The Elite's Decision

More than two days had crawled by since Thomas and the others had found refuge within the military base. Yet, the soldiers remained tight-lipped, offering no explanations about what was happening outside the steel-reinforced walls or what their plans were for the refugees. The only rule they'd announced was simple but absolute: no one was allowed outside. Not that anyone seemed willing to test it; the prehistoric creatures roaming beyond the perimeter were a death sentence waiting to happen. Everyone knew stepping beyond the gates was nothing short of suicide.

The refugees were crammed into makeshift tents lined up in uneven rows on the open dirt. Most of the tents were fraying at the edges, and the cool nights seeped through like an unwelcome guest. Meanwhile, the soldiers stayed in solid, secure buildings—concrete fortresses compared to the flimsy nylon homes of the displaced. Behind those locked doors, the soldiers held meetings, their voices muffled through thick walls. No refugees were invited. No one knew what was being discussed. Rumors spread like wildfire, but none brought comfort.

Not a single meal had been distributed since their arrival. The soldiers weren't sharing their rations, leaving everyone to rely on the scraps they'd managed to bring with them. Those who ran out of supplies were left to fend for themselves. Some begged, others bartered, and a few even stole. Tension hung heavy in the air like a thunderstorm waiting to break. The armed guards who patrolled the area didn't help; their watchful eyes lingered too long on the refugees, as if unsure who posed the greater threat—the dinosaurs outside or the desperate people within.

Walter estimated at least a hundred refugees had gathered in the base. Together with Anna and Chloe, he spent the last two days trying to glean whatever information they could from their fellow refugees. They hoped to piece together some semblance of understanding or at least a plan. Thomas, on the other hand, refused to leave the tent. He stayed hunched in the corner, his eyes darting to the edges of the canvas as if expecting something—or someone—to burst through at any moment. Something was wrong with him. Even Thomas knew it.

His hunger was unbearable, a gnawing emptiness that food no longer seemed to satisfy. His body felt alien, betraying him in ways he couldn't explain. Sounds sharpened to a painful degree; he could hear the crunch of gravel under boots several tents away, the soft murmur of voices no one else seemed to notice. Smells overwhelmed him—sweat, damp earth, the faint metallic tang of blood. He shrank away from it all, trying to suppress the growing panic inside him. But the most terrifying change was his body. In just a few days, he'd withered away. His skin clung to his bones like wet paper, his once-broad shoulders now gaunt. His reflection in a shard of a broken mirror had sent a chill down his spine. He didn't recognize himself.

"What's happening to me?" he whispered to no one.

The others had noticed the changes but said nothing, chalking it up to the stress of survival and lack of food. But Thomas knew it was more than that. Something deeper, something darker, was unraveling inside him.

On the evening of the third day, Walter returned to the tent, his face pale and his shirt damp with sweat. He dropped heavily to his knees, breathing hard as if he'd just run a marathon. His expression was grim, his jaw tight.

"Thomas," Walter said, his voice barely above a whisper. "We need to talk."

Thomas didn't look up. He sat cross-legged on the ground, staring at the dirt floor as if it held the answers he couldn't find. His voice, when it came, was hoarse. "What now? Did you find something out?"

Walter glanced at Anna and Chloe, who were sitting nearby. He hesitated, then leaned in closer, lowering his voice. "The soldiers… I overheard them talking. They've got plans for us."

Anna's head snapped up. "Plans? What kind of plans? Are they going to make us leave?"

Walter shook his head, his lips pressed into a thin line. "No. Worse. They see us as a problem. A liability. I heard one of them say we're not here for the long haul."

Chloe frowned, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. "Of course we're not here forever. They're just using us for their numbers, to look good on a report or something. The second we're out of food, they'll toss us out like garbage."

Walter's voice dropped even lower. "Or they'll do something worse. They've got the guns. We've got nothing."

The words hung in the air, heavy and suffocating. Anna's hands trembled as she clutched the edge of her clothes. "You're saying they might… kill us?"

