CH 2

I woke to hunger.

Not the dull ache of a skipped meal or the gnawing I'd felt after a late sparring session. This was a beast clawing at my gut, sharp and relentless, dragging me out of the dark. My eyes snapped open, the ceiling of my Hayward apartment blurring into focus—cracked plaster, a water stain from last year's leak. The room smelled stale, sweat-soaked sheets clinging to me like a second skin. My arm throbbed where that girl had bitten me, a dull pulse that synced with my racing heart. I lay there, chest heaving, the night before flickering in fragments—The End All, the chaos, the train ride home, puking my guts out on the BART.

Something was wrong.

I sat up, too fast, and the room tilted. A wave of dizziness slammed me back against the headboard, but the hunger didn't care. It roared, a hollow pit demanding to be filled, raw and primal, like my body was eating itself alive. My fridge wasn't far—ten steps across the cramped studio, past the couch I'd crashed on, to the kitchenette in the corner. I stumbled there, bare feet slapping the cold linoleum, and yanked the door open.

Steaks. Three of them, raw, bloody, sitting on a Styrofoam tray from the Safeway on Mission Boulevard. I'd bought them two days ago, meaning to grill them after work. No time for that now. My hands moved on their own, tearing off the plastic wrap, fingers slick with the cold juice pooling beneath. I grabbed one—a thick ribeye, marbled red—and sank my teeth into it.

No cooking. No seasoning. Just flesh, wet and metallic, ripping apart in my mouth.

I froze mid-bite, blood dripping down my chin. What the hell was I doing? This wasn't me—I didn't eat like this, like some feral thing tearing into a carcass. The taste hit me hard—iron, salt, a faint sweetness I couldn't place. My stomach didn't care. It growled louder, urging me on. I took another bite, then another, chewing through sinew, swallowing chunks whole. The second steak followed, then the third. I devoured them all, standing there in my boxers, fridge door swinging open, the cold air useless against the heat pouring off me.

When I finished, I dropped the empty tray on the counter, my hands trembling. Blood smeared my fingers, my lips, my chest. I licked it off without thinking, then stopped, staring at the red streaks on my skin.

"This isn't right."

My voice rasped, rough from disuse. I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand, smearing more blood, and stumbled to the bathroom. The mirror above the sink was chipped, a leftover from the last tenant, but it showed enough. My face looked gaunt, eyes sunken, skin glistening with sweat. I leaned closer, breath fogging the glass, and opened my mouth.

My teeth weren't mine.

The lateral incisors—those sharp ones next to the front teeth—were longer, pointed, gleaming under the flickering bulb. My canines too, stretched into fangs that caught the light. I ran my tongue over them, feeling the edges, sharp enough to cut. My heart kicked harder. This wasn't a hangover or some flu from the club. This was my body, changing, twisting into something I didn't know.

"What the fuck is happening to me?"

I stepped back, gripping the sink, the porcelain cool against my palms. My arm ached where the bite sat, now a swollen red mess, the skin around it bruised purple. That girl—Ricky's puppet, the one who'd gone wild—had done this. I could still hear her snarls, feel her teeth sinking in. But this? This was beyond a bad trip or a junkie bite.

I needed answers.

My phone was on the couch, half-buried under a cushion. I grabbed it, the screen lighting up—March 18, 2025, 10:47 a.m. I'd slept through the morning, dead to the world. No messages, no calls, just a low battery warning. I opened Google, fingers shaking as I typed.

"Symptoms: extreme hunger, eating raw meat, teeth growing longer."

The results were useless—diet forums, dental ads, some quack ranting about Paleo gone wrong. Nothing fit. I tried again, more specific.

"Fever after bite, ravenous hunger, sharper teeth."

Still nothing. A few hits about rabies, but that didn't match—rabies didn't stretch your incisors overnight. I scrolled, desperate, then paused. Zombies. The word slipped in, unbidden, from years of comics and manga. The Walking Dead. Tokyo Ghoul. Ridiculous, but my hands moved anyway.

"Zombie bite symptoms."

A flood of fiction hit me—Wikipedia pages, fan wikis, movie reviews. No medical sites, no real cases. Just stories. I tossed the phone on the couch, pacing the small room, my bare feet scuffing the worn carpet.

"This is insane."

I stopped, staring at my hands. They looked normal, but the hunger lingered, a dull ache now, sated but not gone. My body felt off—stronger, maybe, but wrong. I needed to see more.

Back to the bathroom. I stripped off my boxers, crusted with sweat and fridge drippings, and stepped into the shower. The water hit me cold, then scalding as I twisted the knob, steam rising around me. I scrubbed the blood off, watching it swirl pink down the drain, then ran my hands over my chest, my arms, my legs.

I was leaner. Too lean.

I'd always been fit—MMA kept me around 10% body fat—but this was different. My ribs showed sharper under my skin, my abs carved like stone, veins popping on my forearms. I pressed a hand to my stomach, feeling the muscle beneath. Three percent, maybe less. No one drops that much overnight. Not naturally.

"What's happening to my body?"

