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In the Beginning, there were sirens.
Before the beginning, in a lab that was secured underground, there was a scientific experiment. Everyone who knew the exact details had succumbed to rot quickly, as they were the first to go. The gist of the project was to create something new, something better. Again, no one knows what for. Emergency broadcasters could only speculate ideas, since anyone else who might have answers made themselves scarce.
Until the little town the lab was in went dark, no one thought anything was wrong. By the time people started investigating, it was too late. The infected were loose and making quick work of the surrounding population, feasting on whatever flesh they could find, multiplying in numbers by spreading their infection.
And thus the sirens began to ring, heralding a new era of blood and dust and death. The emergency broadcast systems played their evacuation instructions over and over until the station either lost power or became overrun. Pandemonium of which you could never have imagined took hold of the world, anarchy reigning as the new democracy. Through cleverness and dumb luck, you managed to survive the first wave of infected that crawled through the country. Trial and error became a death game, and through it, you created a set of rules you never allow yourself to break.
At the moment, you are traveling alone, following a set of train tracks that will lead you out into the less populated country. The cities are death zones, and if the infected do not get you first, the marauders will. You remember what it was like, huddled in your apartment, as the entire grid went down. At the mercy of those around you, waiting for the infected to reach the city and take it.
The morning air is cold, your breath puffing out in wisps of steam. Frost covers the metal of the tracks, thick crystals looking sharp enough to cut you. Your jacket is barely keeping you warm, the constant power walking you do is the only thing that keeps your blood circulating heat. It has not snowed yet, thank goodness, but this is just another reminder that winter is coming and mother nature does not plan on pulling any punches.
As the sun rises higher into the sky, the air begins to heat up. By midday, the frost has melted, and you do not feel like you are on the edge of hyperthermia. The logistics of how you are going to survive the winter are still disturbingly unresolved. For one thing, you have made a point not to sleep in the same place twice. During warm summer nights when you need minimal shelter, it was easily doable. But lately, your blankets have not helped much with the chill in the air, so you have been making small fires.
Striking the flint against steel still sends shocks of anxiety through your body, confident that the smallest noises will call the wrong attention to you. But the nights have gotten so cold that you either light a fire and risk being seen by an infected, or you die, frozen in your sleep. Neither outcomes you wish for.
You only eat half of a granola bar for lunch, having to carefully ration your food until you get to a town you can raid. Even with drinking down a bottle of carefully disinfected water, your stomach still feels empty. Fat deposits on your body have shrunken, making way for muscles to develop as your body adapts to your rapidly changing environment.
Usually, you walk until the sun begins to sink over the horizon, but with the cold, you have to start earlier to set up a makeshift camp. Wandering off the train tracks and into the woods, you try to find a place that would give you decent visibility of the area surrounding you. There is a small clearing, which in theory is a safe place to start a fire. You stand, surveying the trees and fallen branches, before deciding that this will do adequately.
The smell of rot hits your nose, pungent in its warning. Spinning around, you come face to face with one of them, at least three times your height, six spindly limbs poking into the soft earth. One of them looks like a human hand is sprouting out of the elbow area, a reminder that this mass of flesh and broken mix-matched exoskeleton was once like you, bipedal and intelligent. There are no eyes on its lumpy face, only a torn off nose and mouth. Maybe it hunts by sound? You stand very still, heart rate accelerating into fight or flight mode.
Ridges line its back, black and oozing with infection. The face whips around, snorting and sniffing at the air, slowly turning to point in your direction. Its jaw unhinges, rows of needle teeth still bloody from its last meal, and it sounds watery hiss.
You pull out your shotgun and aim, firing a round dead into one of the thing’s shoulders. It shrieks, loud and clear for its brethren to hear, nearly destroying your own eardrums in the process. Then it pounces.
Before you have a chance to brace for death, you have been tackled, pinned to the ground. Arms braced on either side of you, a heavy torso keeping you in place. Your eyes dart around, severely disoriented but clearing up to see the infected a few meters away, hissing and snapping its teeth.
Whatever is on you growls a warning. You do not know what exactly they have communicated, but the feral gnashes its teeth together before bounding off in search of different prey. Slowly, the weight shifts off of you, allowing you to wriggle away. You stand and turn to see who your rescuer is, throat closing up at you take him- it in.