Walter didn't answer, but his silence spoke volumes.

Finally, Thomas looked up. His eyes gleamed unnaturally in the dim light of the tent, and the sight made everyone freeze. There was something wild in his gaze, something feral, as if he were no longer entirely human.

"Let them try," he growled. His voice was low, guttural, almost inhuman. "If any of them lays a hand on us… I'll…"

He stopped abruptly, his hands trembling. His jaw clenched so tightly it looked as though it might snap. Anna leaned forward cautiously, her voice gentle but frightened. "Thomas, are you okay? You're scaring me. You've barely eaten, and you look—"

"Food," Thomas interrupted, the word slipping from his lips like a hiss. His eyes flicked to Anna, then to Chloe, and finally back to the floor. "It doesn't help. I need something else. I need to…!?"

"Something?" Chloe repeated, her voice sharp with alarm. "What the hell are you talking about?"

Thomas buried his face in his hands, his breathing ragged. "I don't know!" he shouted suddenly, his voice cracking with anger and despair. "I just… I need to get out of here. I need to breathe."

Anna reached out tentatively, placing a hand on his shoulder. "Thomas, please. We're all scared, but—"

"Don't touch me!" he roared, jerking away from her. His voice echoed through the tent, loud enough to make the others flinch. His chest heaved as he stood abruptly, his towering frame casting a shadow over the others.

Without another word, he stormed out of the tent. The flap snapped shut behind him, leaving a suffocating silence in his wake. Outside, the sun had dipped below the horizon, and the first stars were beginning to blink in the darkening sky. In the distance, the guttural roars of dinosaurs echoed through the night air, a stark reminder of the dangers lurking beyond the walls.

Inside the tent, Walter exhaled slowly. "Something's wrong with him," he muttered. "Really wrong."

Anna hugged her knees to her chest, her voice barely audible. "I know. But what can we do? What's happening to him?"

No one had an answer. All they could do was sit in silence, listening to the sounds of the encroaching night—both outside the base and within.

******

Staggering and clutching his violently rumbling stomach, Thomas drifted through the camp like a shadow, lost and aimless. Around him, the flickering glow of scattered fires cast long, trembling silhouettes on the cold, cracked earth. People huddled close to the flames, their faces pale and hollow, their eyes staring into the void as if they'd already given up. A woman sobbed quietly into her hands, her shoulders shaking with suppressed grief, while another figure sat in eerie silence, knees pulled to their chest, unmoving. Everywhere Thomas looked, he saw suffering etched into every face, every posture. Weakness. Hopelessness. It clung to the refugees like a suffocating shroud.

And yet, that weakness, that fragility—it called to something deep inside of him. At first, it was just a faint itch beneath his skin. But as he walked, as his sharp senses absorbed their pain, it grew into a roar. A hunger. A terrible, all-consuming hunger. He wanted to scream, to claw his way out of his own body. But no matter how far he ran, it was always there, whispering.

The whisper.

It was louder tonight, more insistent, curling through his mind like a serpent's hiss. It wasn't his voice, but it was so close, so intimate, he couldn't shut it out. It spoke as though it stood right behind him, just beyond his reach.

"Look at them. So weak. So helpless. They're suffering. You could do it, you know. Free them from this misery. You're not like them anymore. You're stronger. You're a hunter. End their torment. Take what you need. Feed."

"No!" Thomas spat, his voice low and guttural as he turned on his heels, searching the shadows around him. He shook his head violently, his lips curling back in a snarl. "Shut up! Shut up! That's not me. That's NOT ME!"

His nails raked against his arms, and the sharp sting of pain cut through the rising tide of madness. Thin trails of blood trickled down his forearms, but it was enough to ground him, if only for a moment. He gasped, his breath ragged, and when he looked up, his wild eyes locked onto those of a little girl. She was crouched in a dark corner, small and trembling, clutching a woman's arm—her mother, Thomas guessed. Her wide, tearful eyes stared at him with a terror so raw it made his stomach churn. She didn't move; she didn't even blink.

