Chapter Summary
- REVIVAL
It feels like I've been asleep for so long… W-Where am I!? What happened to me...? I...I need to stay calm and think… Think... My name… My name is Kyle Crane... - Kyle
THREE: NIGHTFALL
It took a while for Kyle Crane to regain his bearings again. To recall...everything.
The first question to come to mind was where. Then the next: what happened to him? How long had he been out? It felt like he had been sleeping for months, years even—he couldn't move, speak, or do anything.
He couldn't even remember. But now, he was free. He was wide awake. No one to snarl at him and tell him what to do. He could finally think for himself!
And think he did.
The name eventually came to him—his own name. Slowly, more memories trickled in, one by one. He used to be someone. Someone brave. Someone who made poor life choices. Someone terrible.
Because...he was surviving. He was a survivor. He was part of a group that held up somewhere… The Tower.
But that wasn't the last place he remembered. Think, Kyle.
He squished his dry eyes shut, in an attempt to get his brain juices moving, as he breathed in.
The Countryside. He went to the Countryside... To investigate a rumor. A possible way out. Talks about some cult and sentient zombies-
A flash happened. Something came right towards him. In red. The mask was off, showing a horrible face and split mandibles.
"You cannot survive this."
He jumped. No!
"She's dead!" he cried dryly. "She's fucking dead…"
Focus, Kyle, focus!
He looked back at his surroundings. But this place didn't look like the Countryside. Or the insides of some lab storage inside a dam.
"Where am I?"
His voice sounded raspy. Weird-sounding too. He almost couldn't recognize his own voice. Well, he felt like he hadn't had a drink in a while. So he swallowed hard, hoping to clear it.
Crane examined everything. The first thing he noticed was the colors being a little off, but he dismissed it for the darkness. No silos, no open fields, or windmills. He was nowhere near any farm. Not a single familiar landmark he could find amidst the urban structures.
This was a city, with mountains on one side and a wide coastline on the other.
Wait. A city. Yeah. He...he was in Harran but...
"This...this isn't Harran."
He cleared his voice again. What was wrong with it? It prompted his hand to grasp his throat.
Where on Earth did he wander off to? What had he been doing this entire time? There shouldn't be any dillydallying, Kyle! You still had the virus to worry about-
He stopped when he felt something strange about his skin. On his throat.
Uncomfortably and inhumanly rigid.
Kyle flinched back at the horrible, alien feeling and completely froze with horror.
That was the one important thing he had forgotten. That memory hit him far worse than his headache.
He remembered he was infected.
The bite from a random zombie when he parachuted down in the middle of the Slums' streets.
When was the last time he took his Antizin?
The dread swelled up inside of him, lungs and heart quickening their pace. No, calm down. He was still there. It would be the end for him if he wasn't.
Calm down, he told himself.
He glanced down at his hands, dreading that his notion was right.
"Grah-ah-AHHH!"
Crane nearly screamed; his shriek turned into the panicked murmur of a monster. Because he now noticed the talons. And he tried to get away from them.
They followed. Those were his hands.
Shaking, he lifted them up close, hoping it was a joke. Flipped them around to see the horrible truth.
This wasn't a joke.
"What-?"
Another thing stopped him, making him grip his throat out of sheer terror this time. It finally kicked in with a shiver down his spine. His voice wasn't raspy—what came out of his charred lips didn't sound anything like his human voice! It was like somebody else was talking to him.
He tried again. Forcefully clearing his throat a third time.
"H-How-"
No. Stop. This wasn't him. That wasn't him!
"This is a nightmare! Has to be!"
Stop talking! That wasn't his voice!
"Why is this-"
He jumped again. Not another problem!
What was that just now?! It sounded like his normal voice. But...not from his own mouth! It was as if Kyle should be thinking to himself but he could hear his own thoughts like soundwaves.
The manner of 'thought-speech' was also familiar to him—someone else did this means of communication he had heard...or telepathically listened?
"T-This isn't real!" His head felt heavy. He tried to steady himself, but even the awkward sensation of claws—his claws—touching the odd bumps on his head freaked him out. Like a Special had just brushed him by a hair, but it was him all along.
Everything in him was out of control.
"C-Calm yourself down."
No, that voice terrified him. It was making it worse. His vision was blurring up again, delirium creeping over and hyperventilation strangling him. He tried his best to stop himself from exploding. Any sane person would never be the same after discovering they had turned into a monster.
Maybe he was insane. That was the best answer he could make, but he should be losing it again if that were true. Someone take me away from this nightmare. And yet, it felt like something was anchoring him down. It wasn't his willpower, that was for sure—what was left of it.
"Calm down."
He shut his eyes and slowed his breathing. It wasn't partly working; he could hear and sense everything on an enormous scale.
"GAARGH!"
Then came a well-known roar.
The alarms in his head rang loud—he had been through this before. It was like immediately getting back on the saddle for him, or at least the human side of Crane. He might be in another city but it certainly wasn't safe either. Below his perch, he saw the same sight he had always seen back in the Slums: the wandering Biters in the dead of night.
But one thing caught his attention. Because it was bright and orange. The tibia and the fibula bending in and out, the strange entity moving fast through the street. It coaxed a small part inside of him to go chase after it. Catch the firefly. But what stopped him was what he was seeing. A fucking skeleton running on its feet bones.
Or was this how the infected see? Didn't matter. His eyes trailed after the highlighted skeleton and he noticed three big creatures swooshing in the shadows. A few glances from nearby light sources showed to him that those were in fact, beasts like him. Volatiles. Hunting. Pursuing their prey.
That clicked for Crane. It wasn't him they were after. They were after the skeleton. They were after a human.
A human was being chased, not him. Something familiar heated up in his chest—the sight of someone in peril would always urge him to come to their rescue—and he had done this many times.
A human needed help.
His legs wouldn't move, the anxiety rooting him back. A human would see him and flee.
But that was a person in danger!
Kyle! Move!
He bolted on the balls of his feet. The same man who jumped into the worst-case scenarios leapt in like before. He had never said no when others would turn away, even if lives were at stake. Because they were innocent. They needed saving. Even as a freak, it was still in his very nature to save lives.
He couldn't walk away when a person was in danger and in the worst possible way. He wasn't shameless to do such a thing, all because he was too cowardly to show his new ugly self to anyone. He could figure himself out after that person was safe!
The pursuit showed him the differences between the 'new' self and the old self. He was a lot faster—not comic superhero speed but neither human. He could vault over obstacles further than most runners he knew. In fact, he caught up to the vicious mob, heading towards one destination: a spike-fenced, fortified safehouse at a construction site.
With the lights off. Both normal and UV.
Then he saw the bright skeleton, leaping over the fences. A woman, at least from the back—what he saw within view was like a layer over the orange-lit skeleton, as if he wore x-ray glasses. Crane quickly noticed one significant thing on her: a red sports jacket bearing the emblem of a savage wolf's head.
A woman in red.
She slipped into the safehouse and shut the door behind her. The Volatiles weren't far away, already prancing right into the perimeter. There was nothing to stop them—snarling their open mandibles at wobbly guests to back off and leave their prey for them. The biggest one out of the bunch took to slamming its claws at the door.
