The commander's orders

Ella squeezed her eyes shut as the deafening sound of gunfire erupted around her. She wanted to cover her ears, to block out the chaos, but she couldn't. Her hands were occupied—clutching onto the man who had swept her off her feet, quite literally. The room was a cacophony of screams and frantic movement as students scattered, their panic fueling the confusion. Amid the disorder, there was one group that remained unshaken, a stark contrast to the hysteria—the soldiers.

They stood in disciplined rows, chins lifted, shoulders squared, their bodies poised like steel traps, waiting. Waiting for the command of their leader, Killian. But Killian had other priorities. He and Ella were in the eye of the storm, right where the young boy had been—the same boy Ella had been trying to help.

With ruthless precision, Killian moved. His body twisted and turned with the ease of a seasoned warrior, his gun firing without hesitation. He didn't waste bullets; each shot found its mark. Every squeeze of the trigger was deliberate, bypassing students but striking down anything—or anyone—posing a threat. His accuracy was almost unnatural, like that of a trained sniper, yet there was an unmistakable thrill in his gaze, a simmering satisfaction that hinted he wouldn't have minded if a stray bullet found a deserving target among the students.

The so-called survivors—those who had been so confident moments ago, their eyes gleaming with malice—were now feeling the cold grip of fear. Realization hit them like a bullet to the skull. And for some, that realization came too late. The last thing they saw before their bodies collapsed lifelessly to the ground was a pair of piercing blue-rimmed eyes, beastly and unforgiving. Eyes that didn't just see but commanded. Eyes that sent an unspoken warning that shattered their arrogance in an instant.

They didn't know what it was about those eyes, only that they evoked something primal—something instinctual. The law of the jungle was simple: when faced with a stronger predator, you either fought and died or ran and lived. And Killian was that predator. The realization broke them. Some fled, their previous bravado vanishing like mist in the wind. Others weren't as lucky. Their bodies littered the battlefield, a grim reminder of what happened to prey that didn't run fast enough.

The battlefield itself was a ruin of bodies, debris, and blood. The acrid scent of gunpowder mixed with the metallic tang of spilled life, swirling in the dusty air. The howling wind carried the echoes of the last gunshot, but the fight was nearing its end.

Ella, still wrapped in Killian's iron hold, felt the shift. The violence was subsiding, but the residual fear still clung to her like a second skin. Her pulse was erratic, her heart a wild drum against her ribs. Her senses were working against her, feeding her vivid images she wished she could unsee. The blood, the bodies, the beastly blue eyes. Her head spun with questions she didn't know how to voice. Why had Killian appeared so suddenly? And his eyes—was blue his natural color? Or was it something else entirely?

Before her thoughts could spiral further, a gust of wind tore through the battlefield, sending a strip of fabric fluttering towards her. She barely managed to snatch it before it could hit her face, and then—she remembered.

The boy.

Her patient.

Her hesitation vanished. She wriggled against Killian's grip, struggling against his hold. She had to go back. The child needed her.

Killian, still focused on his hunt, had momentarily forgotten about the girl he had swept away from danger. But Ella was persistent. She twisted, squirmed, pushed against his chest until, with a huff of irritation, Killian finally let her go.

She stumbled forward, her breathing uneven, her hands shaking. Her sling bag swung forward, and with practiced ease, she secured it, readying herself to tend to the injured. But before she could take a single step toward the boy, a rough yank on her arm stopped her.

Ella gasped as she was dragged back, spinning in time to see another soldier pulling her away. She barely had time to protest before she was dragged away. 

Panic flared.

She struggled against his grip, her voice sharp despite the tremble beneath it. "Let me go."

The soldier ignored her.

Ella's frustration flared. "I said, let me go! There's a patient back there—I have to help him!"

This time, her voice was louder, firmer.

The soldier's response was cold and dismissive. "Look here, student. My job is to ensure the safety of all students. Let me do my job."

The apathy in his tone enraged her. But then, he chuckled, a sound that sent a chill down her spine. "You're really that gullible, huh? Letting that thing trick you into thinking it's human?"

Ella stiffened. Her fingers clenched. "What do you mean?"

The soldier smirked, unfazed by her reaction. "If the commander had acted a second later, you'd be dead. Ever read Little Red Riding Hood? The wolf disguises itself, tricks the girl into thinking it's someone she trusts. You should've learned your lesson in nursery school."

Ella's breath hitched.

Her mind whirled.

What was he saying? That the boy—the child she had been trying to save—wasn't even human?

Before she could demand answers, the soldier cut through the remnants of the battlefield and spoke through a walkie-talkie.

"Lieutenant Nate Butcher coming in. By the commander's orders, start a headcount. Identify any infectees among the students. Anyone with bruises or scratches—immediate isolation if they struggle kill them."

The order sent a ripple through the surviving students.

Ella's stomach twisted.

Infectee?

Her eyes darted back to where the boy had been.