Thomas staggered back, a wave of shame and rage crashing over him. What the hell am I turning into? He wrenched his gaze away, his fists trembling at his sides. He couldn't bear to look at her any longer. Her fear was a mirror, and the reflection was unbearable.

"Don't even think about it," he hissed to himself, his voice barely audible. "Get it together. Get it together, damn it."

Without another glance at the people around him, Thomas stumbled away. His legs carried him blindly, his mind a storm of fragmented thoughts and roiling hunger. He didn't know where he was going, only that he needed to get away. Away from the faces, the eyes, the accusing stares that saw too much.

Before he realized it, he'd reached the base's perimeter. The towering concrete wall loomed over him, its surface cracked and weathered but still an impenetrable barrier. Soldiers stood at intervals along the wall, their rifles slung lazily over their shoulders as they chatted in low voices. Their laughter was muffled, their posture relaxed. None of them noticed the gaunt figure lurking in the shadows below.

Thomas didn't stop to think. His body moved on its own, instinct taking over. With a single, impossible leap, he soared upward, his hands latching onto the wall's jagged edges like claws. His fingers dug into the concrete with a strength that startled even him, and his feet found purchase where there was none. He moved with the grace of a predator, scaling the wall in seconds. The soldiers didn't even glance his way.

The moment his feet hit the ground on the other side, he ran. The forest swallowed him whole, its darkness wrapping around him like a cloak. The night air was sharp and cold, but he barely noticed. His legs moved faster than they ever had before, his strides long and effortless. The underbrush barely slowed him as he weaved through the trees, silent and swift like a wolf on the hunt.

Back in the tent, the tension was palpable. Anna sat cross-legged on a pile of old blankets, her arms wrapped around herself for warmth. Her face was flushed with anger and exhaustion as she glared at the tent flap Thomas had stormed out of earlier.

"What's gotten into him?" she snapped, her voice sharp and cutting. "He's been acting so… so wild! Like he's not even himself anymore!"

Chloe, sitting beside her, reached out to place a calming hand on her shoulder. "He's been through a lot, Anna," she said softly, her tone careful. "We all have. He's just… dealing with it differently. You've seen how hard it's been on him. No food, no rest, no answers. It's breaking all of us."

Anna shook her head, her frustration bubbling over. "That's not it. This isn't just stress! You saw the way he looked at me earlier. It's like… like he barely recognized me. Like he's not even human anymore."

Walter, lying on his side with his arms crossed behind his head, let out a dry laugh. "Maybe he's not," he muttered.

Both women turned to him, their eyes narrowing in unison.

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" Anna demanded.

Walter sat up, propping himself on one elbow. "I'm just saying," he said, shrugging. "You remember what happened at the parking lot, right? That giant wolf—cave wolf, whatever the hell it was—bit him. Ever since then, he's been… off. Losing weight, acting aggressive, snapping at us like an animal. You tell me what that sounds like."

Anna's mouth fell open. "You think he's infected? With what? Rabies? That's insane."

"Is it?" Walter shot back, his tone calm but pointed. "Think about it. He hasn't checked his wounds. Hell, he hasn't even looked at them. And now he's jumping down our throats for no reason. I'm telling you, something's wrong with him."

Chloe's brow furrowed, her expression troubled. "Rabies doesn't explain… this. Whatever this is. But he hasn't been himself, that's for sure."

Anna buried her face in her hands, her voice muffled. "I should've kept an eye on him. I was supposed to check his wounds, make sure… God, how did I let this happen?"

"It's too late now," Walter said flatly, lying back down. "If he's infected, it's not like we can do anything about it. The only question is what we're gonna do if he snaps."

The words hung in the air like a death sentence. Anna and Chloe exchanged a look, their fear mirrored in each other's eyes. What if Walter was right? What if Thomas wasn't Thomas anymore?

