DISCLAIMER*: Kyle Crane is not going to evolve physically. Not in this fic, nowhere in this fic, not ever will I write that for a fetish. Refer to the end author's notes regarding this disclaimer.
Chapter Summary
- BACK TO SQUARE ONE
That woman couldn't help me. Nobody in this city can but myself. Right now, I have to get back to Harran. Somehow. I've been away for far too long… What happened to the Tower while I was gone? - Kyle
...
Something's off about Beastly. He should have been dead. Well, he shouldn't even talk. Or act human... But I can't stop thinking about what Asem said... I need to find my boat and get to Harran. - Jack.
SEVEN: MAKE IT COUNT
At first, it was pointless. Crane had nothing. His Companion app was long gone, and he had no other means of direction, no bearings. Finding a way out of Scanderoon would prove as difficult as finding a way out of Harran, he thought, but he had never imagined just how bareboned he was in his search.
However, his newfound objective gave him determination. It fueled him to bite his tongue and endure the pain. The orange sunlight managed to peek through the blackout curtain, and yet, he pressed on. The burning wasn't as severely aggravating as it was this morning.
He was going to the Tower, even if it'd kill him.
Back and forth, back and forth, he did look over his shoulder and to the hotel. But the blood-orange glow never followed him. It stayed for some time until it faded away. That woman in red must have gone elsewhere—in the opposite direction. Or that he was too far away to see her.
Good. Crane hoped that would be the last of her. A lot of help she was.
It was then he spotted the clocktower several blocks away from him. A good vantage point to see all of the Coast.
"Maybe I can spot something from up there."
There was some grace to heading in that direction; the tower's own shadow loomed over the low buildings. Over the sentient zombie. It meant the day was nearing the end of its cycle. Another night of sheer horror for the survivors, but ironically and regretfully, another night for Crane's unnatural strength to return. He even had to think to himself: on the brighter side of things, at least he wasn't going to be dragging himself around with constant sunburns.
No. He was making a fool of himself again. The chances that his feral side could be released again...
That scared him.
The clock tower was peaceful inside once he reached it. No, it had been disturbed. From the entrance on the ground floor and up the spiraling stairs, Crane spotted the evidence as clear as, well, day. From the recent footprints of runners shortcutting through to a few stragglers standing and lying down stiff inside—too dimwitted to find the way out. The sun couldn't reach Kyle as he made his way to the top.
The most significant hint he realized the moment he walked in was the silence. No tick-tock. No large gears moving. Someone made sure the clock wouldn't ring ever again.
"Ok… Harran's southwest of Scanderoon. So...northeast." As best as he could, he stared out through a clock face, his eyes fighting with every fiber of his being against the retracted sunlight. But true to the woman's troubling explanation, there would be no leaving Scanderoon that easily; all he saw was mountains and water for miles. There was no familiar trail to follow or a straightforward path to cross over the rocky borders. And thanks to that woman's blabbering mouth, she actually made him feel anxious to try swimming with this new body.
His options were very limited. Maybe he should find a manhole and use the sewage system. But where would it take him? Another city Crane could royally mess up?
His gaze finally settled on the ocean, the city's northeast. It was there that he saw a speck of Harran, maybe even the tip of Slums poking out on the horizon. Kyle heaved out a deep sigh, out of both relief and misery. It hadn't been wiped off the face of the Earth. But it was also still so far.
"Boat…" he repeated. "Only way to Harran is by boat…"
It sounded simple. Probably the fastest and easiest way to get there. And that was if the Navy wasn't out at sea...
"No." He straight-out scolded himself before pacing about in a bitter fit. "Not going back to that crazy woman."
Didn't matter if she might have a boat. That lady was going to get him killed somehow. By accident, arrogance, choice, or sheer stupidity. Sure, he could try to take it from her...but who was to say he wouldn't face the consequences of that attempt alone.
So he kept searching, more aggressively this time until he spotted train tracks. Trailing after them led to the city's train depot and going onwards from there was to a tunnel, driving through the mountains and heading down the direction to Harran.
"Train tracks... That's the border between Harran and Scanderoon."
There was some information he remembered before going to Harran. It was all in the dossiers, but he briefly skimmed over them. Because of the unstable terrain separating the two cities, the train system was built to overcome such problems in the '80s. People used to come and go for their own reasons—recreational, familial, business-related, and so on.
