Charlie floated in the quiet warmth of the womb, his thoughts wandering through fragments of memory. He often found himself returning to Infusion Day, the moment everything changed.
He didn't remember much about the crash—just flashes of golden light and the sensation of tumbling, weightless, before everything went dark. The concussion had left his memories fragmented, but one thing stuck with him: the world wasn't the same anymore.
When he came to, days later, his mother had been by his side. Renee, with her striking red hair and calm blue eyes, had nursed him back to health, her hands steady and reassuring. Even she, a registered nurse, seemed shaken by the speed of his recovery.
"You definitely had a significant injury," she'd said one evening, brushing his hair back from his face, "but this… it's remarkable. You shouldn't have healed this quickly."
Charlie hadn't understood it at the time. He only knew that the pounding in his head had faded faster than expected, and the dizziness that once overwhelmed him was gone after a week. His mom said he was lucky, but deep down, even at eight years old, he knew something else was at work.
The cellar had become their home base. A couple of weeks after Infusion Day, Charlie sat cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by the comforting clutter of his dad's preparations. The shelves were lined with jars of canned goods, boxes of supplies, and tools that Charlie didn't know the names of. The faint smell of dirt and apples filled the air, mingling with the occasional tang of dust kicked up by movement.
It was June, early summer, but the apple tree in their backyard was already full of ripe fruit. Charlie knew apples didn't normally come until fall—his mom had said so when he'd helped her pick them the year before—but this year was different. Everything was different.
The produce wasn't just growing faster; it was growing overnight. They'd been hesitant at first, wary of how strange it all seemed. But when they finally tried the apples, their doubts vanished. They were the best apples they'd ever tasted—crisp, sweet, and better than anything from the store. Everything they picked was better, richer, more vibrant. Even the air seemed to carry the scent of new growth.
Gretchin had been incredible since the accident. Charlie still couldn't believe she'd carried him on her back after the crash, staggering home with Amber by her side. Even now, she was constantly checking on him, making sure he ate and drank enough, like a second mother.
Things were strange now. Nothing worked—not the flashlights, not the phones, not even the guns. His dad had tried everything, muttering curses under his breath as he tinkered with batteries and circuits, but nothing would turn back on. Planes had fallen from the sky on Infusion Day, leaving jagged scars in fields and homes. Cars were wrecked, power lines were down, and the quiet hum of modern life was gone.
His dad, a sheriff and former military man, had always been prepared for emergencies. Now, that preparation was paying off. They had a year's worth of food tucked away in the cellar, enough to keep the family alive on a stingy diet. But they couldn't just sit and wait. They hunted.
His mom and dad were both skilled with compound bows, they both came from families of avid rifle and bow hunters, they both had guns and compound bows, his dad the enthusiast had a crossbow as well. Even Gretchin was a decent shot. Amber, on the other hand, wasn't much for hunting, but she helped in other ways, keeping the cellar organized and assisting their mom with chores. Charlie wanted to help more, but his dad insisted he was too young to go on hunts.
"You're too important to risk," his mom had told him one evening, kneeling to meet his eyes. "You and your sisters are what matter most to your dad and me. We'll figure out things you can do here to help, okay?"
Her words had stuck with him, and from that moment on, Charlie made an effort to help however he could. He tidied the cellar, checked the apple tree for ripe fruit—though it was already heavy with apples when it shouldn't have been—and kept himself busy.
The Earth itself felt alive now, more than it ever had before. Plants were growing faster and larger than they should. His dad came back from a hunt one night, bloodied and shaken.
"A dog bit me," he said gruffly as Renee cleaned his wound. "It wasn't normal. Bigger, faster, stronger. And the deer… they're changing too, much larger and becoming aggressive. Everything is changing."
Charlie listened quietly from his seat on the cellar stairs. He'd noticed it, too. The air felt heavier, the ground seemed to vibrate faintly beneath his feet, and even the animals he spotted near the yard seemed sharper, more aware.
He didn't know why. No one did at the time.