Out in the forest, Thomas ran faster, his breath coming in deep, powerful bursts. The moonlight filtered through the canopy above, illuminating his path in patches of silver. For the first time in days, he felt alive. Free. But beneath the exhilaration, a darker impulse gnawed at him, growing stronger with every step. The hunger was still there, relentless and insatiable.

And it wasn't going away.

******

On the lower floors of the sprawling military base, hidden from prying eyes and insulated by layers of reinforced steel and concrete, a meeting was underway that could alter the course of history. The sterile air was heavy with tension, and the faint hum of the facility's generators was the only sound that dared disturb the silence. Behind enormous airtight doors guarded by elite soldiers in cutting-edge exosuits, twelve individuals were seated around a massive round table, its polished ebony surface gleaming under the harsh white light of overhead lamps.

The room, though sparsely decorated, exuded authority. The walls were lined with monitors displaying streams of classified data, maps of the world, and live feeds from satellites. The faint scent of disinfectant hung in the air, mingling with the metallic tang of the environment. Most of those present were seasoned officials—generals, admirals, and policymakers whose faces bore the unmistakable marks of age and stress. Deep wrinkles etched their foreheads, and their eyes, though sharp, betrayed the weight of countless decisions made under pressure. Yet, amidst the gathering of veterans, two figures stood out: scientists in crisp white lab coats. They were worlds apart from the others, their youth and unease making them seem almost out of place in the austere setting.

"When is he going to call?" barked General O'Brien, a grizzled man whose chest was adorned with a lifetime's worth of medals. His voice was coarse, like gravel crunching underfoot, and his irritation was palpable. He flexed his fingers, the cracking of his knuckles echoing in the otherwise quiet chamber. "The damn generators won't hold forever. And meanwhile, he's probably lounging in a hot tub, sipping on some godforsaken cocktail."

The room tensed at his outburst. Several of the attendees exchanged disapproving glances, their expressions a mix of disdain and irritation. One of the scientists, a lean man with wire-rimmed glasses, shifted uncomfortably in his seat, adjusting them with a nervous hand. He opened his mouth as if to speak but quickly thought better of it, shrinking back into silence.

The tension was broken by a poised woman in a perfectly-tailored military uniform. Her dark hair was pulled into a sleek bun, and her every movement was calculated and deliberate. She approached O'Brien with an air of quiet authority, leaning in to whisper something in his ear. Whatever she said had an immediate effect. O'Brien's scowl vanished, replaced by wide-eyed disbelief as he straightened up in his chair.

"Wait, what?" he blurted, his voice rising an octave. "You mean to tell me the energy reserves will last for twenty years? And here I've been raising hell over nothing?" He let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. "Why the hell wasn't I told earlier?"

The woman straightened, brushing an invisible speck of dust off her uniform. "Perhaps," she said coolly, her voice as sharp as a blade, "if you spent less time complaining and more time reading the briefings, you'd already know."

The general opened his mouth to retort but was cut off by another sharp voice. "For God's sake, O'Brien, do you ever pay attention?" The speaker was an older woman with a presence that could silence a battlefield. Her long gray hair was tied back in a severe bun, and her piercing blue eyes seemed to see straight through the general. She slammed a folder onto the table, the sound reverberating like a gunshot. "I sent you the report a week ago! It was marked urgent—or did that slip your mind while you were busy catching up on your golf game?"

O'Brien slapped his forehead theatrically, groaning. "Ah, hell. I knew I forgot something. Damn it, Elizabeth, you know I've got a lot on my plate!"

Elizabeth's lips pressed into a thin line, her patience clearly wearing thin. "And yet somehow, you always manage to make room for incompetence," she shot back. Her words hung in the air like a guillotine, and several of the other officials shifted uncomfortably in their seats.

