Chapter 46: Prescious Seconds

Maarg's mind raced, his gaze locked on Gunther. He knew, with a chilling certainty, that a prolonged fight was a death sentence. His own emerging abilities, his superhuman strength and speed, were a volatile power he barely controlled. He could try to maintain some distance, leveraging the kickboxing skills he possessed, but he'd just witnessed Gunther's raw power in action. Jack, arguably one of the most formidable individuals Maarg knew, had wielded a fire axe and still been brought to his knees. The odds were stacked against him, threatening to crush any hope he harbored.

But Maarg didn't allow these bleak thoughts to fester. He shoved them aside, his focus narrowing to a single, critical objective: distract Gunther for two minutes. Every breath, every movement, every calculated risk, hinged on this goal. He was counting every second, each one a precious commodity in this burning hell. He knew that just one second could be the deciding moment, the fleeting chance that would determine the outcome of this desperate brawl. His life, Tara's life, and perhaps even Jack's, depended on his ability to hold Gunther's attention, even as his own inner power threatened to betray him.

Gunther, momentarily distracted by the sudden appearance of the knife-wielding boy and his clumsy shot, now turned his full, murderous attention to Maarg. The brief interlude had given Mark a chance to recover, and the transformed being was now circling, a low growl rumbling in its chest, its eyes fixed on Gunther with an unsettling mix of primal rage and something akin to recognition.

"Another one of Gabby's little rats, are we?" Gunther sneered, his single eye glinting with malice. He ignored the knife embedded in the floor, his focus entirely on Maarg. He saw the boy's average build, the lack of a heavy weapon, and a dismissive smirk twisted his lips. "You think you can stop me?"

Maarg didn't answer. He launched himself forward, not in a direct assault, but a feint. He unleashed a rapid kickboxing combination, a flurry of jabs and a high roundhouse kick aimed at Gunther's head. He poured just enough of his enhanced speed into the movements to make them blindingly fast, a blur of motion designed to surprise and overwhelm. He felt the familiar surge of energy, a tingling warmth that threatened to consume him if he held it too long.

Gunther, despite his bulk, was quick. He raised his arms, blocking the kicks with surprising agility, his powerful forearms absorbing the blows. Maarg felt the impact, a jarring resistance that told him Gunther was far tougher than he looked. This wasn't just strength; it was an almost impenetrable defense.

As Maarg pulled back, maintaining distance, he saw Gunther's eyes narrow. The smirk vanished, replaced by a predatory glint. Gunther lunged, not with a weapon, but with his bare hands, aiming to grapple, to use his superior wrestling skills to bring Maarg down. This was his preferred method, to crush his opponents in a suffocating embrace.

Maarg used another burst of speed, darting sideways, narrowly avoiding Gunther's outstretched grasp. He moved with a fluidity that belied his average stature, a grace that was almost unnatural. He knew he couldn't let Gunther get a hold of him. One grapple, and it would be over. He kept moving, constantly shifting his weight, using his footwork to dance around Gunther's attempts to close the distance, throwing quick, stinging kicks to Gunther's legs and midsection, hoping to wear him down, to buy those precious seconds.

The smoke in the corridor was growing thicker, making it hard to see, hard to breathe. The heat was intensifying, radiating from the burning walls. The sounds of the fire were a constant, terrifying roar, punctuated by the occasional crackle of collapsing timber. Maarg could feel the strain, the insidious drain on his stamina from even these controlled bursts of power. He glanced quickly at the doorway to Mark's room, a silent plea for Tara to be quick. The two-minute timer was ticking down, every second a desperate gamble.

***

Just as Maarg locked himself into a desperate dance with Gunther, a dangerous ballet of calculated movements and raw power, Tara, seizing the precious seconds of distraction, made her silent, sneaky way to the transformed Mark. The very air around the abomination crackled with an unsettling energy. As she drew closer, the zombified Mark turned his head, his glassy, bloodshot red eyes fixing on her. There was no immediate hostility, no sudden lunge, but a chilling tension permeated his convulsing form. He couldn't stop shaking, his body wracked by violent tremors, as if an internal war raged within him. It was like he was desperately trying to resist the primal, overwhelming urge to rip her apart and devour her.

"Mark, please," Tara whispered, her voice a raw plea that tore through the chaos of the burning base. Tears streamed down her soot-stained cheeks as she reached out, her hand trembling but resolute. She placed her palm flat against Mark's cold, clammy chest, feeling the unnerving, uneven beat of his monstrous heart beneath her touch. "Wake up. You can't leave me alone here, please."

And then, in an act of profound desperation and unwavering love, Tara hugged him, pressing her face against his grotesque shoulder, a fragile island of humanity clinging to a terrifying, transforming nightmare. The scent of him, once familiar and comforting, was now tainted by something metallic and sickly sweet, a smell that spoke of decay and unnatural change. Yet, she clung to him, her fingers digging into his unyielding flesh, willing him to return, to remember.

For a terrifying moment, Mark's tremors intensified, his body seizing against her embrace. A low, guttural growl rumbled deep in his chest, a sound that was less human and more beast. Tara squeezed her eyes shut, bracing for the inevitable, for the teeth, for the tearing. But then, as suddenly as it had begun, the violent shaking seemed to lessen, almost imperceptibly. The growl softened, becoming a strained, ragged moan. His monstrous hand, covered in those horrifying, pulsating veins, slowly, agonizingly, lifted. It hovered for a moment, then, with a tremor that spoke of immense effort, it came to rest on her back, a parody of an embrace. It wasn't a hug of recognition, not yet, but it wasn't an attack. It was a terrifying, fragile pause in the face of utter horror, a silent testament to the battle raging within him.

Meanwhile, just outside the room, Maarg continued his desperate dance with Gunther, every second a grueling test of his controlled power. He ducked under a wild swing, landed a sharp kick to Gunther's knee, and then used a burst of speed to put distance between them. He could hear the muffled sounds from the room behind him, and the brief cessation of the violent thrashing from Mark gave him a fleeting, terrifying hope. He had bought Tara a few precious seconds, but how many more could he afford? The timer was ticking, and Gunther, now roaring in frustration, was closing in.

The momentary embrace between Tara and Mark, a fragile flicker of hope in the heart of the inferno, was brutally short-lived. The monstrous form of Mark convulsed violently, and his hand, resting on Tara's back, clenched, not in a loving embrace, but with an unsettling, primal grip. A guttural growl tore from his throat, deeper and more animalistic than before, and his glassy red eyes, which had softened for a fleeting instant, now flared with an unmistakable, terrifying hunger.