You have not seen another human in so long that at first, you think he is one of you. That thought quickly fades as your eyes rake over his body, the anatomy differences becoming more prominent with each passing second. He has a head of black hair, disheveled and messy and normal enough. His fingers are long and slender, you think they might have an extra knuckle, but you are not going to get a closer look to be sure. The skin of his hands is pure black, but his… its face is milky white, paler than anyone you have seen before.
Shaking, you take a step backward. The infected cocks its head at you, eyes jumping from place to place on your body. It wears clothes like a person, dark jeans and combat boots with a hooded black coat. Nothing is ripped or dirty, the things he has on are in pristine condition as though he just rolled out of a magazine cover.
Before giving yourself time to actually think about what you are doing, you run. You run as fast as your feet will take you, back towards the tracks. Once you get to the there, you continue running until you are ready to collapse from exhaustion. Only then do you allow a break, bent over, wheezing for breath while your legs are numb and shaking.
You feel no energy to set up camp, but as the sun begins to set, casting a hellish red glow across the earth, you can taste the night’s chill beginning to creep in. Again, you have to debate lighting a fire. What would be a better risk, hyperthermia or the infected coming back to get you?
Having almost been eaten, you decide you would much rather risk hypothermia. You open your backpack, pulling out all your clothes, and layering them on. You curl up into a blanket, already shivering, and try to sleep.
Since you were so exhausted from your escape, restless sleep overtakes you. You can hear things around you, almost half awake, but can’t decide what is real, or if the sounds and movements are lucid dreams your mind is cooking up. Wearing multiple layers must be the trick, because you remember perfectly toasty, before slipping into a dreamless sleep.
When you wake, you are loathed to move. Your legs are sore from running yesterday, and it would just be so much better if you rested. But there are dangerous creatures in the area, so you need to get going.
The smell of woodsmoke tickles your nose. A lovely aroma, one that you had always liked, even before all of this happened. Except… you did not light a fire last night. You sit up, coming face to face with the humanoid infected from yesterday.
It kneels in front of you, its jacket off to reveal a plain, short-sleeved black t-shirt. You can see how the black skin at its hands fades and twists into the pale skin of its face, half-formed scales dotting around its elbows. Its eyes are just wrong, black where white should be, with a broken iris that does not form a full circle.
You look down and realize that its jacket is on you, draped across your chest. There is a fire, built haphazardly and big enough to cast its warmth on you. No wonder you stopped freezing last night.
Those things combined; the coat, fire, and fact he is not munching on an exposed arm confuse you greatly. The only instances of the infected being anywhere near you end in horrific violence, but have come out with you victorious one way or another. At the moment, this infected seems satisfied with watching your reaction to its behavior, eyes following every movement you make.
On one side of you, your shotgun. The infected has not moved it, for whatever reason you can’t fathom. Tactically, it would have been the first thing you would nab in his position. On your other side, your backpack sits, unopened. Gun. Backpack.
It stares at you, waiting for your decision.
There is no way you can reach for the gun and shoot in the same amount of time that it can lean down and bite your neck open. So that leaves you with your empty stomach. Making the movement as casual as you can muster, you take your backpack into your lap and start digging around for a protein bar you can munch on.
Shit. You only have a few more left, and you are pretty sure the nearest town is still two days away. Even if you do get to the ruins, there is not a guarantee that it will be abandoned, or have any food left. You are on your last leg, and that does not sit well with you at all.
You split the protein bar in half and take little bites to savor it, standing up. The infected stands as well, not stopping you as you begin to pack up your camp. Packing up consisted of taking off your extra layers and stuffing them back into your backpack, then throwing dirt on the fire to put it out. Then you pick up the shotgun and make sure it is loaded, just in case the infected tries something sly.
Without turning back to look at the infected, you begin walking towards the train tracks. Another set of footsteps suggest that the infected is following you. When you turn back, it stands there, watching for your reaction. You do not give it any acknowledgment, only pressing on further.
The sun rises in the sky, doing very little to heat up the day. Your stomach sinks as noon arrived, for there is little warmth. You close your eyes and let a puff of air out, thinking hard about what you might be able to do.
The infected is behind you, you can feel his eyes staring a hole in your body. It shows no signs of leaving you be, having followed you for quite a ways without becoming bored. Every time you glance back, it is looking at you with the same intensity as before. You would almost call it soul searching if you thought it had a soul.
