The soft groans and dragging footsteps grew louder, echoing through the empty streets. Harley's senses sharpened, every sound amplified as if the world had slowed down. He turned away from the smoldering plane wreckage, his gaze locked on the approaching shadows. Zombies—half a dozen, maybe more—emerged from the darkness, their lifeless eyes glinting in the dim light.
Unlike before, Harley didn't feel fear. There was no hesitation, no crippling sense of mortality. He felt an unfamiliar steadiness, as though his instincts had recalibrated. The virus coursing through his veins brought not just strength but an eerie calm in the face of death.The first zombie lunged at him, its rotting teeth bared. Harley sidestepped with inhuman speed, his body moving before his mind could fully register. His hand shot out, gripping the creature by the throat. With a sharp squeeze, its neck collapsed like brittle wood. He flung the lifeless body aside, his crimson eyes glowing faintly in the dark.
The next two came at him together. Harley pivoted, grabbing one by the arm and spinning it into the other. The force sent both stumbling, and before they could recover, Harley closed the distance. His fists smashed into their decaying skulls with brutal efficiency. The wet, sickening sound made his stomach churn, but his body didn't falter.
The remaining zombies hesitated, their sluggish movements betraying a flicker of primal caution. Harley stepped forward, his fists clenched, his breath steady. His voice, low and almost a growl, escaped his lips.
"Keep coming," he muttered.
And they did.
One by one, they fell. Harley's blows were devastating, his strength overwhelming. He moved with a precision and power he didn't understand but couldn't deny. When the last body dropped to the ground, Harley stood amidst the carnage, his chest heaving. His pale skin glistened with sweat and blood, the contrast against his silver hair and crimson eyes almost otherworldly.
As the adrenaline ebbed, Harley's thoughts began to catch up. He stared at his hands, now smeared with gore. The initial rush of power was fading, replaced by a heavy sense of dread.
"What am I becoming?" he whispered, his voice barely audible.
The question hung in the air as he wiped his hands on the torn fabric of his shirt. His gaze drifted back to the plane wreckage. The fires were dying down, leaving the area shrouded in an eerie, smoky silence. Harley stepped closer, his curiosity driving him to examine the site. The plane was massive, its twisted metal frame towering above him. The fuselage was torn open, revealing rows of scorched seats and the scattered belongings of passengers who hadn't survived.
Harley climbed onto the wreckage, his movements deliberate. He sifted through the debris, searching for… what? He wasn't sure. Answers? Clues? A part of him hoped for some sign of life, a survivor who could tell him what the hell was happening. But all he found were remnants of the past: a charred photograph, a child's shoe, a shattered wristwatch frozen at the moment of impact.
He sat down on a piece of twisted metal, his shoulders slumping. The weight of everything—his transformation, the chaos around him—pressed heavily on his mind. He couldn't shake the feeling that he was no longer Harley, the ordinary team leader with a mundane life. That version of himself felt distant, like a memory from another life.
Harley's reflection caught his eye again, this time in the cracked glass of a plane window. He leaned closer, studying the face that stared back at him. The crimson eyes, the pale skin, the silver hair—they were alien, yet undeniably his.
"I'm still me," he said, as if trying to convince himself. His voice wavered, uncertainty laced in every word. "Aren't I?"
The silence offered no answers.
Suddenly, a distant sound broke through his thoughts—a faint rumble, like the growl of an engine. Harley's head snapped up. He scanned the horizon, his enhanced senses straining to locate the source. The rumble grew louder, accompanied by the faint flicker of headlights in the distance.
Hope flared within him, but it was tempered by caution. He slid down from the wreckage, his movements quiet and deliberate. He positioned himself behind a piece of debris, peering out at the approaching vehicle. It was a military jeep, its rugged frame covered in dirt and scratches. The headlights cut through the darkness as it came to a stop near the edge of the wreckage.
Two soldiers stepped out, their weapons raised as they surveyed the area. Their voices were muffled but urgent, their movements sharp and methodical. Harley's heart pounded in his chest. He considered calling out, revealing himself, but the memory of the rooftop encounter stopped him.
They won't hesitate, he thought, his fingers tightening into fists. Not after what they saw.
Harley watched as the soldiers moved closer, their flashlights cutting through the smoke. He weighed his options, his mind racing. He could try to slip away unnoticed, but his enhanced senses told him that wouldn't be easy. Or he could confront them, risking another attack.
Before he could decide, one of the soldiers turned, his flashlight sweeping across the wreckage. The beam landed on Harley, and their eyes met. The soldier froze, his weapon shifting toward Harley's chest.
"Hold it right there!" the soldier barked, his voice sharp and commanding.
Harley raised his hands slowly, stepping out from behind the debris. His crimson eyes glinted in the flashlight's beam, and the soldiers' expressions shifted—from fear to confusion, and then to something closer to awe. As he moved closer, the torn state of his suit became more apparent. Rips and tears exposed patches of his pale skin, and a bullet hole marred the fabric, a stark reminder of his fall. His skin, ghostly white, seemed almost luminous under the harsh beam. Despite his human-like appearance, it was his eyes—those crimson, predator-like eyes—that held their gaze, mesmerizing and terrifying all at once.
The soldier's grip on his weapon tightened, but hesitation flickered in his stance.
"What are you?" he asked, his voice wavering.
"I'm trying to survive," Harley said, his tone even but tinged with exhaustion. He held his hands higher, his movements slow and deliberate. "Just like you."
The soldiers exchanged uneasy glances, their eyes flicking between Harley's unnatural features and the carnage behind him. One lowered her weapon slightly, the uncertainty in her expression betraying a shred of trust.
"I don't want to hurt anyone," Harley continued, his crimson gaze steady. "But I need answers. Can you help me?"
The silence stretched, the tension crackling in the air. Finally, the first soldier spoke, his voice low but firm. "We'll see. But don't try anything."
Harley nodded, lowering his hands slightly as he stepped forward. For now, he had their attention—and maybe, just maybe, a chance to uncover the truth.