"Now, now," interjected a mustachioed general with an air of smug detachment. He leaned back in his chair, smoothing his meticulously styled hair. "Let's not be too harsh. I'll admit, I only got around to reading the report yesterday myself. It's a lot to take in."

Elizabeth's glare snapped to him like a laser. "Edward, don't you dare try to downplay this. We're on the brink of a catastrophe so monumental it could define human existence for centuries, and you're treating it like it's a footnote in your morning briefing!"

The room erupted into a cacophony of voices. Some of the officials attempted to defend themselves, others barked accusations, and a few merely muttered under their breath. The once-disciplined atmosphere dissolved into chaos, the air thick with frustration and egos clashing.

Meanwhile, the two scientists sat in silence, their expressions grim. The man with glasses—Dr. Satoshi—leaned toward his blond colleague, his voice barely a whisper. "These people have no idea what they're dealing with," he murmured, his tone laced with despair. "They're playing gods, but they don't even understand the rules of the game."

Dr. Carter, the blond scientist, placed a reassuring hand on Satoshi's shoulder. His voice was calm, though his eyes betrayed a deep unease. "I know, Satoshi. But it's not our place to question them. All we can do is mitigate the damage and hope for the best."

Satoshi sighed, his shoulders slumping. "Hope," he repeated bitterly. "It's a fragile thing in the hands of fools."

Before Carter could respond, the heavy door at the far end of the room hissed open, the sound cutting through the noise like a blade. A man in a sleek black suit strode in, his presence commanding immediate attention. He was tall and lean, his dark eyes sharp and calculating. The chaos dissolved into silence as all eyes turned to him.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he began, his voice smooth and authoritative, resonating through the room. "I apologize for the delay. The president sends his regrets for not being here in person, but as you can imagine, his schedule is… demanding. That said, we have no time to waste. Let's get to the matter at hand."

The man in the black suit strode confidently forward, his polished shoes clicking softly against the cold, sterile floor. He paused before a large screen embedded in the steel wall, exuding an air of command that was impossible to ignore. His gaze swept over the attendees—piercing, calculating, like a predator assessing its prey.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he continued, his voice low and deliberate, carrying the weight of authority, "it's time to hear from our commander-in-chief."

He raised a hand, gesturing toward the dormant screen behind him. A split second later, the screen flickered to life, glowing with sharp clarity. The image of a middle-aged man appeared, seated at an imposing desk in a room that exuded power. The room's walls were lined with flags and insignias, while armed guards in sleek black uniforms stood like statues behind him, their faces expressionless but their presence unnervingly imposing.

The man on the screen—Commander-in-Chief Gregory Huxley—was striking. His hair, flecked with streaks of gray, was immaculately combed back, giving him a distinguished yet approachable air. His perpetual, almost disarming smile seemed at odds with the gravity of the situation, but his eyes told a different story. They were sharp, and carried the weight of countless decisions made under unimaginable pressure.

The moment his face appeared, every person in the room rose in unison, saluting with military precision. Their movements were sharp, their faces tense, and not one dared to falter. Huxley, noticing their formality, waved a hand casually, signaling them to relax.

"At ease, generals," he said smoothly, his voice calm but resonating with authority. "We don't have the luxury of formalities today. Time is not on our side."

The attendees lowered their salutes and sat back down, the room falling into a silence so complete that even the faint hum of the facility's systems seemed to vanish. All eyes were fixed on the screen, their collective attention hanging on Huxley's every word. The air in the room felt heavier, as though it carried the weight of decisions too enormous to comprehend.

Huxley leaned forward slightly, his disarming smile widening, though his gaze remained as sharp as ever. He snapped his fingers, and the screen shifted. To his side, a series of images and video feeds began to materialize—scenes so surreal they might have been plucked from a nightmare.

"Let's get straight to the point," he began, his tone hardening, though the smile never left his face. "The first phase of Project Chronos has failed. Not partially, not marginally—completely."

