Chapter 6: Vent Predator

The skittering stopped.

Adrian froze, axe held low and ready, every nerve screaming. The silence in the fourth-floor hallway was thicker than the blood drying on his scrubs. Above him, the ventilation grate rattled faintly. Something was up there. Listening. Hunting.

» ENTITY PROXIMITY: CRITICAL

» AGILITY ASSESSMENT: TARGET SUPERIOR (EST. AGI 5.0)

» STRENGTH ASSESSMENT: TARGET MODERATE (EST. STR 4.0)

» RECOMMENDED ACTION: EVADE. DIRECT ENGAGEMENT HIGH-RISK.

Too damn fast, Adrian thought, sweat stinging his eyes. His boots – scavenged leather, a size too big but blessedly solid – felt glued to the grimy linoleum. The bite on his forearm pulsed a dull, sick heat beneath the bandages. While he might match its raw strength, its speed was terrifying. Fighting this thing openly wasn't survival; it was rolling dice loaded against him. He needed the ICU. Now.

He took a silent step towards the double doors marked 'INTENSIVE CARE - AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY',the road to the 4th floor was long and filled with fear.

 The skittering resumed, frantic now, moving parallel overhead, keeping pace. Faster than anything human. Faster than the Walkers.

A metallic clang echoed from the junction behind him. Adrian spun, axe rising.

It dropped from a ceiling vent like a spider made of nightmares.

It was roughly child-sized, clad in the tattered remnants of what might have been pajamas. But any resemblance to humanity ended there. Its limbs were elongated, joints bending at subtly wrong angles, giving it a crouched, spring-loaded posture. The skin was sallow, pulled tight over sharp bones, but mottled with dark, vein-like tracings that pulsed faintly. Its head was too large for its body, hair patchy and brittle. The eyes… milky-white like a Walker's, but beneath the opacity, a sharp, unnatural intelligence gleamed. Its mouth hung open, revealing needle-sharp, blood-stained teeth too numerous for a human jaw. It didn't moan. It hissed, a sound like steam escaping a rusted pipe.

» UNKNOWN HOSTILE IDENTIFIED

» DESIGNATION: [ERROR] // COLLOQUIAL: "STALKER"

» THREAT PROFILE: HIGH SPEED, PRECISION STRIKES, AMBUSH PREDATOR

» VULNERABILITY: UNKNOWN

The Stalker tilted its head, studying him. Then it moved. Not a shambling lurch, but a blur of distorted limbs. It covered the twenty feet between them in a heartbeat, claws – blackened and sharp as scalpels – raking towards his throat.

Adrian threw himself backward, the axe whistling through empty air where his neck had been. The claws snagged his scrubs, ripping fabric but missing flesh by millimeters. He slammed against the ICU doors, the impact jarring his injured arm, sending fresh agony lancing up his shoulder. The Stalker recoiled for a fraction of a second, its head twitching as if assessing.

Speed. That's its weapon. Panic threatened to choke him. The wide hallway offered no cover, nowhere to bottleneck it. He needed chaos. Containment. Somewhere its agility meant less.

To his left, a heavy door labeled 'LINEN & SUPPLIES' hung slightly ajar. A gamble. He feinted right, then dove left, crashing through the supply room door and slamming it shut behind him. He rammed a metal shelving unit against it just as the Stalker's body thudded against the other side, claws screeching down the reinforced wood.

» ENVIRONMENTAL ADVANTAGE ACQUIRED: CONFINED SPACE

» STALKER MOBILITY ESTIMATE: REDUCED

The room was a cluttered tomb. Towering metal shelves groaned under stacks of sheets, towels, and medical supplies. Boxes were strewn everywhere, overturned carts blocking narrow aisles. Dim emergency lighting cast deep, shifting shadows. It stank of dust, stale linen, and something faintly chemical.

Adrian backed into the maze of shelves, heart hammering against his ribs. He could hear the Stalker on the other side of the door, a furious scrabbling, then… silence. A different grate above him rattled.

It's inside the vents. Coming in.

He moved deeper, putting shelves between himself and the ceiling. His eyes darted, assessing. Minimize its advantage. Use the environment.

A heavy cart loaded with IV fluid bags stood near the wall. Above it, a large, ceiling-mounted fire sprinkler head.