Crane plummeted right into the perimeter, having grabbed a wrench lying around on the run. One Volatile turned to him. "GAARGH!" it bellowed. Back off. This is ours, they hissed
Not the exact words but that was how he pictured what they said from their feral body language. And know what, he thought to himself, he wasn't a human anymore. A human had few choices against a Volatile: run away or use every trick in the book to at least kill one Volatile. The three Volatiles glaring him down with red glowing eyes weren't against a human.
So he went all out!
THUD!
One Volatile tumbled down from the whack on the head. Whining from the pain.
"Kssssk!" howled the other.
THUD!
The Special fell down, holding its blood-soaked head. Then the second got whacked from the side.
This...was a lot easier than Crane had expected. Each hit he gave did a great amount of damage—he could hear the bone crack. And these were the types he would run away from. He would never go face-to-face without some handy UV lights. His newfound strength, however, was devastating these monsters, to the point his weapon was close to breaking after a few strikes.
Crane turned to the Volatile banging down the door. For a split second, he failed to see the first one rise up with a lunge attack.
Your right!
It was that familiarly distasteful voice again, scratching at the back of his skull. But the warning was enough for him to react—wheel right to see the charging Special and quickly swing the wrench upwards. THUD! The Volatile quivered back at the hard whack to the chin and now his wrench was bent. Unusable.
Despite everything he gave, the two other Specials rose back up. There was an angrier, more bloodthirsty spark in their eyes, the kind animals would have towards an outsider who had overstayed his welcome.
Great. What else was he supposed to use? His fists? Three against one wasn't ideal, despite his newfound power.
His ears then picked up something. As if something was starting up. A 'whooing' sound. Then a buzzing sound-
Light blinded him. White. Then blue.
Suddenly, his entire body burned.
"Gaaaugh!" Crane howled. His skin felt like it was on fire. He was becoming weaker every second he stayed in the light. What was going on?!
"Gaargh-hisssss!" The blast of light stunned the two Volatiles just as it did for him. They quickly recoiled back and covered their faces before fleeing over the barriers. The last one—the one Crane smacked its head open—contorted out a horrible gurgling noise from its jawless mouth. The strong, disgusting smell of burning flesh filled Crane's nostrils; the bastard was roasting up. It tried to follow after its brethren, but it gave up the fight quickly, and its body timbered over the barbed wires.
Right. Right! Exposure to ultraviolet light: it was a powerful weapon every survivor should have. A deadly weapon against zombies! It turned places into safe havens; it scared off the common infected; it hurt the Specials, draining them down to be forced back into their holes.
And Crane was being cooked alive.
Get out! Get out now!
He obeyed, tightening his hood and drapes. A dart and dive right out of the hot safehouse. But his stamina was so spent that he rolled weakly across the ground—a stupid attempt of stop, drop and roll. Water stung his eyes as he tried to endure the pain, shrinking into a ball.
"Gaagh," he groaned. "Gack!"
Shit, Crane could still feel the radiation. He had to crawl away before forcing himself up physically and far away from the rays. He could feel his energy slowly returning. And feeling his grit coming back, the night prowler mentally shoved the pain out of his system and pushed onwards by climbing his way up to a safe spot—the balcony of an abandoned apartment near the construction site.
"That hurt! So much...!" Crane breathed heavily. God, this was third-degree burn! He huffed one more time in a desperate attempt to shake the feeling off. "So...this is how the infected feels... Shit."
Nope. It still took more time to stop being in pain.
Well...look on the bright side! The safehouse was on! That was a good sign. Crane took one tired peer over the balcony. With his terrifying vision piercing through the trailer's walls, he saw the lady sitting on the floor. She was panting heavily from the experience of nearly being caught and mauled down. But finally, she was safe.
He saved her.
He could rest, feeling relieved-
"Holy hell."
Crane jerked his head at the thick accent. Wait a minute.
He searched for the source. It sounded crystal clear. Like he was right next to someone.
Was he hearing things now?
"That was way too close for comfort..."
No, wait... Was that the woman? Yes, he was hearing her voice. Absolutely pristine vocal words from...inside the trailer! Christ. Was this how well his hearing could go?
"Jack? "
Then he heard another voice—a man's, a bit muffled with background noises as if it came from a can. Radio talk?
"Y-Yeah. Yeah. I'm good... Talk about a run for my money. Ahaha."
"You are one lucky woman, you know that?"
Yup, now he was hearing radio talk. This was getting weirder by the minute. In fact, Crane was terrified of his extraordinary ability to perceive sound, going levels of bat-shit crazy. But he listened regardless—not like he had a choice not to. He could clearly see the brightly outlined skeleton putting fingerbones to where her ear was. Comms.
"Luck has nothing to do with that. It's all about skill," the woman exclaimed.
"Heh. Well, you did say you were a specialist."
Crane's unpleasant peeking twisted into an attentive inspection out of interest. Seeing her talk to someone on the line gave him a sense of closeness he hadn't felt for a long time.
"Give me that, Mahir! Jack?!" A third one came into the audible picture: a young, female voice. A kid. "I'm sorry! I-I shouldn't have left you behind!"
"Siv."
"You-You were right! We should have turned back! There wasn't even anything good in the drop-!"
"Siv!" the woman uttered. "I'm fine. Just a little grazed, but I'm fine."
Excuse him but wasn't she running for dear life just a couple of minutes ago? And grazed? She nearly got whacked earlier!
...Wait, Crane thought. Was she attacked? He vaguely remembered something along those lines-
Oh. Right.
It was he who attacked her. At that chapel... Guilt gnawed at his insides as his brain slowly reminded him of the punches she had to deliver to him in order to survive a zombie attack. Fine job, Kyle.
"…We came out with nothing, and you nearly got yourself killed."
"Well, I wouldn't say it was for nothing... Don't put yourself in a bind over this." There was an odd chirp in the woman's voice. And it brought great disbelief to Crane. Did she really just shrug off the fact he nearly killed her?! And three Volatiles were after her? Monsters nearly tried to eat her and it was just "yeah, I'm over it."
You do not get over something like that, lady!
"You all should get some sleep. I'll see you guys tomorrow."
"Yeah. Tomorrow. You better come back alive," the younger voice demanded.
"We girls gotta stick together."
How normal and easy it was for this person to banter back, casting away all the horrors she experienced like it was yesterday's news. It was a little laughable, a bit strange, and most of all...a bit sad for Crane. It was a normal conversation between survivors—the kind he had at the Tower, to people he met along his journey. Without realizing it, he felt a heartstring tug at the painful familiarity. This cheekiness, the harmless small talk to lighten up their grim reality...
It honestly made him miss the real deal.
And listening to an adult talk to some kid through the comms had way too much resemblance to him. This reminded him of how he was with Rahim when he first started. What a blast from the past. It didn't start off like bubby-bubby. The kid was a jackass, pretending to be the boss and calling him lazy.
Then he remembered Rahim.
He gripped his chest. It hurt.
"And Siv?"
Crane looked back at the woman below him.
"Yeah? "
"We'll find more supplies tomorrow. This granny still has some years left to keep up with you."
"Heh. I'll hold you to your word... Goodnight, Jack."
And the call was over. Just like that.
"...Yeah. Goodnight. And good luck," she said to nobody. It was a tiring mumble to herself. She took her sweet time contemplating. Observing the woman's actions reminded Kyle of his first assignment: he had to turn the power grid back on for Spike and, after a long first day, decided to sleep it off on the makeshift bed inside the generator room.