Then the trains stopped. The tracks became dangerous. And the tunnel was likely walled off, just like those in Harran. But if the first outbreak taught him anything, it was that the infected were persistent. They knew what crack to crawl out of. He'd surely find one.
"Better than nothing."
He then took note of how far the sun was to sunset. If he made a beeline to that tunnel, he could be there by sundown.
Clank!
In Crane's renewed assurance, he stepped back, only to knock into something. He had never taken to examining the clock room; other than at first glance, it had been in the midst of repairs before being abandoned. The tarp divided the room and concealed the west face.
He pulled it down and spotted the same kind of setup as the one back at the parking lot. The same table, the same maps and diagrams, just fewer ammo crates than the other spot. There wasn't any clue if this surveillance spot was left behind temporarily or permanently. However, its presence still irked Kyle.
"...GRE was here. "
He grimaced. Just how active were they in the city? The unsettling feeling from the Ravs' conversation wormed back into him.
His gut told him to look through the glass. Down below, from where the setup was stationed, he could see the Junction. The people there weren't the wisest; they had been watched for who knew how long.
It was worrisome. Another group of refugees being screwed over by GRE and probably a large squadron, with men more willing to shoot for easy pay.
He honestly wanted to help. But it was out of Crane's hands. He would if he could, for the people here and the city. But not as a freak.
The Tower. You have to get back to the Tower.
The one despicable but significant fact about the setup was that it wasn't entirely cleared out. If the first outbreak taught Crane anything, it was taking whatever he could use. Being resourceful was a lifesaver to him before Harran and even now. There had never a time he didn't check through every basket, cupboard, and pot for a piece of material.
Even on the table was a forgotten burn phone—standard for GRE contractors. And it had a Companion app. He debated himself: he needed it, but did an infected want it? A part of himself convinced him to keep it for normality.
He was done prepping and halfway down the clock tower when a noise caught his attention. Outside. It sounded like a purr of some sort.
A vehicle?
Cautiously, Kyle took to the door and searched for the source, but nothing fell under his radar. In fact, the street was eerily quiet.
Stiff.
Like something was waiting to pounce on him.
Did the tables turn? A monster shouldn't feel wary, but he swung back to his usual cautiousness. Crane couldn't see or hear anything worth noting. With what little sunlight there was, it still prevented him from seeing orange-lit humans.
"Sniff." Despite his eyes and ears being at a disadvantage, his nose picked up something. It hung tight in the air.
Potent. Strangely...enticing.
"What's that smell?" He searched for the source. "...It's appetizing."
Crane had only realized that he hadn't eaten since he 'woke' up. Or had he already eaten someone before then? That thought made his appetite a little queasy, almost fleeting, and yet his mouth watered. He followed after the scent, down to the boundary of a large, empty marketplace—it sat before the south of the clock tower. Bigger than the one in Harran, more compact with stalls and hawker shops, but void of any life.
The smell had an inducing grip on him. However, his caution reared his control back in, for the sound of soft material tearing and teeth chomping down broke the silence. The origin was a feeding frenzy for two regular infected and a Viral diving into something red and fleshy.
No matter how alluring the smell was, Crane had the decency not to accept the invitation. The feeders also made it clear they didn't want him to join at the table. However, their meal was rather suspicious-looking. It wasn't the body of some unfortunate survivor or any sort of form that had been a victim once. One infected ripped open what looked like blood-drenched plastic. Whatever they were feasting on...were liquid bags of something.
Bait.
That word came to Crane. He took a careful step back.
KREF-vroom-vroom!
The purr roared louder.
It was an engine.
Wheels shrieked on stone bricks.
VROOOOOM! CRACK! THUD!
Wood planks and metal shutters exploded. Out from a closed shop and a stall of rotten fruits drove a Jeep. Full throttle. A buggy zoomed into the bait area, and in the midst of it all, Crane caught a glimpse of a hook stabbed into one of the feeders like that into a pig's butchered meat. Time seemed to freeze, enough for him to register the drivers and passengers wearing orange suits.
He wasn't fast enough to realize one of them threw a rope snare at his feet.
"Wha-Whoa! Garhmp!" Kyle yelped as his whole world turned over.
His footing was lost immediately, and his back hit the ground. Vertigo took a moment out of him, but he gradually watched the rope at his feet pull.