You have not spoken to anyone but yourself for a while, and so it feels good to direct your words at something else. “You gotta name?”
It does not answer. You did not expect it to, either, but still feel slightly disappointed. A voice and words would have meant that it was still partially human. Maybe you could have gotten answers about the infection, instead of wildly speculating. Even without answers, you begin to chat quietly. You tell it about your home, before the end started, and about your job and the hopes you had for the future.
When you turn to look at it again, the infected is no longer staring at you but listening to the side. The corners of its mouth are tugging upwards, though you decide it is just your imagination, or desperation to bond with something that makes you think of this as a human-like response.
The infected sniffs the air then turns to you. “What?” You ask, frowning. It takes a few steps off the rail, then glances back to check to see if you are following.
You are not, of course, and you see a flicker of… annoyance? It passes through the infected’s eyes as it looks at you. But you do not budge, and it gives up, retreating down the train track by itself.
A little stunned by its sudden disappearance, you stare into the trees where it vanished. Part of you wants to wait for it, the other part knows its stupid to wish humanity on something that is as good as dead. As lovely as it was to pretend like the thing was your friend, it is time to move on for your own safety.
The train tracks seem to stretch on for an infinity. Only after about an hour of walking, you notice the sun looks like it is ready to set. The time spent with the infected went quickly, as though its presence brought a little bit of joy in your life.
Before you can veer off into the forest to make camp, you spot someone walking towards you out of the corner of your eye. Your damn, traitorous heart skips a beat, and you begin walking back towards the person, without a second thought. You can see that it is your infected, and he is holding something.
A box of granola bars. The infected is holding out a box of granola bars to you. “Where did you get these?” You choke, accepting the food as though it is gold. Scratch that- food is so much more valuable than gold these days. You would never trade the useless metal for something you can eat.
Pointing his long fingers, he gestures back the tracks. It must have been when he split off and tried getting you to follow. “Can you take me there?” You ask, hugging the granola bars to your chest for dear life.
He turns and starts walking back the way he came, and you are quick to follow, peppering questions as fast as you can think of them. “How did you find it? Did you smell it? Was there anyone there?”
The infected does not answer, of course. But he does show signs of obvious intelligence, and that leaves you somewhat confused. Out of all the infected you have seen, they have been mutilated husks of their former selves, some of which do not even sense your presence. Others like the one you met yesterday, the mutation working in all the best ways to make the deadliest predator. You have never seen one like your infected, who seems, for the most part, still lucid in his own unique way.
As you come to the part of the tracks where the two of you separated, he begins to veer towards the forest, and this time, you follow. The trees are dense, causing the last sun of twilight to be swallowed up by foliage and leaves. It briefly crosses your mind that the infected could be leading you into a trap, but you quickly dismiss your fears. If he wanted to kill you, he would have in the morning while you were vulnerable.
Still, the fear that you have cherished and kept alive pulses under your skin. You can’t just swallow terror in an instant. But you follow him around the trees, stepping over roots and bushes, thankful that your thick boots keep your feet safe from stones.
Then you see it, up ahead. A little log cabin, on the edge of a brook. It is such a foreign sight for you, something domestic after sleeping out in the woods for so long, you feel the urge to cry. Your infected walks up to the door and opens it for you, and you walk in, barely keeping the tears at bay.
There is a little living room, sporting a couch and chair, there is a small kitchenette with a wood stove that would heat the entire house, and above the kitchen is a little loft where you can see a mattress waiting for your body to throw itself onto it. There is no one in sight, no cars parked around. It is abandoned and yours for the night. You walk over to the pantry and throw it open, revealing soup cans, bags of dried rice and beans, pasta sauces, and flour. At the bottom is enough wood to start a fire in the woodstove.
You are more tired than hungry, so after starting a fire to heat up the cabin and a can of chicken noodle soup, you kick off your shoes and crawl up to the mattress. A quilt is folded to the side, but no sheets are on the bed. As you lay part of the quilt down to roll yourself up into a blanket burrito, you notice your infected standing in the living room, staring at your movements.
“Do you… do you want to come up here?” You ask awkwardly, patting the side of the mattress.
At your invitation, he climbs the ladder, pausing once he gets to the top, as though making sure you are not changing your mind. Then he crawls into bed with you, removing his shoes and jacket, imitating your movements. He lays his head down and allows you to cover the both of you up.