This was all too familiar to him.
Then he snapped out of the nostalgia. How long was he going to watch her? Till she went to sleep? That was stalker's territory—totally creepy, Kyle. You're not that kind of man.
The word, man, rang a horrible reminder to himself, making him sigh and swallow his fear up. He had to deal with it now even if he didn't want to. It was time to look at himself and face the music.
At his new body. His...zombified self.
Crane expelled the revolt off his chest and looked at his hands again, deadly sharp weapons opening up. No, stop calling them hands...they were claws. The reality still didn't sink in for him: this wasn't his body even if he was staring down at himself. Could he just tear the skin off and see the color beige underneath it?
Was this what happens when you've lost the battle to the Harran virus? What the hell was he anyway?
"O-Ok."
He stopped himself. Cleared his throat again. Doing that weird 'thought-speaking' was a better option than hearing that horrible, hoarse voice.
"So you're a zombie." He 'laughed' nervously. A naïve attempt to dumb his reality before him down. "I-It's alright. You can shake this off."
No, it wasn't. That was a madman talking.
"You're...ok." Now it was getting harder to lie to himself. The truth rolled off his tongue, and it hit him again. "You're just a sentient...zombie."
Great. He basically became the one thing Mother said he would.
Another reminder from the past he didn't want to remember.
"...The Mother."
Anger boiled inside of him as he curled his talons in, claws shaking. Now he remembered. Absolutely everything from the Countryside.
"She did this to me."
She turned him into this monster!
There was nowhere for the rage to go, his sharpened teeth grounding and the pain in his claws from the nails digging in. He wanted to hit something! He had lost everything thanks to that bitch! Without thinking, he lifted both fists up. But all he had was the floor beneath his feet.
He let his claws drop down to his sides. The rage fizzled out before it could escape and Crane slumped back in defeat.
Even if he could be angry, yell or punch something, what would that achieve? He'd be acting like a child, throwing a tantrum. It was all pointless.
The Mother was gone. He killed her. Remember, Kyle?
So he couldn't take his vengeance. Nobody could take the blame but himself for going to the Countryside.
"Rot in hell, you bitch."
A pointless comeback but it made him a little better.
Kyle breathed in and out. In and out... And put his head back. At the corner of his eye, he saw his reflection in the balcony door. Just the eyes, hauntingly silver-blue, peering from under the drapes wrapped over his head.
He knew what the colors of his eyes had been before. He tightened the cloth more, too dreadful to see his whole face. That allowed the despair to eat in.
On one side, he shouldn't. He couldn't let depression finally win. But on the other, maybe he should so he could stop seeing this sorry sight of himself. Again, his frustration stirred up at the thought that someone up there gave him the finger and put him back in this hideous excuse of his old self.
Crane heavily sighed, giving up. He was still groggily from his weird out-of-body experience - or was it back-in-body experience? Most of his energy was spent on his internal fighting, the actual fighting with Volatiles and the UV rays. He couldn't catch a break, not since Day One in Harran.
"Ok... Ok. What do I do now? " Was it that easy to swing back like that? Denial was his only key to hold onto. "Heh," he scoffed at himself. "Don't really have a manual for this."
Smooth, Kyle. Real smooth. He might as well smash his head again and go out completely.
...Then he should distract himself from his whole ordeal. That was the one thing that kept him going: work. Without work, people would suffer in the Slums. They needed someone to do the most difficult tasks at hand and he took it, because they had no one else. Work kept his mind sane and his body alive—because he couldn't falter from a loss. People depended on him.
Alright. Think.
He thought it over. First off, he found himself in a different city. The city was plagued with infected like Harran all over again. And from the conversation he overheard earlier, there was a group of survivors somewhere like the Tower—maybe the same faction the woman in red was part of.
"Supplies... These people need Antizin."
Then he shook his head angrily.
"Really? You're gonna do this? " he muttered to himself. "One look at you and they'll shoot you down... The Tower's gotta be worried about me-"
Then he stopped himself again.
"No. I can't...… Brecken, Lena, everyone... They shouldn't see me like this."
If any of his friends saw him...it would devastate them. No, he couldn't bring himself to do it. He should spare them from seeing their friend like this. Crane had to do this on his own, like always.
But he couldn't go on like this. He needed help. For once, it was he who couldn't solve this problem on his own.
"Can't go to Camden either..." He groaned out of frustration. Oh, c'mon. He didn't have any other option but what could he do? Camden was working on a cure-
It was then he remembered the blue liquid.
"Shit... The vials."
He patted around his belt area and combed what little pockets he had on his clothes—everything. But there was no sign of the pouch belt on him, not even the three tubes containing the blue glow. No weapons, no tools, not even his Companion phone. He had absolutely nothing on him except the rags on his back.
"Great... Must have dropped them somewhere."
Crane couldn't believe his own luck. He just got back his mind, got beaten to a bloody pulp by that woman in red, nearly became a roasted infected pig from UV light, couldn't return to his so-called 'normal' life and he lost the vials!
He sighed, hunching down his head. "...Maybe it's for the better."
Maybe the Mother was right. They were poison.
"...Are you stupid? That means you're agreeing with her." It left a foul taste in his mouth. "...No. They had to be the cure-"
He wanted to slap himself for thinking that too.
"Look at what that 'cure' did to you! " he snarled at himself, even a vocal growl came out of him. "Know what? Good riddance to them!"
They were a lot more trouble than they were worth. They were a dead end.
That didn't mean he could give up. "...I should retrace my steps. Go back to Harran."
What was the last thing he remembered-
A throbbing memory batted him. The sight of three people in a playground, looking at him terrified.
A woman and two children-
"Gaugh!" He groaned, staggering up from his perch. He held his head, claws on both sides, but the anxiety peaked inside like a train wreck. No, no. You did nothing to them.
Stop it.
Or else!
Or else...
He wouldn't forgive himself if he caused the lives of a mother and two children. No, Crane already didn't forgive himself after seeing the mess around him.
The scenery by the coastline was in shambles. Ruin and ash were everywhere with death sticking to every corner - smoke funneling out from all sorts of urban places. With his overpowering senses, he could hear and see the destruction. People were dying, screaming, running while the infected ravaged the streets. The massacre was still upon the innocents, by the virus or by man.
This was the Harran outbreak all over again. Something brought the virus into this city and caused the mayhem.
The realization made Crane horrible inside. Completely sick to the stomach and overwhelmed that the bile shook right out of him, the acid stinging his throat but he kept it in.
One more look back at the burning city around him.
He caused all this, didn't he? When he left that manhole, he…
He destroyed this city.
"No... No, no!" He shook his head. Don't think about it! Calm down! "I...I didn't-"
Stop denying it.
The voice again, softer this time. Was it doubt trying to trick him? That part of him was morbidly curious to know what happened to this city after he lost himself. But Crane was too terrified to learn the truth.
And? It didn't matter anymore. He ran away. He couldn't pretend he had nothing to do with the city's demise when the results were around him; he caused all of this.
And that truth punched him so hard that he had no choice but to accept it.
"I did this... I brought the virus in..."
The Hero of Harran brought an end to this city and its people.
He failed.
Crane felt something wet in his eyes. He fell on his knees. The final blow was all it needed to break him.
