CH 3

The coffee tasted like burnt matches.

I stood outside Starbucks, my back pressed to the cold brick wall, the neon mermaid logo flickering above me like a deranged halo. My hands wouldn't stop shaking. The bite on my forearm had scabbed over, the skin around it tight and shiny, veins receding like tide lines. It didn't hurt anymore. Not exactly. But it *itched*, deep under the flesh, like something was tunneling inside me.

Inside the shop, the barista chirped orders into the headset, steam hissing from the espresso machine. Normal sounds. Normal people. I gripped my coffee cup too tight, the cardboard crumpling in my fist.

"Black. Large."

The barista, a guy with a snake tattoo coiling up his neck, slid the cup across the counter. His eyes flicked to my hoodie sleeves tugged down to my knuckles.

"Rough night?"

I slapped a five on the counter. "Keep the change."

Outside, the fog clung to the street, muffling the clatter of morning traffic. A homeless man hunched by the trash can, fingers digging through discarded napkins. His eyes met mine—desperate, hungry—before he snatched the lid off my thrown-away cup.

"Bless you," he rasped, licking the rim where my spit had pooled.

I turned away, guilt sour in my throat. *It's nothing. Just paranoia.*

Three blocks down, the screaming started.

---

The sound wasn't human. It was raw, guttural, like a feral dog caught in a bear trap. I sprinted back, sneakers slapping pavement, and nearly collided with the crowd surging out of the alley.

"What the hell is that thing?!"

A tourist in a Golden Gate hoodie filmed with his phone, voice trembling. The homeless man staggered into the street, back bent like a broken puppet. His neck twisted with a wet snap, eyes flooding dark red. Pupils slit.

"Zombie!" someone shrieked. "It's a goddamn zombie!"

The infected man lunged.

He moved wrong—too fast, joints popping, muscles rippling under torn clothes. He tackled the tourist, teeth sinking into his throat. Blood sprayed the sidewalk, hot and arterial. The crowd scattered, screams slicing through the fog.

"Call 911!"

A barista bolted out of Starbucks, phone raised. The infected man whipped his head toward her, jaws dripping.

"Hey! Over here, asshole!"

A construction worker swung a crowbar, hitting the infected man's shoulder. Bone cracked, but he didn't flinch. He pivoted, snarling, and ripped the crowbar out of the man's grip like it was a toothpick.

"What the fuck—"

The infected man slammed him into a parked car, windshield shattering. Across the street, a blue-eyed shambler lurched out of an alley—pale, slow, dragging a mangled leg. It ignored the chaos, fixated on a yapping Pomeranian in a stroller.

The two strains didn't clash. Didn't even glance at each other.

---

"Shoot it! Shoot it!"

A cop unholstered his gun, hands shaking. The red-eyed infected sprinted at him, faster than anything human. The cop fired. Missed. The infected tackled him, teeth tearing into his collarbone.

My pulse roared. The red eyes. My eyes in the mirror this morning.

A mother shoved past me, clutching a toddler. The infected man let the cop's body drop and lunged for her.

"No!"

I didn't think. I grabbed a bike lock off the ground and hurled it. It hit the infected man's skull with a dull thunk. He staggered, red eyes locking onto me.

A cold wave slammed into my head—a pressure, like static.

*Stop.*

The infected man froze. Just for a second. Pupils dilating, head cocked like a dog hearing a whistle. He sniffed the air, nostrils flaring. A low growl rattled in his throat.

*He smells me.*

The static sharpened—a thousand needles pricking my brain—and suddenly I felt it. The hunger in him. The rage. But underneath, a flicker of… recognition.

I stepped back. "Don't."

He hissed, dark red eyes narrowing, but didn't lunge. Behind him, the mother screamed, clutching her toddler. His head snapped toward the sound, jaws dripping.

"No, wait—!"

He ignored me. Sprinting past like I was a lamppost, he slammed into the mother, teeth sinking into her shoulder.

The static flared again, hot and sour. I could feel him feeding. Feel the others too—red-eyed infected two blocks east, tearing into a delivery van. They didn't see me. Didn't smell me.

I was a ghost.

A shadow.

A goddamn lie.

---

Sirens wailed. Tires screeched. A white van skidded around the corner, CDC logos half-scraped off the doors. Men in hazmat suits poured out, rifles up.

"Contain the red-eyes! Lethal force!"

Bullets tore through the infected man's chest. He kept moving.

I ran. My legs carried me faster than they ever had—unnatural, effortless. The static in my skull sharpened, a map of heat signatures flaring behind my eyes. Red dots clustered near Union Square, blue ones shambling through alleys.

I ducked into a parking garage, vaulting over a sedan. The infected man slammed into it, denting the hood. He scrambled over the roof, claws screeching on metal.

"Hostile is aggressive! Track the heat signature!"

Tranq darts pinged off concrete. They didn't see me. They aimed at the red-eyed monster I'd created.

I didn't stop until I hit the rooftops, the city spread out below—a patchwork of screams and sirens. The static faded, leaving a hollow ache.

They didn't know.

They didn't know the red-eyed ones were worse.

They didn't know I was worse.