurgle caught in its throat, as if it swallowed all its ravenous hunger and frenzy, replacing it with a low, primal whimper rolling up from the deepest depths of its chest.

It released its grip. Its knees buckled, and it collapsed into the mud, bowing until its forehead touched the earth.

Then the second. Then the third. The pale grey shadows toppled like dominoes, radiating outward from me in concentric circles. Their movements weren't uniform—some knelt slowly, arms trembling violently against the ground before succumbing; others dropped instantly, as if the steel rebar in their spines had been yanked out, collapsing like limp sacks of meat.

Hundreds of the infected bowed their heads simultaneously, pressing their rotting skulls against the jagged gravel, burying their necrotic faces in the filthy sludge.

The wind died.

The clatter of metal rang out from inside the East Gate. Someone was prying at the seams, trying to catch a glimpse outside. I turned around slowly, facing the iron bulkhead. I stared at the chaotic patchwork of plating and rivets, watching rusty water seep from a weld joint and streak down the metal.

The peephole on the inner gate slid open. An eye pressed against the aperture—the pupil dilated to a pinpoint, the iris around it quivering violently.

I heard the sharp intake of breath, followed by frantic, backpedaling footsteps, and finally the sharp crash of something knocking over.

The searchlight on the high wall pivoted, sweeping down to bathe me in its blinding white glare, casting a long silhouette behind me. But at the edge of my shadow overlapped another—a phantom projection. Beneath the skin of my nape, a nearly transparent layer of exoskeleton surfaced, refracting the light to project the massive, spectral image of a compound insect eye. Its hexagonal facets were perfectly aligned, each one shifting and rotating with slow, deliberate precision.

I tilted my head up toward the watchtower behind the light. A middle-aged man in a dress shirt stood at the top, sleeves rolled to the elbows. He had been holding a glass of liquor, but half of it had already spilled over the railing. His free hand gripped the metal rail so tight his knuckles were bone-white. He stood paralyzed, as if nailed to the spot.

I didn't look at him for long.

Behind me, the four hundred kneeling infected had risen. They formed up at my back, their ranks crooked and staggering, yet not a single one dared to step ahead of where I stood. When the wind picked up again, it carried the stench of their rotting flesh straight toward the camp.

I lifted my foot and took one step forward. The tide of the dead shuffled forward in unison. I took another step. They matched it.

The peephole inside the East Gate snapped shut with a harsh clack. Someone inside was screaming, "Fall back! Retreat to the center of the camp! Get the supply trucks out first!"

I stopped in my tracks and moved no further.

They would run far. No need to give chase. From tonight onward, every soul in this camp would relive this exact scene in their waking nightmares—a scrawny mute, still wearing an iron collar around his neck, standing amidst four hundred prostrating monsters, the spectral projection of a colossal insect eye hovering behind him.

Fear is a peculiar thing; the longer it marinates, the deeper the flavor. I turned around, leading the horde of pale shadows as we vanished into the gloom of the ruins. The frantic stampede and wailing cries from the camp bled through the East Gate, carried by the wind to follow me for a while, before slowly being swallowed by a vast, gaping silence.