Enough. It has been too long since he kept on a brave face, to show that he wasn't a wuss to anyone, because if he were to break, then everyone would break too. Now that façade no longer mattered to him. He wasn't a human anymore. He had no more reasons to hold it back.
So he broke out and softly sobbed. He finally cried, like he did as a poor, small boy. A grown man...a Hyde of a man bawled his eyes out. Someone, please, take him away from all this.
He wanted to go home. He wanted to make amends, something, anything. Just stop this guilt...
Kyle Crane was no hero. He was the bad guy this whole time.
Nobody could hear him—not the sleeping survivor in the trailer or the mindless walkers below him. He cried to nobody. No one would hear and come save him. Yes, this time he really needed saving. He was too weak to climb back up on his feet.
But he was all alone in this world.
"Don't hold back!" came the yell.
Crane snapped his eyes open at the sudden new memory. At the woman in red, holding her hands up like a boxer. With a maddening glare and a wickedly large grin. The three words came to him as a powerful chant, for a second time. That was confidence—someone bold and looney enough to take down a monster like him. Brighter than gold.
And like a fire spreading, it stirred up something old inside of him. He could feel that flame in him ignite, just a little. He eyed down at the tiny dark spots on the ground—he had really spent all his tears out.
He was spent all right: uncertain, lost and tired. He was gone through being angry, being sorry for himself and denying everything within minutes. It was all a waste of time. Like the strange, monstrous voice said to him in his head, the damage was done beyond repair. Just accept it and be done with it, Kyle. Then he could move on...
Move on to what? He was back at square one. At this point of his...new undead life, Crane had no idea what he should be doing. He had no more goals left, nobody to guide him, no voice over the comms to tell him where to go. He had nothing, and he couldn't return to anything.
Just this...disgusting, revolting body.
He had already lost a lot before he went to the Countryside. People too—two of them being the most important people to him before he realized it too late.
Jokingly, he thought to himself... If Rahim were here, he'd be calling him lazy again. Like from their first meeting together.
I'm not lazy, was Crane's remark behind the kid's back.
"Guess I have been lazy for far too long..." He had been doing nothing but staying inside his head for God knew how long.
With one deep inhale and exhale, he went back to thinking. Despite being in this body, his regained mind was as sharp as always, observant to the little details a human would see patiently. So his mind had to cross the t's and dot the i's at a single question.
"...Why...am I back?"
It was a valid, good question. The whole retaining his humanity thing was strange. It should be weird! The infected weren't able to talk, think or be themselves again. The common infecteds couldn't come back after they've been...well, zombified. So why was he able to think? Why was he, out of the thousands of infected, able to return as himself?
Human-ish.
That was a start. Crane might as well let his curiosity get the better of himself. Let the detective persona take over for a moment. He had nothing else to lose.
"Ok. So I'm back from...whatever this is..." Something happened to him. It did something to the virus, alright. Pulling up a portion of his humanity back into his head when frankly, he wanted it gone so he wouldn't have to acknowledge his own predicament. But now he had to, hur-fucking-rah.
But he wasn't sure what the cause was. All he could recall was some gruesome taste in his mouth and a couple of parts about that whole fight with the lady...
He trailed his eyes back to the lying, highlighted skeleton in the safehouse.
"...She doesn't have anything to do with this, does she?" That was absurd thinking. Like some random survivor he just happened to encounter, helped him be sane again.
Was she the key to his problems?
He frowned irritably at that question.
"And what? She's gonna help me get back to normal? Find out why I can think ?! Great plan, Kyle!" he hissed at himself. A legit hiss of an animal from his own mouth. No, more like the mumbled wails of an infected Runner pleading that he was still there in the head only to eat off his friend's face.
He didn't have the foggiest idea how it even happened. Just the knuckle sandwiches he had gotten, enough to knock an average Joe out. And the taunts. And a lot of pain. He didn't see an injection from her—no magic fingers that snapped him out of his frenzy, nothing.
C'mon. There had to be some other, more logical, theory as to why he came back.
"She certainly beat the living shit out of me... Maybe that did me in."
The violent, explosive personality of that woman probably scared his dangerous side right out of him. That was the best answer he could come up with; it sounded less ridiculous than someone having a cure.
He would admit one thing. That lady was a fighter. A scary one. And she had every right to fight him: Crane the Zombie tried to kill her. His head still throbbed from being bashed over like a punching bag. Maybe it should be the other way around about who was killing who. But the ballsiest thing she did was using her fists at him. Fists. Not a weapon, fists. Hell, she even used her teeth.
Who does that?!
He massaged the bite wound on his neck. That was one thing he couldn't forget. It still stung. "Can't believe she bit me-"
Then a grim thought came to mind and the guilt wrenched him from the inside again.
"Shit... She shouldn't have bitten me..." He sighed shamefully, resting his head in his hands—ahem, claws. "Dumb thing to say, idiot. I shouldn't have bitten her...twice."
His problems kept piling up one after the other, and he had to add more. He didn't know—he didn't want to remember anymore—how many times he could have bitten people. Infected them with the virus and transformed them into something like him? Worse, the idea of how many he could have ripped apart and murdered turned his stomach inside out.
Crane had to stop himself again. The more he tried to conclude, the longer he'd be in an endless loop of 'what ifs". There was nothing he could do. The fact was right in front of him: he bit that woman and now she had the same affliction as thousands of people had. Without Antizin...the outcome would exactly be like his...
One more to his long list of victims this 'monster' took. What exactly that number was, he didn't want to know.
He heaved one deep breath and thought long and hard. The woman in red shouldn't have the same fate he went through. Nobody should. Crane had no one with him to give him mercy when he lost it back at that manhole. He had always been the one to give the final blow to a close friend or a stranger. To end their misery.
But he was wishful. Death shouldn't be an immediate answer.
"She also needs Antizin." Crane remembered the seizures that shook through his body and the hallucinations. It was going to be the same experience for the lady until Camden's cure could be finished.
And he asked himself, that was when? Should he even try to look for a bottle to prolong her life?
He shook his head. Had he forgotten? "They've stopped dropping that suppressor in... Then...she's gonna turn like me..."
One step at a time, he would worry about the whole lack of Antizin later. But he had come to the conclusion that he was out of options. The decision was feeling a lot heavier on his shoulders now.
Alright...he'd do it. If the woman were to lose the fight to her infection, then...he had to end her life.
He was the one responsible for giving her the virus, he should be the one responsible in taking her life. That was the least he could do for her. He was a zombie now. They kill with absolutely no remorse or emotion. He might as well oblige, like it was the latest trend.
...But only if the woman was too far gone. He honestly hoped it wouldn't come to that.
"Sorry, lady." No way was she going to hear him way up from his spot. But Crane wanted to say it. "If that happens...then, I gotta be the one to end it for you."
He had a new mission to keep—his first task in this undead life. It sickened him but...there was the least he could do.
He rose up on his feet. It was then and there that he saw something over the balcony. Another 'firefly' but it was small and on the ground, several feet away from the safehouse. It caught his attention so much that it prompted him to leave his perch and walk over to the glowing object—well, not a true walk like a human being. More like the trotting of some deformed ape on two in a concrete jungle.
He reached out a hand to what looked like a cell phone but he stopped. The tips of his talons started to singe a little, a sharp pain needling in the skin. Crane quickly drew his claw back and bit his teeth down. Dammit, the phone was still within range of where the safehouse's UV lights beamed over.