Falling asleep comes once you get over how awkward you feel. You have not shared a bed with anyone for… god, you can’t remember. It has been a long while. When you close your eyes, you are hyperaware of the gentle breathing beside you, your back firmly against his. Against your better judgment, however, you feel safe. Protected.
You would not be able to pinpoint the moment you slipped from consciousness, falling into a deep, heavy sleep. Waking up the next day feels like time travel because in one instant you went from exhausted to well rested in what seems like the blink of an eye.
What is embarrassing, though, is how you wake up. Your arms are wrapped around the infected’s chest, clinging to him like he is your life preserver and you are drowning in the ocean. So tight that your arms are beginning to ache, and it is a miracle he can breathe. Before you can jerk away and mumble an apology, a clawed hand reaches up and starts stroking your hair.
You melt, not wanting to break this moment of physical contact, staying that way for most of the morning. With your ear against his chest, you hear a soft rumbling noise, like a cat purring. With your eyes closed, you feel even more relaxed than before. After a long while, he detangles himself from you and moves down the stairs. Still pretending to be asleep, you hear the door open and shut as he leaves.
When you get up, you notice a small leather wallet where he had tossed his jacket the night before. Without an ounce of hesitation, you take it, opening it up to see what is inside. Three quarters, a savers card for a local grocery store, and a driver’s license. Hands shaking with anticipation, you pull the driver’s license out of its sleeve and look it over.
Even with the godawful lighting of the DMV, you can see the similarities between your infected and the man in the photo. The same jaw, the same lips, the angle and space of the eyes. It is him… from before. You look down at the name, hoping that there is something else you can call him besides ‘infected.’
Adham Chang.
So plain, yet gives him an identity. Before he was infected, he was someone, and he continues to cling to his humanity despite all odds. You feel for him, deep within you, a kind of sympathy and yearning that you have never felt for anyone before.
He returns after you eat breakfast and are cleaning up, hair tousled and body sweating as if he went out to exercise. You wonder if it was merely a long run, or if he had to go out and hunt. You do not remember him eating anything during your time together.
Wanting to see what happens, you call him by the name on the card. “Adham.”
His head snaps up in recognition, eyes darting around you, the room, and the windows as though looking for something. You hold the wallet out to him, almost feeling sheepish for snooping around his things. “You dropped this.”
With quick hands, he snatches it back, then turns away from you. He does not seem angry, but almost ashamed of himself. You walk over, placing an unsteady hand on his cheek, asking, “did you not want me to find out?” He looks back down at you, the corners of his mouth turning down.
You hug him, weaving your arms around his chest and squeezing tightly. “I am glad you saved me. And I am happy you brought me here to this house. Thank you.” You pop up on your toes to kiss him on the cheek.
The purring sound comes from his chest again, and you take that as a good sign. Though the cabin was in excellent condition, there still is work to be done. Adham is very adept at imitating what he sees, so all you have to do it show him what needs to be done, and he does it with no complaints. He chops wood, cutting down surrounding trees to feed the woodstove at night, while you gather water from the brook and begin the long process of distilling it.
The two of you work until the day is over, and you feel an overwhelming sense of accomplishment. After weeks, months even, of walking almost aimlessly for the sole purpose of survival, a home with a strong protector gives you something refreshingly new to do. You think this giddy feeling is happiness. You have not felt it in so long.
Finding sheets nicely folded in the closet, you spend some time making the bed. Four pillows, light and fluffy, are tossed into the mix. The quilt you slept on last night is thick and warm, but once winter comes, you may need to use one of the other blankets stashed away.
Then you surveyed the bathtub. The spout does not work, which is to be expected. To actually bathe, you will have to boil brook water, which would take a long while to do. You need a bath, though, and you refuse to take no as an answer. You begin to make the trips back and forth, filling up a bucket full of water and pouring it into the large pan on the stove. There is no need to use only boiling water, in theory, half cold half hot ratio would make the perfect temperature.
You have never been more proud to bathe in your life. The experience of warm water surrounding you is nothing less than transcendental. The feeling of soap on your skin brings tears to your eyes as you scrub months of grime and dead skin away. Watching the dirty water drain felt like saying goodbye to that gray period of your life. It is gone, and you can let yourself relax now.
Stepping out of the bathroom only wrapped in a short towel, you find Adham in the living room, gazing at his old driver’s license. When he hears you come out, he quickly sets it down as though ashamed of what he is doing. When he sees you, damp and almost completely bare, his eyes meet yours forlornly.