An idea sparked – desperate, reliant on surprise, not strength.

The skittering in the vents stopped directly overhead. A panel near the door clattered open. The Stalker dropped down, landing silently on a stack of boxes, its unnerving eyes locking onto him instantly. It crouched, preparing to spring across the open space between shelves.

Adrian didn't wait. He kicked the base of the nearest overloaded shelf unit hard.

The shelf groaned, tilted, then collapsed forward with a deafening crash of metal and a cascade of linens and boxes. It didn't hit the Stalker, but it blocked the direct path, forcing the creature to scramble sideways into a narrower aisle cluttered with broken equipment.

Now!

Adrian lunged, not at the Stalker, but at the heavy IV cart. He shoved it with a roar, putting his weight and momentum into it, aiming its corner directly at the pipe connected to the sprinkler head near where the Stalker was regaining its footing.

» IMPROVISED WEAPON MASTERY: LVL 2 → LVL 3 (APPLIED)

The metal corner of the cart slammed into the thin pipe.

CRACK!

A jet of icy water exploded from the shattered sprinkler head, drenching the area directly below. The Stalker shrieked – a sound of pure, alien fury and surprise – as the deluge hit it full force. It recoiled violently, blinded and disoriented by the sudden, shocking cold and stagnant water spray. It thrashed, slipping on the wet floor, its predatory focus shattered by the unexpected assault.

Adrian didn't hesitate. He didn't charge. He ran. He scrambled over the collapsed shelf, slipping on wet linens, and bolted for the supply room door. He wrenched the barricaded shelving unit aside just enough to squeeze through, ignoring the splinters tearing at his clothes.

He didn't look back. He sprinted down the hall, the sound of the Stalker's enraged, guttural shrieks – a terrifying blend of pain, fury, and frustration – and the relentless spray of the sprinkler echoing behind him. The ICU doors were right there.

He hit the push-bar at full speed, stumbling into the Intensive Care Unit.

Silence.

Compared to the chaos outside, it was tomb-like. Rows of curtained bays, most in disarray. Monitors were dark, screens cracked. The air hung heavy with the cloying scent of disinfectant failing to mask underlying decay and the metallic tang of old blood. Emergency lights cast long, skeletal shadows from silent machines.

Adrian moved cautiously, axe still ready, breath ragged. His soaked scrubs clung to him, chilling him, making the feverish heat in his arm feel worse. He checked bay after bay. Empty beds. Overturned equipment. Signs of panicked flight… or feeding.

Near the far wall, partially hidden by a tattered curtain, a single bed stood. Machines surrounded it, silent and dead, their screens blank. But the bed was occupied.

Adrian approached, his boots squelching softly on the floor. He pulled back the curtain.

Rick Grimes lay still as death. Pale beneath a thin sheen of sweat, his breathing shallow but steady. An IV line, long since dry, was still taped to his arm. A nasal cannula rested uselessly on his chest. He looked gaunt, days or weeks of coma taking their toll, but unmistakably alive. Unbitten. The sheriff's uniform was gone, replaced by a standard hospital gown.

» TARGET CONFIRMED: GRIMES, RICK

» STATUS: COMATOSE (METABOLICALLY STABLE, SEVERE MALNUTRITION)  

Adrian sagged against the bedside rail, the adrenaline crash hitting him like a physical blow. He'd made it. Rick was here. Alive. A connection. An anchor in the madness. But the relief was instantly swallowed by overwhelming fatigue. The desperate sprint, the fight with the Stalker, the constant, gnawing drain of the System maintaining his body against the virus – it had all taken its toll. His muscles felt like lead, his vision swam slightly, and a deep, bone-chilling cold seeped into him despite his soaked scrubs. It wasn't the fever of infection – the System had burned that out with calories – it was sheer, brutal exhaustion. He'd beaten the bite, but his body was running on fumes. The System hummed, a constant, demanding presence, reminding him its power came at a cost he hadn't fully paid yet.

From the hallway outside the ICU doors, cutting through the diminishing hiss of the sprinkler, came a final, ear-splitting shriek of pure, unadulterated rage. It wasn't pain now. It was a promise. A declaration of hunting resumed. The Stalker wasn't done.