Crane grimaced aloud. Just get it over with. He'd endure the burning again. Kyle kneeled closer and reached out-
Something shot right out of his hand. A snake!
"Shit!" It scared him right off his feet, the phone whooshing up to him and right into his claw. His own arm had split open and fired out a tendril like it knew what he wanted before slipping back inside...him.
So he could shoot vines out of him. Another new thing about himself.
"Ok... Baby steps," he choked to himself. "T-Take baby steps."
Crane groaned, taking the new alien-like biology off his mind by examining the phone—a cheap brand anyone could get in this day and age. Something normal he could do. From the get-go, it was a source of information. Just like his previous Companion App was, reminding him of his list of objectives, map locations and all that.
However, Crane had one minor difficulty with it: a talon couldn't swipe the screen, so instead he added more scratches to the already-cracked phone. Did he even have fingerprints anymore? Crane simply gave up halfway through exploring what was inside the contents. He managed to find the notes—an in-phone diary.
"Tagged for drop collection with the girl. Should be a quick and simple job." That was the recent note. Next note, a couple of hours ago, read, "First day at the Junction and things aren't that terrific. Siv's a concern, not because of how much she might have heard but how much she's already been through. I need to keep an eye on her."
This was the woman's phone, wasn't it? He didn't see another survivor who dropped the device while running for her life. He continued on, browsing through the history.
"Got derailed into Scanderoon and lost Lenny's boat! At least I'm alive!" Ok, now he knew which city he was in. He had been right next door to Harran this whole time. "Nobody at the Junction knows how or why the virus got in. But it certainly feels like I'm back in the Outskirts again."
"The Outskirts?" That was on the other side of Harran, completely closed off from the Slums. He had heard about that part of the city months ago. That place was the first evacuation zone set up before it got closed off when the infection overtook the area.
What was more surprising was the woman herself—shewas from the Outskirts?
"That can't be right."
A pang of confusion caused him to look back to the trailer, expecting the woman to discover she was without her phone, but the skeleton slumbered peacefully. Not like he could go up to her and get his answers anyway. More likely, she'd try to kill the infected person who bit her.
The rest of the notes were just small requests: pick up some specific items, scout nearby enemy outposts, go talk to a fisherman at Hope Habor. But there was one piece of information he found to be most important and suspicious one, all the way at the bottom of the list.
Find any Special Infected, test secret weapon on them and track them down if they survive. Asem's order.
That was the weirdest thing to write. Moreover, the lady had to be out of her mind—go and track down Special Infected? That was a death wish. And what was this secret weapon? It was a tall order that even the old Crane wouldn't take. Details were too vague.
Something about this irked him but he couldn't figure out why.
More reason not to get attached then. Whoever this woman was, Crane should knock it right out of the ballpark. It would make things a lot easier for him. Furthermore, he had to convince himself again: he wasn't human anymore. So he shouldn't go soft ever again. He had to be colder.
This time, Crane couldn't give a pass to a stranger.
Look at what happened to him the last time he did that. He became a freak of nature.
Well, he did decide to come after her at the first sign of red eyes, black pulsating veins, grey skin and the compulsive need to eat people. If he had to find one good thing, it was that this little push made him stay on the path. It was harsh, it was...heartless. But it was the only honest thing for him to do. It was official—the woman in red became his only reason for staying in this...body a little longer.
He couldn't deny anything about the woman. It was ironically like watching himself when he first arrived in Harran. Based on what he gathered from that conversation earlier, the woman was the new face helping out a group. And that new face had work given. Do some good deeds for the group, collect airdrops. The only difference between him and her on the first day was that he did it because he had orders to follow...until one day, GRE went too far and he realized where his loyalty really lied.
Oomph, a real blow to his conscience. He didn't like remembering everything connected to them and his lies. But he smiled at one good thing he did in his 'past life': He told GRE to stick it up their ass. He was so done with them.
"Guess I'll be sticking around, lady."
Ok, Mutant Kyle. Stop talking to yourself. He was doing this for like, ten minutes or so.
He gave a good squeeze on the phone. He knew how difficult it was to start up in a place cut off from society like this. Might as well get used to his new form in the meantime.
Time for work.
Everything was completely backwards for Crane; he had sort of accepted it, but the more he walked in the shoes of an infected, the more he realized just how big his upside-down world became.
There were a lot of deductions he made on the go. First off, the night was an infected's element. It made the Specials active, stirring out of their hidey-holes and into the city for wandering prey. And he sickly understood why—the nighttime gave him full strength, just as powerful as drinking coffee in the morning. His own body was uncannily able to brush off the brawl and burns like nothing.
The second thing was the odd chemistry between his mind and body. Sometimes, it felt like he was wearing a costume that wouldn't move with him. Sometimes, it became second nature to him. A few times, running felt slower to him. But when he really ran, he was indeed faster than Volatiles chasing his past human self.
And then there was the absolute slingshotting himself across the roofs. He didn't have his grappling hook anymore, but his newfound stamina and tendrils helped him fly quicker than a normal runner. Literally. He swished around like a bullet! Crane found himself spending half the time needed in collecting some of the stuff listed on the phone.
For a short second, he thought to himself: why didn't he have this speed when he was doing drop collections in Harran? He could finish a lot of his tasks before the day was over! Hell, he could cut off more seconds from the record time he beat against the fastest runner from the Tower. It was incredible!
Then he quickly had to remind himself how wrong that was to him. The unnatural momentum seemed to comfort him in some way, as if he was in his own league. He was naturally learning, or maybe it was something the beast inside him easily experienced before he came back in the head, and he just picked that learning experience up. Either idea unsettled him.
"Don't get too comfortable," he 'thought-said' to himself. "Who knows if you'll fall off the deep end again."
That feeling wasn't as provocative as before. Crane could still feel it lingering at the back of his skull, scratching at his door to let it out. That it'd be a good boy this time around. But he wasn't going to open that door. Ever. Not even a creak. He needed to 'stay' as Crane until the job was done. Right in the middle of his traversing, he distracted himself with a bit of sightseeing, marking down metal notes of the new landmarks. The district he was in was industrial, nowhere near the playground and picket-fenced houses he remembered. Not even where the exact manhole was.
So what? He wasn't planning to go back. He had already made up his mind.
There was one note he made, going over the details in his head. At first, he never noticed it; back as a human, his main task outside the Tower was to avoid the major problems: the teeth, the claws, everything. The big brutes and the small walkers. But the more he moved about, the more he realized how unwanted he really was by the infected themselves. Sometimes, he stuck to the roofs for safety—like an old habit—and a few times, he was strolling through the streets without...too much worry. Wherever he went, he saw the common undead folk groan at him. In fact, they acted exactly the same as before. Hostile as ever.
Somehow, they knew he wasn't one of them anymore. Kyle had truthfully thought this form of his could act like a sort of camouflage in plain sight. That plan went out the window before it even started.
Then there were the 'special' infected. He couldn't, in a way, sense their presence. Back when he was human, his gut always told him to be careful before stepping out of safety. It had helped him more times than he could count. But now, as a Turned, they were invisible to him. Kyle could hear them snarling at him four streets away, warning him not to come near.
These were their hunting grounds. Their prey was theirs to keep.
Prey. A frightening and horrible thought but as long as there was nobody on the streets, it should be fine. Right? The thought of him lurking after a human and eating them up brought the knots back to his stomach, and that idea jumped to the next one: that he might have already eaten someone.
