The longer we walked, the more we saw. To keep walking and walking for two days, it was as though we were going deeper into the heart of this chaos than retreating to the safety the French soldier had indirectly promised. I was exhausted, so thoroughly exhausted. If I felt like this, how much more Alfred, he had never been the one to fight in a state of fear. My jackboot slipped for the umpteenth time and my arm was held with a bruising grip. "Not here lad," Arthur whispered, "We'll sleep soon." After this experience, I wonder if I'll ever sleep again. I wish I were sleeping and that once I fell asleep here I would wake up in the real world where I have been shot in the leg or something and just placed under anesthesia. In the distance I see a building, actually a large collection of buildings in what appears to be a scientific facility. I swallowed yet another whine at the sheer distance we were at.

"How much longer Frog," Arthur hissed as we skirted around the walking corpses. I took note that most didn't wear military uniforms at all, but actually white laboratory coats with the red, white, and black bands about their arms, the fabric crusted and stained. Those stank the worst than anything else we came across, their bodies the most decayed, some even crawled along the ground with gnarled and broken legs, their bones breaking through the skin in every angle. Then there were those we saw, their entire bodies beaten and battered from their ruthless push forward to whatever prey they had targeted. The moaned in the muck, arms and legs immovable and torn into meshes of jagged, broken bones and maggot infested flesh. We took great care in stepping around them, since they could still hear and give off our position. Moving or not, they were as dangerous as a minefield.

The French soldier didn't turn back, only kept moving until we reached a demolished gate that, at one time, had been barbed wired and most likely electrocuted if the numerous charred bodies filled with swarming white maggots and hovered over by flies. "Through here it's a straight run. They don't like being kept in one place, so they funnel out into the marshes and disperse." This is perhaps the safest place at the minute. Not only that, but an antidote."

"What do you mean an antidote?" I gasped, more from attempting to catch my breath than actual surprise. Yeah, I was just that tired.

He didn't answer, just jumped over a low, stooped section of the chain-linked fence, Arthur pushing me behind him before joining us on the other side. The buildings were pretty much destroyed, holes were broken through the cement and writing covered some of the walls. There wasn't much for obvious reasons. The ghostly words sent shivers down my spine.

Gott, wo bist du!

Retter, du aufgegeben mich!

Ich gebetet, du tat nicht hören.

HILF!

"I'll warn you now, one of them is a little-."

"Off his rocker?" Arthur offered and the Frenchman looked back with a tired smile.

"In a sense," the heavy French accent sighed. We entered the demolished building, bodies litter the ground, their bodies reeking and the white parasites consumed the rotting flesh, multitudes writhing and squirming. "Who is your friend Arthur?"

"My cousin, Matthew. Mattie, this is Francis. You remember him?"

Not originally, but then again I should have made the connection. It was just that our meeting hadn't been a very memorable interaction, not only that but I had been seven at the time. If I squint and cock my head to one side, I could see the tall, young troublemaker who took more care into his appearance than most girls I knew, though there weren't a lot of girls I knew; or a lot of people in general. A cold wave washed over me as I realized I was nothing of any importance. If I died, no one would care and no one would remember. My entire family was in this wasteland and I doubted we would live through this.

"Yes, I remember. We all thought you died."

Francis laughed, "I think I did, but at least I'm not alone mon ami. Souffrances amours compagnie."

We navigate the halls; the faint sounds of moaning from other sectors of the facility all but freezing me in my steps. There were screams. Fresh screams. People were still alive in this place and Francis didn't take any mind. We walked pass doors, corpses accessorized with handguns and pills and many other forms of suicide options. Some were even fresh, not a week ago.

"HILF MICH! HILF MICH GOTT!"

The pleas were so loud I could hear them as though the man was speaking beside me. As they devoured him, he would not leave this existence quietly, and his transformation was widely broadcasted. The excited moaning echoed, followed by the high screech of a newly born monster as it tore its own body to shreds, not feeling the pain of a human. What were they? They looked like men but felt no pain, experienced no fear or human expressions of emotion, and their strength. It was unnatural the amount of raw power their bodies held, being able to rip my arms clean off, followed by my head and then breaking my spine across their knee like a twig. How could anything derived from man be so powerful?

Another scream, much, much closer cascaded into my ears. If anything it sounded like we were moving towards the source. Was Francis going to kill us? Was he completely loony? Where were these friends! A deep pit of doubt coiled in my gut as we continued, but another voice was barely discernable under the loud cries we approached.

"Shhhh, quietly now, quietly. They'll hear you."

"Make them stop, please, make them stop."

"Who? What are you talking about? Calm down, there's no one here."

"Voices. Voices. Voices . . ." The voice wandered off, unintelligible muttering continuing the thought.

The voices emanated through a steel door, a faint humming told me that touching the metal wouldn't be the wisest choice. "Roderich, it's Francis."

"Ah, Francis, I was getting worried. One moment." The voice held a heavy German accent, to say I was surprised is an understatement. The language written about was obviously German, but to actually work with one after all the propaganda we had just devoured before enlisting was a sort of mind-bending notion. The buzz ceased and a heavy, hollow thud of a bolt and the numerous little clicks signaled a person unlocking the sturdy door. It opened just enough for us to slip through before hastily being closed once again.

The man on the other side wasn't one I expected. He looked nothing like the Aryan race Hitler was proclaiming with deep amethyst eyes and brown, messy hair. He wore a pair of cracked glasses and a white laboratory coat that looked oddly like the clothes of those undead creatures in the marsh. Even the red, black, and white bands proudly displaying a tarnished Swastika was still wrapped around his arm.