The water pounded my back, hot and relentless, but it didn't calm the storm in my head. I shut it off, stepping out, dripping onto the cracked tiles. The mirror was fogged, but I wiped it clear with my forearm. Those teeth stared back, longer, predatory. My eyes looked darker too, pupils wide, like I was hunting something.

I grabbed a towel, wrapping it around my waist, and stumbled back to the living room. The steaks were gone, but the hunger wasn't—not fully. It lurked, waiting. I couldn't sit here, stewing in this tiny apartment while my body turned on me. Work. The End All. John might know something—about the girl, the bites, the chaos. I had to get to San Francisco.

I yanked on jeans, a black hoodie, and my boots, the fabric rough against my too-tight skin. The bite pulsed under the sleeve, a reminder I couldn't shake. I grabbed my keys from the counter and headed for the door, twisting the knob to leave.

It didn't turn. It broke.

The metal crumpled in my hand like foil, snapping off with a dull crack. I stared at the mangled knob, now a twisted lump in my palm, the door swinging open on its own. My strength—it wasn't normal. I'd crushed it without trying, my grip too hard, too raw.

"What the hell?"

I dropped the knob, the clatter echoing in the hall. My neighbor's door stayed shut—Mrs. Kim, old and half-deaf, probably didn't hear. I stepped out, locking the door with the deadbolt, and headed downstairs. My beat-up Civic waited in the lot, a '09 model with chipped paint and a dented fender. I slid in, the engine coughing to life, and aimed for the Hayward BART station.

The streets felt off. Mission Boulevard was quiet—too quiet for a Tuesday. No kids on bikes, no delivery trucks. Just a faint haze in the air, a tension I couldn't name. I hit A Street, turning toward the station, and slammed on the brakes.

Yellow tape cordoned off the entrance. Hazmat suits—white, bulky, faceless—moved behind it, their boots scuffing the pavement. Signs read QUARANTINE ZONE - KEEP OUT. A cop in a vest waved traffic away, his radio crackling. I rolled down my window, the air sharp with disinfectant.

"What's going on?"

The cop barely glanced at me, his voice muffled through a mask.

"Station's closed."

"Turn around."

I didn't argue. The hazmat suits watched me, their visors glinting, and I peeled out, heading for the San Mateo Bridge instead. Driving would cost me—tolls, gas, parking—but I needed answers, and The End All was my only lead.

The bridge stretched ahead, a gray ribbon over the bay, the water below choppy and dark. Traffic crawled, horns blaring, but I made it across, the San Francisco skyline looming through the fog. Folsom Street was a mess when I got there—barricades up, more yellow tape, more hazmat suits swarming The End All. The neon sign hung dark, the club's pulse gone. A CDC logo flashed on a van nearby, white and ominous.

I parked a block away, the meter gouging me for ten bucks, and walked up. A woman in a hazmat suit stepped forward, her voice distorted through the speaker.

"Sir, stay back."

"This area's restricted."

"I work here."

I kept my tone steady, hands in my pockets to hide the tremble. The bite burned under my sleeve, a secret I wasn't ready to spill.

She tilted her head, visor reflecting my face.

"You work at The End All?"

"Were you here yesterday?"

"Yeah, I was."

I nodded, keeping it short. She pulled out a stack of photos from a clipboard, grainy shots of faces—clubgoers, maybe, or victims. My gut twisted.

"Did you see these people?"

"Any of them act unusual?"

I scanned the pictures—Ricky's face flashed by, then the girl's, her pale eyes staring blankly from the paper. My pulse spiked, the hunger twitching in my gut again.

"I don't know."

"I just need to talk to John."

"He's the owner."

She stepped closer, her gloved hand tightening on the photos.

"He's not here."

"Area's under quarantine."

"We need you to come with us."

"Answer some questions."

I backed off, hands up, the lie quick on my tongue.

"I'll come back later."

She didn't buy it.

"Wait!"

"You can't leave yet!"

Two more hazmat suits moved in, their steps heavy, reaching for me. I turned and ran.

My legs fired like pistons, faster than I'd ever moved. The street blurred—cars, tape, suits—all fading as I sprinted down Folsom. My lungs burned, but my stride was effortless, long and smooth, like an Olympic sprinter hitting their peak. I didn't know I could do this. I'd trained MMA, sure, but this speed? This was new, unnatural, surging through me like the hunger had.

I heard them behind me—boots pounding, shouts crackling through speakers.

"Stop!"

"Subject fleeing!"

I cut left onto 10th Street, dodging a delivery truck, my feet barely touching the pavement. My heart hammered, but my body didn't tire—it pushed harder, faster, like it was built for this. I zigzagged through alleys, past Howard Street, until the sounds faded, the fog swallowing their pursuit.

I stopped near Bryant, leaning against a brick wall, breath heaving but steady. My legs hummed, alive, stronger than they'd ever been. I didn't know what I was running on—adrenaline, the bite, something else—but it wasn't human. Not anymore.

"What am I?"

The words slipped out, low and shaky, lost in the city noise. I glanced at my arm, the bite hidden but throbbing. The CDC knew something—those photos, the quarantine. They were after me now, and I'd just shown them I wasn't normal.