One or two times, he wanted to throw up again. He tried to calm himself down and forced himself to pretend that it never happened. Don't think about it.
Back to mapping out the area for himself. Several streets away from the overpass, he found one area full of orange-lit skeletons. Big, small, and all kinds of shapes. He gambled that this was the so-called Junction. Not an ideal place like the Tower having high ground, but they were well-stocked and prepared for any invasion, man or infected.
And he was not going to test that. For now, the location was another mental note.
He finally realized the greenery was a bit out of control. How many months had it been? He couldn't have been out for a year or more...
He hoped not.
Crane did confirm one thing during his cruise around the blocks. There were no airdrops. Not a single one he could find. With the minutes ticking by and no container in sight, he started to worry. Scanderoon was right next to Harran but would the Ministry of Defense decide not to send rations here too? Actually, scratch that. They did try to bomb Harran so they might as well have turned a blind eye on Scanderoon.
Crane had no way of gauging the length of this new outbreak. Still, it was a somber thought: the possibility that the world had abandoned a second city.
It also meant that sick people didn't have Antizin... Then-
No, stop. There could be other ways. There were survivors. They had to have come across supplies. He just needed to keep looking for places that hadn't been ransacked yet. It was nighttime; no one would be that stupid to go out at this time.
Another turn around the bend and Crane spotted three oranges at a two-floored store building: two at the ground floor and one on the open-top floor having a smoke. They didn't even have a lot of UV protection for it to be a safehouse. From his current perch, he watched them pace about, thug style. Their hands were levelled up, holding something sturdy.
Guns. Great. But he narrowed his eyes, almost branching as far as he could go from his perch for a better look. The top guy was sitting right on top of a box.
An airdrop container. So the Ministry was still dropping supplies. At least they weren't that heartless...yet.
"Sure. Had to be the one guy with an assault rifle on it." They could be survivors too, maybe from that Junction so finders keepers for them, he supposed.
Until he overheard them as he drew closer.
"This is stupid. Why the hell are we staying here for?"
"Hey, be my guest and walk out. Atilla and I can wait out the night and take the airdrop back to Alexander. While you become a Volatile's dinner."
"This is insane," his partner grumbled, fidgeting in his seat. "I shouldn't be here."
"And what? Your cell was cozier?"
"At least it was safe! Don't tell me you're not afraid that those monsters will break in? These lights won't even hold it for long!"
"They're slow and dumb. You can whack them before they get a hand on ya."
"They come in packs! You want to be eaten by those things or rot in jail? 'Cause the latter sounds like a better idea right about now."
So escaped prisoners. With guns. Geared and worn down from surviving the outbreak... Couldn't be as bad as Rais' men.
"Stop complaining. We're not the only ones holding up here," one of them mumbled. "Saw a woman staying at the construction site a while ago. Chased by some Volatiles."
"A lady? Oh-ho! It's been a long time since I've seen one. Maybe we should go see if she's doing alright. Get her to think we're coming to her rescue, eh?" He nudged his friend.
The other man chuckled. "Aye, I see where you are going. Then we better keep this under wraps. We don't want to share." And they burst out laughing.
Crane clicked his teeth irritatedly. Disgusting pigs. And if there was another dirtbag scum, hoarding up Antizin and making good people suffer, he swore to God...
Wait, stop right there. Think about this.
He wasn't the old Crane anymore. There was no Kyle Crane the human. Sure, that man would still go up against prisoners and beat the living day out of them—only if they gave him a reason to. It was survival of the fittest but it didn't mean he had to stay on the same level as crooks like them. He fought bad guys all day back in the Slums, as a human.
Morals didn't matter to an infected. Or rational thinking.
So if someone was going to be the bad guy in this city, he was going to be one to them.
Now if only these thugs didn't have guns. Seriously? Who carries those surrounded by monsters that are attracted to sound?! And just because he was a zombie, didn't mean he was invincible. Top guy had a good view for anyone and anything that could sneak through the front door.
Plan, he needed a plan. And he was...genuinely good at making them on the fly. Could he just scare the top guy away? No, that would draw attention. He'd get shot too.
His eyes snapped to his hands. Claws. It was claws.
"Hm…" He wasn't fully used to the weird, alien biology again. Regardless, he held one claw out like he had seen one superhero do in comics. Nothing happened. Crane gave a hard shake to his wrist and tried again-
His claw split open before his very eyes. The tendrils fired out and roped around the unlucky bastard.
"Wha-?!" They snaked around his whole head and even around his mouth—the feeling of saliva and teeth making Crane cringe. Ugh! He pulled hard in hopes of untying the tendrils, but that instead took the poor bastard over the wall. "AHHH!"
"Oops."
The prisoner survived his fall, freed from Crane's grasp and not without some minor concussion. Then he frantically hurried to the door. "Shit! Shit! HELP ME!"
"What - Why are you outside, Atilla?!"
"HELP ME! THEY'RE COMING!"
That probably could have gone more smoothly. But now Crane had no guard on the top floor. While the stragglers approached the screaming prisoner—his comrades telling him not to fire, which he did anyway—Crane took the window of opportunity in the chaos and made his way up to the top floor. Pop off the lid and he found the usual: food, water, medkits. Enough for three, four people.
No Antizin.
The disappointment wasn't old to Crane but that didn't mean it wasn't increasingly crushing.
It was happening again. He squished his eyes tight to clear away the two sudden and cruel flashbacks.
Stop doing this to yourself...
The noise outside the store building caught his attention. More walkers headed to the prisoners, angrier. Vocally threatening the strange prowler to back off. Hurriedly, he grabbed the stuff and bolted off. No need to stick around for the blood-soaked fireworks the prisoners were bringing on themselves.
At least, that airdrop gave him the last things he needed on the woman's list—excluding any request that required a face-to-face meeting with a person.
So he was coming down to the last rope of his little collection quest. Shorter than his previous runs, but, admittedly, doing the work gave him a welcomed sense of achievement. As if he was slowly going back to being...human. Laughable but he didn't reject it. Any sort of feeling like that, he'd grab it on as tight as possible.
Now he's got a bigger question in mind: how would he even remotely give the supplies to the Junction?
Maybe he could pitch the supply bag right into their base-
"P-Please!"
Crane's feet skidded like a cat coming to a stop. The plea came from his right, behind a metal fence. Three big orange skeletons standing before two small ones on the ground.
"What are you runners doing past your curfew?"
"Please! Just let us go!"
Crane peeked around the corner for a clearer look. Three thugs in prison attire and two runners at another safehouse. There was something strangely appetizing in the air. Smelled like iron to Crane, giving a little itch in his mouth. He noticed one of the runners had his hands on his leg.
"Oh, sure." one of the men scoffed. "You'll make fine bait for the freaks."
Frightened eyes widened even more at the sight of a dragging sledgehammer. One huff out, and a prisoner heaved the heavy thing up. The youngest runner gapped silently and closed his eyes, hands latching over his head. It wouldn't help him: to be smashed open like a melon.
THU-KACK! Sparks flew from a power box, shutting down the protective UV lights of the small generator room.
Crane couldn't believe it—they sabotaged the safehouse.
"Are you trying to get us killed?!" the injured adult hollered.
