The older soldier narrowed her eyes. "Alright, Harley. Explain the eyes. And the..." she gestured vaguely at his pallid skin and unnatural aura, "everything."
Harley exhaled slowly, resisting the urge to snap back. "I don't know. I was... normal, like you, until the crashes. Then something happened. I woke up, and..." He gestured to himself. "This."
The soldiers exchanged glances, doubt etched across their faces.
"Doesn't look infected," the younger one mumbled, though his unease was evident.
"Maybe not fully," the older soldier said, keeping her weapon raised. "You seem functional, but that doesn't mean you're not dangerous. We've seen variants before."
"Variants?" Harley asked, his brow furrowing.
The older soldier didn't answer immediately. Instead, she gestured with her weapon toward the jeep. "We'll take you in. Command can decide what to do with you."
"And if I say no?" Harley asked, tilting his head slightly, his voice carrying a dangerous edge he hadn't intended.
The younger soldier stiffened, gripping his weapon tightly, but the older soldier remained steady. "Then we leave you here. Alone. But judging by the bodies back there," she nodded toward the scattered corpses of the zombies, "you don't look like the type who wants to be left alone."
Harley studied them both, his enhanced senses picking up their quickened heartbeats, the faint tang of sweat betraying their nerves. They didn't trust him—and he didn't blame them.
"Fine," he said after a moment, raising his hands in mock surrender. "Take me in."
The older soldier motioned toward the jeep. "Get in the back. And don't try anything."
Harley climbed into the vehicle without protest, feeling the weight of their suspicion like a physical presence. The engine roared to life, and the jeep rumbled forward, navigating the debris-strewn streets.
For several minutes, the only sounds were the hum of the engine and the distant moans of the undead. Harley leaned back, his crimson eyes scanning the darkness outside. The city was a graveyard, its once-vibrant streets now lifeless and broken.
"So," Harley said, breaking the silence. "Who are you? Military?"
The older soldier glanced at him in the rearview mirror. "National Guard. Or what's left of it."
"And what's 'Command'? Some kind of base?"
The younger soldier scoffed. "Like we'd tell you."
The older soldier shot him a look before answering. "It's a safe zone. Civilians, soldiers, scientists—anyone who made it through the first waves. They're trying to figure out what's going on and how to stop it."
Harley nodded slowly. "And these variants you mentioned? What are they?"
The jeep hit a pothole, jolting them all before the older soldier replied. "The infected mutate. Some faster than others. Stronger, smarter, harder to kill. Some even retain pieces of who they were." She glanced at him again. "You might be one of them."
"Except I'm not trying to eat you," Harley said dryly.
"Not yet," the younger soldier muttered.
Harley ignored him, his mind racing. Variants. Mutations. The virus wasn't just turning people into mindless husks; it was evolving them. Was that what had happened to him? Or was he something else entirely?
As the jeep approached a checkpoint, the faint glow of floodlights appeared on the horizon. A chain-link fence came into view, lined with sandbags and guarded by soldiers. Harley counted at least a dozen, their rifles at the ready. Beyond the fence, tents and makeshift shelters sprawled across an open field.
The jeep rolled to a stop, and the older soldier stepped out, signaling for Harley to follow.
"Stay close," she ordered. "And don't give them a reason to shoot."
Harley climbed out, his heightened senses overwhelmed by the cacophony of the base: the hum of generators, the murmur of voices, the distant cries of the injured. The air was thick with tension, a fragile sense of order barely holding back the chaos.
The soldiers at the gate eyed him warily, their fingers hovering near their triggers. One of them, a grizzled man with a scar running down his cheek, stepped forward.
"Who's this?" he demanded, his tone gruff.
"Found him near the wreckage," the older soldier replied. "Claims he's not infected, but..." She glanced at Harley, her expression unreadable. "You can see for yourself."
The scarred man stepped closer, his piercing gaze locking onto Harley's crimson eyes. He didn't flinch, but Harley could sense the tension in his stance.
"Put him in quarantine," the man finally said. "We'll let the docs figure out what he is."
Harley's jaw tightened. "I'm not a lab rat."
"Then you shouldn't have grown fangs," the man shot back.
Harley glanced at the older soldier, but her expression remained neutral. With no other choice, he followed the guards toward a nearby tent, their weapons trained on him the entire way.
As the tent flap closed behind him, Harley sat on the cot provided, his mind a whirlwind of questions. Whatever this base was, it wasn't salvation—it was another battle.
And he wasn't sure how much longer he could keep the monster inside him at bay.