He was gone for the ride, against his will.
"YEAAAH! We bagged a big one!"
"Wear him down!"
Shit! Crane's situation just couldn't be for the better! Trying to reach for his ankles was impossible with every object and the ground knocking into him. Seven feet away from the moving Jeep, with the driver focusing on the road and the trapper cackling at their catch.
The amount of hell Crane went through, with the added mockery, was enough for him to retaliate. He fired the tendrils, one right around the trapper's neck.
"Garh-!" They traded places: the skinny criminal pulled right off as Crane launched up into the backseat. The scream was short as the trapper's body rolled across the road—bones cracked and organs erupted on impact.
"Holy shit!" the driver wailed. He had a last-second decision ramming through his mind in a panic: should he stop? Or should he jump out of a moving vehicle?
BAM! BAM!
The monster dove from a shallow graze to his side, given to him by a motorcyclist with a pistol.
"Stop!" The Jeep driver pleaded. It was all too much for him! His eyes were at their widest, watching the beast creep closer in the rearview mirror.
A claw grabbed the wheel, making him shriek. That was the final straw—he hopped out. The bullets luckily hit the frame or missed Kyle entirely. He gave the wheel a sharp right before the sidearm aimed at him again.
CRASH!
"GAH!" The Jeep violently knocked right into the motorcycle, tumbling like a domino downed from its falling neighbor. The rider got swallowed up whole by the disaster, his body smashed and mangled from the force of his own bike.
"Serve you right," Kyle snapped and decided to get comfy in the driver's seat—he scored himself a vehicle. It wasn't his old buggy from the Countryside but he could get to the train tunnel faster.
Quickly, he spun the stirring wheel around.
"There he is!"
More tires burned. Around the corner of a road, a small fleet of men in orange headed his way. Just how many were there?!
"Give it up already!"
Crane put the pedal to the medal. Had it been two seconds too late, they could have cut him off. Certainly, they were baffled. He would be too if he saw a zombie driving in a Jeep.
"S-Shoot him!"
Tat-tat-tat-tat!
The Hunter ducked his head under, watching holes drill into the windshield.
That was a fucking assault rifle!
Tat-tat-tat-tat!
Pow!
The Jeep took a sudden jerk to the left, and Kyle felt himself sink a little in his seat.
No go. That was a burst wheel.
Time to call it quits and leave.
Kyle climbed one foot up on his seat with a little struggle thanks to the busted tire—eyes still on the front to watch where he was going down the road he found himself on—and shot a tendril up. Lassoed it around a telephone pole, and Crane rocketed himself up to the roofs as he watched the ongoing Jeep collide into the bay window of a clothes store. The amount of noise near nightfall stirred up the aggravated undead crowds—enough to be a problem for those drivers.
Crane darted with lightning speed. But even the chasing vehicles were catching up to a mutated Hunter in the streets. These guys didn't care if the noise would lure the wandering ferocious bystanders. The only leeway was whenever a roadblock got in their way now and there.
Alright, if they wanted to play with him, he'd give it to them! The sun was still over the mountains. He had to last until the night.
"Get that thing off the roofs!"
Bullets flew. God! They really want to catch him! Or dead! A drop down to a balcony garden and Crane whooshed through the open door. Out of sight.
"Two of you!" a packleader ordered from the buggy, slowing down. "Go up there and find him!"
CRACK!
Shards of glass rained down on the buggy. The one in charge barely had enough time to react at the tough guy suddenly on top of the metal frame. He felt himself being pulled out of his seat by the collar and his whole world spun—stopping to witness two Virals make the jump on him.
"RAM IT!"
Rubber burned and suddenly, the frightened driver leapt out of the buggy. Kyle saw the bright headlights rushing over to him.
The buggy flipped over, impact delivering it over the edge of the road. But instead of tarred stone, Crane found himself hitting water—the road so happened to be near a large canal.
At first, he panicked—the thought of dying by water because he was infected horrified him. But nothing happened like an immediate shock. Then the short burn in his lungs ushered him to get air.
Pew! Pew!
He sunk further down from the bubbling lines around him. Swim! And he did so to the opposite side of the canal.
Crane thought that would be the end of this chase as he pulled himself onto dry land with a loud gasp. But the vehicles picked back up, crossing over a bridge five blocks away.