"And?" the packleader uttered. "It's your fault for setting up near Alexander's property. You should have stuck to your own corner of this stinking city."
"We should head back-" The third prisoner scanned his surroundings around, a nervous finger on the revolver hanging out of his waistband.
"Just use those UV lights at them," his heavy-weapon-wielding friend uttered, pointing at the portable UV flashlight he carried—their means of protection. That was why they were so confident to walk around at night. "Hey. Why don't we get these two bitten?"
The runners looked at the prisoners, horrified. But the thug meant it.
"The boys' been needing more infected contestants for the fighting ring."
Crane was also bewildered. What in God's name?
"N-No," the younger runner whimpered.
"Nah. They won't survive a minute anyway. But this one could make a nice little mole!"
"Orhan!" The packleader separated the timid runner from his friend, with his two goons keeping the injured man in check.
"Alexander's been thinking of expanding lately. And your Junction is looking mighty nice for his new throne."
"Let him go!"
"Hey, hey," the packleader cooed. He squatted down to the injured runner, watching the anger and shock sweep in his face.
These people were mad, dangerous, and wouldn't listen to reason.
"Look around you. It's a hellhole out there. And your people don't recognize a helping hand when they see one," the thug explained with a wave of a hand to their miserable surroundings before he forcefully grabbed the runner's chin to keep him eye-to-eye. "All you two need to do is give the good word to your boss. We can offer protection. It's that simple-"
Pow!
It was a bold and daring suckerpunch from the injured runner, making the packleader stagger a bit, hand on his jaw.
"Come near the Junction and we'll fucking kill you!"
The packleader simply glared at him with an icy glare.
The fist came out of nowhere—a dirty, petty move.
POW!
"Fazil!" his younger companion yelled, rushing over with a desperate attempt to shield him.
"Settle him down!" the prisoner ordered, grabbing Orhan by the hairline and tossing him back. The loss of balance tumbled the poor boy right into the presence of the sledgehammer guy, the long handle pushing down on his apple.
"O-Orhan!" Fazil shouted again.
"You should be worrying about yourself." He didn't see the crowbar coming down on his open wound but the lighting pain struck him down. And the sick bastard pleasantly relished his agonizing screams.
The painful yells hit a chord inside Crane. He almost jumped in. Almost. The usual by-the-book protocol of not leaping forward first when lives were in danger. Scanderoon was a different location for Crane but throughout his short expedition, he had been counting down the many similarities between this outbreak and the last.
The darkest part of humanity still had the same grip as it had in Harran. He took back what he had thought: the crooks before him were no better than Rais' men.
Go off the rails. They can't hurt anyone anymore.
"What is wrong with you?!"
"Wrong?"
The packleader turned his attention to Orhan with a hungry, playful look. The youngster immediately regretted his outburst as the thug strolled up to him and grabbed him, one meaty hand on his collar. The attention was off his companion, and the crowbar off his wound. Fazil skulked on the ground, biting down on his mumbled wail.
"It's free reign. No rules, no boundaries. No cops. We're the kings in this city. And you peasants need to behave."
"P-Please. Just let him go." Orhan tried his best to be brave, hoping to give his companion a chance to crawl away. However, the wound had opened up further. Fazil was too weak to even get up.
A pause hung. Orhan almost thought they would give them that one final wish.
"Nah." The packleader wheeled back to the injured man.
The crowbar went up. Aimed right for his skull.
"No! Stop! Stop!"
All of a sudden, the packleader saw something in front of him. He looked further up to the safehouse's fence—at first, thinking some nosy guy was trying to interrupt them.
Then his face twisted with terror with the crowbar drooping low.
A pair of silver-blue eyes glared at the prisoner.
A monster readied itself over the fence.
Enough.
It lunged.
"Rraaagh!"
"Gaa-gaaaargh!" The packleader was down in milliseconds. The sight of tendrils wrapping around him horrified him as he thrashed for freedom. His scream was cut short by claws grabbing his head and twisting his neck a180 degrees.
Then the whole yard exploded.
"V-Volatile!"
"SHIT! SHOOT IT!"
Next one! The prowler darted left and right towards his target, avoiding the swinging sledgehammer. The gunner panicked, pulling out his gun to shoot. But the firearm wouldn't come out—the slide caught by his belt loop. And in his panic to try and pull with both hands, he dropped the UV light.
"You idiot!"
The monster closed the distance between them fast, while the gunner finally got his weapon loose and pointed.
BANG! BANG!
The two shots were frantic misses.
Teeth came an inch to hisface. Suddenly, he felt his gun disarm from his fingers, and his heel kicked at that his whole body fell backwards to the ground.
"AH! AHHHH!" Down went the yellow-bellied thug, watching a claw grab his head and smash it onto the ground. Bone fractures and brain matter splayed in a gruesome art form of his death.
The thug with a sledgehammer let the runner go before turning tail. There was no point in staying; let the runners be bait for that Hunter!
"Garh!" Thud! He lost his footing, but it wasn't from a trip. Something snagged his ankle.
And pulled him back.
"Ahh! Ahhh!" The last prisoner tried to escape—tried to latch onto anything. "Help me!"
No one was coming. Nothing was within reach for him, except dirt and leaves. He foolishly glanced back at the beast, now right on top of him. These fools welcomed him in by shutting off the blue lights!
The prisoner desperately tried anything else—a mere punch to the side. Pathetic! There was nothing to stop him! The blood rage gave him that tunnel vision.
Kill!
A tendril shot out and pulled the sledgehammer handle into the beast's claws. In his horror, all the man could do was watch the Hunter take his own weapon and lift it high up.
"AHHHH!" That was the last scream from the beefy man.
SPLAT!
His head split open like a watermelon. The damage was done.
"Rraaagh!"
Out the Hunter roared. I'm not done! He could still take more of those jerks! The same went for the weak infected!
Make them all afraid. He was the king, this was his hunting grounds-
"NO! NO!"
He snarled at the next voice. The next prey!
Then he stopped.
"Aaah! Aaaah!" the survivor beneath him wailed with overflowing tears and arms shielding up. The hesitant creature watched the runner hopelessly tremble—he wanted to get away from the beast but the wall of the safehouse blocked his back. Orhan gave up on the spot in petrifying fear as he sunk into a small, cradling ball. He was the next meal for the Hunter.
It slowly registered in Crane's head. Like a swim back up to the surface. He found himself right on top of the poor runner, a young adult. About Rahim's age.
Crane was almost ready to rip a kid apart!
Oh god... Oh god. What was he doing?
No... No. I'm not a monster.
He was still Kyle Crane.
With every ounce of mental strength, Kyle pulled himself back—he shoved the monster back inside the closet of his mind—and physically, he also stepped back. That the big, ghastly Hunter meant no harm to the runner. Anything to show that he wasn't going to hurt him! But that wasn't enough for the poor young man to feel safe. He was badly shaking like a leaf, and Kyle couldn't blame him. The kid was inches close to a monstrous zombie, for goodness' sake!
The first thought Crane had was that he needed to leave the kid alone. Make him know he had a chance to flee, to be safe somewhere else. An idea quickly came to mind as his glance wandered down to the supply bag he had been carrying.
That was it! What he could do to make the runner feel safe!
He crept a little closer and halted at the sight of the young man being more terrified from the closing distance. No, it was now or never!
So the Hunter chunked the supply bag right into the runner's lap.