The statement hit the room like a hammer. A few of the officials exchanged uneasy glances, their expressions betraying shock, but no one dared to speak. Huxley continued, his voice steady and unwavering.

"As a result of this failure, the world as we know it is unraveling. Time itself is regressing, and the planet is returning to a state not seen for millions of years."

The screen shifted again, displaying vivid, catastrophic images: cities reduced to rubble, their towering skyscrapers now skeletal remains strangled by vines and overgrowth. Herds of prehistoric creatures roamed through once-bustling streets, their massive forms dwarfing abandoned vehicles. Rivers had swollen to consume entire regions, and volcanoes erupted with apocalyptic fury, spewing ash and lava over shattered landscapes. In one haunting image, a group of humans huddled in a makeshift shelter while a shadow—the silhouette of some gargantuan beast—loomed ominously in the distance.

"This is not science fiction," Huxley continued, his tone growing sharper, his smile fading. "This is our reality. Entire ecosystems are reverting to their prehistoric states. The weather patterns are devolving into chaos. Dinosaurs and other long-extinct species now roam freely, unbound by the natural order we've spent millennia cultivating."

The room remained silent, but the tension was palpable. A few attendees shifted uncomfortably in their seats, their expressions a mix of horror and disbelief. One of the scientists, Dr. Satoshi, swallowed hard, his gaze fixed on the screen. He whispered something under his breath, inaudible to the rest but clear in its despair. His colleague, Dr. Carter, placed a steadying hand on his arm, his jaw clenched tightly.

Huxley's image leaned closer to the camera, dominating the screen. His tone darkened, his voice dropping to a near growl. "We are witnessing the collapse of human civilization as we know it. And now, the responsibility of saving what remains falls squarely on us."

The screen shifted again, this time displaying a blueprint labeled Project Chimera. The name alone seemed to drain the room of what little composure remained. Murmurs rippled through the attendees, some leaning toward their neighbors with hushed whispers. The man in the black suit at the front of the room raised a hand, silencing the chatter.

"Phase two of Project Chronos," Huxley announced, his voice cutting through the room like a blade, "requires us to initiate Project Chimera. You are to rally as many survivors as possible—civilians, military personnel, anyone who can hold a weapon or contribute to survival. But more importantly, from among them, you must identify suitable candidates for the Chimera initiative."

This statement caused an eruption of whispers and murmurs. The name "Chimera" was spoken like an echo of dread, and even the most hardened generals exchanged uneasy glances. One of them, Colonel Renfield, hesitated before raising a trembling hand.

"Sir," he began, his voice shaking slightly, "Project Chimera... wasn't it meant to be a contingency plan—a last resort? Surely, there must be another way. The risks—"

Huxley's eyes narrowed, his once-approachable demeanor vanishing in an instant. His voice dropped to a frigid tone, his words slow and deliberate. "Colonel, the situation has already surpassed the parameters of a 'last resort.' The risks are irrelevant. This is no longer a question of what we should do—it's a question of what we must do."

The colonel faltered, his face pale, and sank back into his seat. The room fell silent once more, the weight of Huxley's words suffocating. The commander-in-chief straightened, his gaze sweeping across his audience.

"What's at stake here is not just our survival, but the survival of our species," he declared, his voice rising with conviction. "Humanity as we know it is finished. Our task now is to forge a new humanity—one capable of thriving in this new, hostile world." He paused, his eyes locking onto the camera. "God help us all."

With those final, chilling words, the screen went black. The room remained deathly silent, the weight of the moment pressing down on everyone like a crushing tide. The man in the black suit turned to face the attendees, his expression as unreadable as ever.

"You have your orders," he said simply. "Now, let's get to work. Time is not a luxury we can afford."

The room erupted into motion. Papers rustled, comms devices buzzed, and people began speaking in hurried tones, strategizing and delegating. But beneath the flurry of activity, a deep unease lingered, like the shadow of something monstrous just out of sight. The clock was ticking, and humanity's fate hung by a thread.