He needed to get out of sight. Now! Now!
Adrenaline pumped throughout his muscles, a boost in his sprint as he sought a hiding place. If only he could be invisible-
"Where did he go?!"
"Check the alleyways!"
His feet scrambled to a halt before he could reach the other end of the alley he was in. One motorcyclist had to stop right there, blocking his way with the bike. Instinct drove Crane to make himself smaller behind a dumpster.
Hoping that the shadows could hide him, that the guy would just give up with the whole street coming alive.
Crane almost had his heart shoot up his throat when the rider walked past his hiding place. The convict even glanced around, looking for the infected.
But the cyclist didn't even react to him standing next to him.
What the-? The guy had to have seen him!
The seconds ticked down. Crane could hear his own heartbeat pump so loudly in his ears. Even with the feeling of his canines chattering, he had to clutch them tightly. The blood-orange glow in front of Crane taunted him to tackle it down.
"...Lost him." The rider turned.
There were a billion more questions Crane wanted to ask, but right now, the prisoner's back was exposed. Luck was finally on his side!
He could figure it out later. Now was his chance.
It should have been a simple grab and twist of the neck, like any other bad guy he had killed before. However, at the last second, the rider glanced over his shoulder, and the image of a terrifying monster reflected in his wide, fearful eyes.
Crane saw a hand reach down to the belt, a weapon concealed, but he was ready to do the deed-
Blue light suddenly blinded him.
"Gargh!" His strength was depleted immediately. His legs gave way as he curled into a ball. He should have known better that the bastard would pull out a UV light. Not a firearm.
"I got him!" the rider hollered, his hand shaking. "H-Hurry!"
Get that thing away from me!
Crane attacked. Pathetically. But his talons couldn't slap the UV light away. Strangely, as Crane fell, the UV device flew off somewhere.
"GAAAH!" The rider's scream was horrible.
Something dreadfully happened, and Crane hadn't even lifted a finger to fight. The prisoner's hand was gone in an instant. Sliced off. Bleeding profusely.
The opportunity gave Crane a chance to recover quickly. The annoying light had skidded two feet from the struggling thug, but he kicked it away for good measure before climbing back onto his feet, reeling in the question, 'what just happened', in his head.
He then realized something was wrong with his right arm. It was bleeding too. But he felt no pain. Why-?
His stomach dropped at the sight of what was possibly his ulna sticking out. The feeling gutted deeper at how horrendous the bone had turned—like it became longer, sharper, and held together by mutated tendons. The unfolding of a praying mantis' blade.
"Oh shit," Kyle muttered, half-stopping himself from reaching it. Another thing in his new body to be terrified of. He was also worried that either the bleeding wasn't going to stop or his arm might drop off.
No, that wasn't his blood.
Then, as if listening to his desire for the foreign object to be gone, it retracted back inside his arm with flesh closing over. The trickling blood was eventually sealed up by the carapace platings on his skin—perhaps the one thing keeping his arm from snapping in that state. His arm was back to 'normal', for the most part.
An assassin's blade. Crane was still uncertain of how he should feel, but if anything, it was another tool for him to use. So he swallowed his fear and bolted. The rest of the rider's gang couldn't be too far behind.
"H-Help me…"
"I told you this was a bad idea!"
"Ah, shaddup and keep moving!"
"What about him?"
BAM!
Crane almost jumped from the gunfire, but he kept running. Even after four men dead, these convicts were determined to capture him. Especially if it meant abandoning the weak. He heard one shout loudly, "Catch that infected!" Were they just brave or stupid?
One quick glance at the sun—it was probably another several minutes before dark. Just a slice of the sun at this point.
Never in his life had he ever wanted the night to fall!
Suddenly, the infected face of Jade launched at him. Screaming.
"Gah!" he gasped, stumbling down with blurring vision. Thankfully, he managed to stop himself from falling by quickly putting his claws on his knees. Shit! What was that? It was like something hit the brakes in his body.
Crane gritted his teeth and shook his head desperately. Just like that, the strange, sudden vertigo went away. Like a relapse. Was he reverting? His mind losing it again?
No, if that were to happen, he would never return to the Tower. The convicts might get the upper hand. Or worst, innocent people would be killed by him.
He paced his breathing as best he could. Fight it; he could do this. He had come this far.
