The quarantine tent was dimly lit, its only source of illumination a flickering overhead bulb that cast long shadows across the canvas walls. Harley sat on the edge of the cot, his elbows resting on his knees as his mind raced. The air inside was stifling, heavy with the metallic tang of disinfectants and the faint decay of blood.
Two guards stood outside the entrance, their silhouettes visible through the tent walls. Their low voices drifted in occasionally, though Harley couldn't make out the words. He sighed, running a hand through his silver hair, his fingers trembling slightly. The events of the last few hours—his transformation, the zombies, the soldiers—felt surreal, like a nightmare he couldn't wake from.
A sharp rustle at the entrance snapped him out of his thoughts. The tent flap opened, and a man in a lab coat stepped inside, flanked by a soldier with a rifle. The scientist was middle-aged, his graying hair disheveled and his glasses slightly askew. His name tag read Dr. Miles Carruthers.
"Harley, is it?" Carruthers asked, his tone clipped but not unkind.
"That's me," Harley replied, leaning back slightly. "And you are?"
"Dr. Carruthers. I oversee medical evaluations and containment here. I need to ask you some questions."
"Containment," Harley repeated with a humorless chuckle. "Nice way of saying 'prison.'"
Carruthers ignored the comment, pulling a small tablet from his coat pocket and tapping on the screen. "You're exhibiting unusual traits—pallor, silver hair, crimson eyes. Any other physical changes I should be aware of? Increased strength, speed, sensitivity to light?"
Harley hesitated. Part of him wanted to deny it, to keep the full extent of his transformation hidden. But another part—the part that had ripped through a pack of zombies without breaking a sweat—knew that honesty might be his only chance of figuring out what was happening.
"Strength and speed, yeah," he admitted. "And my senses are... sharper. I can hear and smell things I shouldn't be able to."
Carruthers nodded, his fingers flying across the tablet. "And how are you feeling mentally? Any aggression, mood swings, intrusive thoughts?"
Harley frowned, considering the question. The truth was, he had felt different—not just physically but emotionally. The calm he'd experienced during the fight, the lack of hesitation in killing the zombies, was unlike anything he'd felt before.
"I'm... focused," he said finally. "Almost too focused. Like my instincts are on overdrive."
Carruthers glanced at him sharply. "And the people you've encountered since your transformation? Any violent urges toward them?"
"No," Harley said firmly. "I'm not a threat to people—unless they try to shoot me, of course."
The soldier standing behind Carruthers snorted but didn't comment.
Carruthers made a few more notes before setting the tablet aside. "We'll need to run some tests. Bloodwork, imaging, maybe a biopsy if necessary."
Harley's eyes narrowed. "I told you, I'm not a lab rat."
"I understand your frustration," Carruthers said evenly. "But the more we learn about your condition, the better chance we have of helping you—and others like you."
"Others?" Harley asked, his interest piqued.
Carruthers hesitated, his gaze flicking to the soldier before returning to Harley. "You're not the first person we've encountered with... mutations. The virus affects people differently, depending on factors we don't yet fully understand. Some mutations are minor. Others are..." He trailed off, his expression grim.
"Deadly," Harley finished for him.
Carruthers didn't deny it.
Before Harley could press further, the tent flap opened again, and the scarred man from the checkpoint stepped inside. His presence was commanding, his eyes hard and calculating as they swept over Harley.
"Commander Bryant," Carruthers said, his tone deferential.
"Doctor," Bryant replied curtly before turning his attention to Harley. "We have a problem."
Harley raised an eyebrow. "Let me guess—more zombies?"
Bryant's expression darkened. "Not just zombies. We intercepted a distress call from a nearby settlement. They're being attacked by something different. Something stronger."
Carruthers paled. "A Variant?"
Bryant nodded. "That's what it sounds like. And if it spreads, it'll hit this base next."
The tension in the tent thickened. Harley leaned forward, his crimson eyes glinting. "And you want me to help?"
Bryant crossed his arms, his gaze unwavering. "You've already proven you can handle yourself against the infected. If this Variant is as dangerous as we think, we'll need every advantage we can get."
Harley stood, his movements fluid and deliberate. "Let me get this straight—you don't trust me enough to walk around your base without an escort, but you're willing to throw me at a super-zombie?"
Bryant's lips twitched in what might have been a smirk. "You're a risk, sure. But right now, you're a risk worth taking."
Harley considered his options. He could refuse, stay in the tent, and let the soldiers deal with the threat. But something deep inside him—a primal urge he couldn't ignore—pushed him toward action.
"Fine," he said, his voice steady. "I'll help. But if I'm doing this, I want answers when we get back."
Bryant nodded. "Deal. Gear up and be ready in ten minutes. We leave at dawn."
As the commander and Carruthers left the tent, Harley sat back down, his thoughts racing. He didn't trust these people, but for now, their goals aligned.
And if this Variant was as dangerous as they claimed, it might be the key to understanding what he was becoming—and how to stop it before it consumed him completely.