"W-Wha..." Orhan stopped cowering. The sudden dumping of a large bag completely baffled him. The non-hostile infected suddenly handling it over to him shocked him even more. Like a series of nightmares was interrupted by a small detour in the dream. Moreover, what made it stranger to Orhan was watching the Hunter step a good five feet away from him.
This wasn't real, right?
"Get away from him!"
"Gargh! Mmpgh!" The burning sensation again! Crane darted away from the source, arms up.
"Come on!"
"F-Fazil!"
Crane gazed irritatingly through his arms once the scorching stopped. The older runner, Fazil got him from behind and blasted him with the picked-up portable UV light and two added flares to help. The moment of vulnerability bought him enough time to get up against the pain, help the young man back on his feet, and both limped away.
That was good, even if Crane got more than he bargained for. However, it wasn't good enough for the two runners; it was still evening, their safehouse was destroyed and one was leaving behind a trail of blood. The UV flashlight could only provide so much protection, and if they weren't careful while searching for the next safezone, the Biters could come after them.
He should follow and keep watch from behind. Until they were absolutely safe, he couldn't stop worrying!
But his legs wouldn't move for some strange reason. There was a piercing feeling on the left side of his abdomen. Crane traced his eyes down to find his right claw wrapped around something poking out from the spot. Where the feeling pulsed from.
Opening up his talons revealed a handle into him. A dark color spread out on his torn shirt. Like dye.
"Shit."
A shiv was in him. Shit, the shiv was in him.
The punch from the last prisoner? He left one final thing for Crane before he killed him.
He couldn't help but let out a laugh. "R-Relax. Just relax." Losing it now was only going to make the pain worse.
Should he take it out? No, he would bleed profusely. But he had no idea if his new body was just the same as a human's. Did zombies have pumping hearts?
"Oh, fuck it."
Clutching his teeth down and inhaling one deep breath, he pulled.
"AAARGH!"
An inhuman shriek wormed out of his mouth as he recoiled on the pull, his claws hastily holding down the bleeding. His mind screamed—god, it really hurt! It REALLY hurt! It didn't help that the UV hit made him a little lightheaded. Inhaling and exhaling.
"C'mon," he groaned. "You've faced worse! "
It wasn't funny. He would be fatally wounded by a knife after everything he had been through?! Fate really had it in for him, huh!
Focus, Kyle. Focus. He had to close the wound. Though, just as fate had been giving him the finger many times, fate seemed to give one small helping hand as an apology. Amazingly, there was a piece of gauze near his feet.
The young runner must have dropped it when the two bolted. Maybe by accident or as a quick return for the flavor, but whatever, he took it as a sign and hurriedly dressed up the wound. Just to last him enough time until he could do something more for it.
Crane bit down again on the agony zapping through his whole body. He thought over his next steps with bated breath.
Ok...ok. He should look for something to stitch the hole up. A safe place too. Away from survivors and the infected. And there was one more thing he had to do. It had been part of his plan for the entire supply search.
C'mon, Kyle... Leg it.
The stab was a major setback for Crane. It doubled the length of his return trip for him. Halfway through, he was completely rendered down to an agonizing crawl—no more swooshing around at record speed. The dizziness didn't help him much as he tried to recall his way to the overpass. If it hadn't been that one orange glow sleeping comfortably on the floor in the distance and like a beacon, he would have been lost elsewhere in these unfamiliar alleyways.
The construction site was his first pit stop. Literally, Crane couldn't help but be a little jealous at how comfortable the woman in red was behind defensive walls. He missed the sleeping bags.
He approached the outer, 'outer' zone of the trailer safehouse, ten feet from the ultraviolet rays, and pulled his head covering off—some scarf he didn't remember dawning on himself. Perhaps somewhere in his feral time as the monster, he must have subconsciously put the rags over his face. Out of fear that someone would recognize him and learn that Crane has become a zombie?
Who knows, not even himself. But now that he has resurfaced in his head, what was the point of hiding his horrid face anymore? He was too scared to see what he looked like in the mirror anyway.
So horrifyingly disgusting that two runners fled from him? Sounds about right.
The cloth was a good idea for a makeshift bag: he wrapped the phone right up, along with a few things he thought would help the fighter.
"This is gonna hurt. Again." He readied himself. "GARH!"
Up and over the fence the package went. A sloppy disk throw and the cost was the lesion pulled. Yup, there was no winning this fight. The outburst and the loud but muffled groans weren't enough to wake the woman up—she was sleeping like a rock while the whole city burned. But that was for the better: she shouldn't find out about her grotesque guardian. Correction, her angel of death.
Now the wound. He had to hurry. Crane could feel himself slipping.
He had to stay. For that woman's sake. He owed that much to her. He did it twice before… He would do it again.
Stay awake! You've gotten through the first hurdle. You could stay conscious a little longer! Just flex that shit off.
His body wasn't listening to him anymore. A tumble and he dropped to the ground. No, not here. Too open and too dangerous! He could hear them coming. The other walkers' snarls grew louder, more directed at him. It was no different now than it was when he was a human, and the smart thing for a human to do was to find a safe place.
Thankfully, it came to him along the stretch of road he was on: a crashed ambulance bunkered into the barricades. Which meant medical supplies. Which meant he could fucking close up the stab wound!
Crane used his remaining ounce of energy to crawl into the back, not enough to shut the door completely behind him—just a peek of the white half-moon gazing through the doors. Where did they keep the needle and thread?
No good. He couldn't hold himself. Crane rolled over on his side-
And she was there. Sitting beside him. Completely unfazed that she was sharing the same space as a monster. What...why was she even there? But Crane's mind was too numb from the pain to ask that question.
It was still a silver lining to see her face. The infection hadn't twisted it yet. Blood-red eyes weren't glaring down at him. She was just how he remembered her before her death—the brave, serious face she wore. The best fighter from the Tower.
For some reason though, she looked at him grievously.
"Jade…?"
This was another hallucination, right? But Crane didn't care at this moment. What made it upsetting for him was that she had to see him like this. Just a shell of a man.
"...Sorry... I've been doing a shitty job..."
However, there was a sort of gentleness to her; she understood. No words but she got it. Just get some rest. There's always tomorrow.
Yeah. He agreed.
Let's sleep the pain off...
A/N: So, revamping in 21/10/19. This chapter got a lot better than the original chapter plot. Even a huge improvement on Crane's perspective into his new undead life. And yes, Crane is back, the protagonist of Dying Light, the Following and now the Descent. Jack has always been planned as a deuteragonist from the start, with that red herring at the start of this arc. She will pretty much stay that way onwards to the end.
Also, don't worry. Crane's not dead. Again. I'd be a jerk to remove him from the fic, since he's pretty much the face of the first game anyway. Anyhow hope you like this chapter! Thank you so much also for the reviews!
26/10/19 - reedited for mistakes and small changes.
14/8/20 - Reedited for mistakes and small changes.
6/2/21 - Added new lines, fixed mistakes and edited parts according to new timestamp from pilot.
26/2/21 - Reedited for mistakes and added a small aesthetic change to Crane's design.
16/2/22 - Went over a full chapter edit with some fixes, retwists, deletes and adjustments.
6/7/22 - Changed a character's appearance and lines
21/3/23 - Went over a full chapter edit again with some fixes and adjustments.
1/1/24 - Final fixes and changes, I hope