On a makeshift bed of rolled up uniforms and covered in bandages of varying sizes and textures, some looking like they were torn off the white coat the brunet wore, was a military man with light hair and muttering to himself. His hands held the fabric that made up the bed as though he was grasping at life. From the feverish flush of his skin, he very well might be. The tendons in his hands constricted and relaxed in rapid succession. The bandages were ensanguine and most abundant around his arms and neck. Scars darker than his skin were etched into his skin. A few things caught more interest to me: His hands were so close together, handcuffed with metal shackles and welded to the ground, his red eyes seemed to glow in the din, though faintly, and he stank. He smelled reminisce of those beings that lumbered through the marsh, though not to that degree. I didn't know if it was from all the infected wounds or if he truly was rotting before my eyes.

Arthur wheeled back, aiming his gun at the man; I don't believe he even had any ammo. "The fuck! What's the matter with him!"

The man in the white coat jumped in front of the barrel of Arthur's Sten, "He's been bitten yes, but don't shoot. Please."

"And why the bloody hell not!" I was with Arthur on this matter. If he had been bitten, we'd have to kill him sooner or later.

"He was bitten about three and a half weeks ago. If he hasn't changed yet . . . there's something happening inside him. Most die within minutes and are reborn as those creatures, but he's been like this for three weeks. I believe his body is actually fighting it as though it is a virus of some kind." I looked back to the red eyed man; he showed all the symptoms of raging a biological war inside his blood. "One of many things may happen: he will completely destroy the mutation, it'll overtake him, or the fever will mutate his DNA as well as the virus making him immune or killing him."

We watched the man for a few silent seconds before Arthur reverted his attention back to the man, Roderich, "You sick fucking bastard! Just shoot the poor devil! You're killing him either way!"

"There's a good chance he'll survive, his fever has reduced from 106 degrees to 104 in the past four days. I think he'll be coming around soon," Roderich looked more relaxed than any person I knew in such a situation. His fellow survivor on the ground, locked like an animal, and writhing in delusional fever, it seemed pretty heartless to me.

Arthur looked on in disgust, "So he's just a fucking test subject to you!"

"That's part of what he volunteered for," Roderich hissed, going back and kneeling before the German soldier.

Francis sat in a chair, the wood was worn and dull, creaking under his weight, "He should have been turned when he was found. We all met up about two months ago. Gilbert was with us, but he braved the halls to go and retrieve the antidote, which he did successfully return, though by that time we were not willing to administer it to him."

"And why not!"

"The thing is that the virus connects directly to the DNA, and it is vital to administer the antidote in the first minute and a half, in that time, the mutation will enter the nucleus of a multitude of cells at once and connect directly to the DNA strand and integrated into your entire body," Roderich explained the scientific terms, "To administer the antidote at that point is murder and would denature the entire genetic code and kill the receiver."

"How long was he infected before he arrived?" I asked gently as there was a terrified whimper from the chained man.

"Seeing as his nonfatal wounds were drying and scabbing, longer than a minute and a half."

Arthur was not impressed, "And why didn't he just administer the antidote on himself."

"We locked it up, only myself and one other doctor knows the code to open the case." My English cousin scoffed. I wasn't rather impressed either.

Arthur doesn't like Roderich, Roderich is suspicious of Arthur, Francis wants to stay out of it, and I'm with him. They bite at each other like dogs, only with words. Arthur always whispers mean things about the brunet to me. I don't know whether this animosity originates from the doctor's air of apathy towards his suffering ally, or the fact that he's a Nazi. It's hard to decipher. Francis doesn't seem to be at ease entirely, until Gilbert had one of his bouts, but those were becoming less and less often, and less and less violent.

I can only think about Alfred, what could have happened to him? Was he still alive? I wish I knew. Everyone sleeps on the edge while I keep watch. Alfred always sucked at staying awake, we always let him sleep and I'd take his place on his nights. No one ever noticed anyway. He was Alfred, I was Alfred Number Two. Not that I complain much, only when the troubles he caused rained down on my head. He was an idiot and bad older brother, but I loved him anyway. Don't ask why, I can't answer it logically.

By now they have filtered to our quadrant of the desolated building. They moan as they travel pass, not looking for us, but longing for us, searching for us, for any poor bastard at all.

"Kat . . ."

I jump, startled by the sudden voice and turning. Gilbert is propped on his elbow, faintly glowing, red eyes looking at the door, through the door and into the halls. His hands are still chained, but he isn't struggling. He doesn't see me at all it seems, he's searching for something I cannot see.

"Lass mich in Ruhe, bitte lass mich in Ruhe Teufel."

I don't know German, so whatever he said was lost, but he keeps muttering, repeating, chanting. Can he not stop? Over and over he says one single word.

"Katarine . . . Katarine . . . . Katarine . . ."

Then I hear it, faint through the door. Mutilated voices struggling to speak through shredded vocal cords by the dozens. There isn't the loud screech of them being electrocuted, so they aren't coming for us, but the sound is enough to make me grip the Sturmgewehr 44 or STG44 Roderich had given me. The voices cascade and echo through the halls and bounce off the steel door and echo loud enough for me to listen to their chorus of the undead.

"Kat . . . Katarine . . . Kat . . . Kat . . . Kat . . . arine . . ." The man in the room with me looks just as terrified as I do.

"Lass mich in Ruhe. Bitte . . . Bitte . . . Bitte . . . Katarine, Bitte . . ."

Katarine . . . A name. A girl's name. They are all saying it. All these creatures, all these demons. Why? What makes this girl so powerful to be hailed by these unstoppable beings?

Who is she?