You stand in front of him, hair still dripping, and drop the towel. His breath hitches as he faces your naked body, eyes flickering, unsure what to look at first. Clawed hands come to rest on your hips, the pads of his fingers and palms covered in rough calluses. You straddle him, placing your hands on his shoulders, then bend over to press your lips against his.
Adham moans into your kiss, his grip at your waist tightening. You break the kiss, panting, the spot between your legs feeling warm. Bending over again, you use your tongue and lick his lips, pressing against his mouth when he opens it for you.
His shirt comes off easy, the skin of his torso pale with flecks of black collecting into a stripe that follows his spine. There are small black ridges there, prominent and pointed at the end. You admire them, running your fingers down his back to see how they feel. He sighs in your neck at your gentle touches, giving you flurries of kisses along your collarbone as you begin working on his pants.
The center of his boxer is stiff and inviting. You palm it, gauging his reaction as he arches his back and groans. Before you can pleasure him further, he flips you over onto the couch, so he is on top, lips in a victorious smile as he bends over for a kiss. Slowly, he kisses your jawline, your cheeks, your nose, and your eyelids, open-mouthed kisses that let his oil black tongue lash out to taste. His mouth presses against your jugular, lingering there to take in your scent, then moving down to your collarbone.
You whimper, running your fingers through his hair as he sucks as hickey just above your belly-button. Then he gently parts your legs. He kisses the lips of your pussy, and you cry out, your hips bucking up for more. Adham must have liked that reaction because he does it again while staring you in the eye. Your body shakes, wetness leaking out of your pussy. His tongue presses up against your clit for a taste, then he begins to lick up and down and in little circles around your clit.
It is bliss and torture, hot and cold all at the same time. You remember begging at some point, incoherent as to what you are asking for. Adham knows what you want, and gives it to you freely. His tongue presses up inside you, tasting and licking at your nectar as if it is the most delicious thing he has ever eaten. With his mouth up against your cunt, his nose rubbing against your clit, you are over the edge.
Your body shudders, and you cry out, legs wrapping around his shoulders as he keeps licking, drinking every drop of cum you give him as though it is a holy offering. He is fervent and thorough, allowing you to ride his face through the aftershocks while his tongue takes what he needs.
Shivering from the orgasm, you try to reach out to pleasure him the way he pleasured you. But he pulls your arms up until you are standing, and leads you to the ladder of the loft. Taking that as a sign that he wants to make love to you in a bed, you are quick to comply with his request, climbing up and laying over the covers. He follows, crawling over your naked body and pressing his waist against yours.
He makes a purring sound again as he rubs his covered crotch against your body, loud enough to be a growl. You help him remove the boxers, eyeing the squirming black cock that comes out. Though it has been a while since you have come face to face with another person’s genitals, you do note that this is not exactly ‘normal.’ It is merely a passing observation, and despite it being different you find yourself wanting it inside you so badly your pussy becomes wet again.
It is thick, which a bulbous head. The tip of it is black, leaking some kind of gray precum. You reach over and touch it, moving your fingers along a vein. It feels leathery almost, though the precome working to make it slippery. Three ridges line the underside of his cock, which you rub your fingers against to see what they feel like. He hisses at your touches, making a high pitched whine. The two of you kiss again as you spread your legs for him, guiding his cock into your wet pussy until the head is in.
It feels so good, even as he slowly eases in, stretching your insides to fit him. You throw your head back and moan, encouraging him, telling him he feels so good inside you. He growls in response, beginning to thrust, the ridges rubbing against you in the very best way.
You keen for him, you whine for him, you meet his thrusts, eagerly panting as he fills you with his cock. It is positively filthy and arousing the way he moans and hisses, becoming undone by your body. His fingers find your clit, and he makes little circles, bringing you closer to the edge. His thrusts become shaky and uneven.
Then he roars, his seed spilling inside you. At the feeling of heat bursting into your pussy, you are gone as he, bodies shaking and trembling against each other in their shared pleasure.
He kisses you again, arms wrapping around your waist, holding you close as you come down from your high. His soft lips touch your eyelids, your nose, and your chin, reminding you without words that he adores every inch of you and your body. You snuggle closer to him, exhaustion falling over you and sleep taking hold of your mind.