"The feeling's mutual."
It didn't help that he was remembering the brunette. At a time and place like this?
"Because I don't know who you were. Or what you're gonna become."
What he'd become.
Those words still stung. They rocked him to his core. It was with those words that he realized that the entire time he had been in this body, he struggled with two sides of the coin. He wanted to stay on one side but the whole world saw him on the other. He wanted to hide—wait out the storm—but wherever he went, death would follow him.
Crane tightened his talons and rose up. One deep breath in and out.
"So you're going to sulk and do nothing?"
No more.
Crane was done complaining. He'd fight the world: put both sides together into one living weapon.
He had one shot to make it out alive.
Make it count.
"See the bastard?" the new self-appointed leader demanded.
"C'mon, man! It's nearly nighttime!" The weakest of the group combed frightfully at his surroundings, his grip on his bike handles turning white. He wanted to leave. The ominous air simply arrested the idea that his time was counting down...
Even the ravens on the city ledges mocked the group with their soulless, beady eyes.
Or did they already know their outcome?
"You heard the boss. We're getting an infected or we don't go back!"
"H-Hey!"
A trembling finger that belonged to the Jeep driver pointed down the street. As if answering their wish, the Special infected stepped out of the shadows. Handing itself to them on a silver plate.
But the smarter convicts, one of whom was the group's packleader, noticed something was off.
The thing 'walked' with a familiar stance. It was a posture any of them would normally have. Any human would have. Not shambling like the common infected or feral ape like the vicious Biters.
This Special stood in the middle of the street, bold. It did what a normal human would do in making a stand.
The convict leader swallowed. It didn't matter if the target was strange.
Four men against one monster. A fair fight.
"Let's go!" The leader banged a palm on the Jeep's side, ushering the driver to get the engine going and the other two back on their bikes. The cyclists were off first before the Jeep zoomed behind.
And yet, the Special infected didn't move.
It was a wild idea that Crane cooked up in his head. Even now, he found himself thinking he had gone crazy. High school track and field didn't teach him anything about outrunning speeding vehicles.
The trappers' weapons of choice: hook ropes, UV lamps, blunt weapons, all sorts. Like shark-catching but only that the predator was on land.
Crane sprinted forward.
The first person to close the gap was one of the riders, pitching the hook rope at him. The prisoner, however, never imagined the freak to grab that hook mid-throw. Or even yank on the rope that the velocity pulled him right off his bike. Dead on impact.
One down. Three to go.
The next rider was seconds away, ready to shine the UV flashlight tied up at the headlights. Flesh burned but before their very eyes, the Special took the hook he have taken and swung the rope like a cowboy readying up his snare. The hook fired, stabbing right into the shoulder of one UV flashlight user—the swing just as mighty as a batter's pitch that it knocked both the wind and him off his bike. With the blue light going under the crash. So was the cyclist's life on the tar, headfirst inside his cracked helmet.
Halfway there.
Crane had to dodge off to the side. A moving jeep on full throttle was too dangerous for even him to take a chance. At the right moment, the convict leader swung a wrench at him.
It was still too slow a reaction. Like the hook before, the infected snatched the other end. The packleader instinctively held tight to the Jeeps' frame, losing his weapon in the process.
"Turn around!"
One sharp turn back. A blast of the UV lights turned on as the Jeep raced on. They had the upper hand—the monster cowering back at the rays like a deer in headlights.
But they were wrong. The antlers came down.
CRACK!
Somehow, one way or another, the windshield shattered. The driver yelped at the sudden appearance of a wrench thrown right through the glass with immense power. He was blind for only a few seconds.
"Drive straight! Drive straight!" his leader demanded angrily and the driver tried. But his hesitation got the better of him. Out of nowhere, the driver didn't see a claw reach from his door and dragged him out into the street.
Because of that, the wheel turned right sharply, enough for the Jeep to tilt and crash on its side. Sparks flew from metal against tar with a grinding sound before the machine came to a stop.
The attempt to derail the Jeep would have nearly cost Crane his life, but he fought against the UV and took the opportunity! It might have been that he slowly got used to the burn. Scratch that—it was almost impossible to get used to that kind of pain.
Still, he got out...fine. He rose back up from the ground after a roll. With a deep breath, he tried to shrug off the pain and his growing tiredness.
"Bastard!"
And of course, it wasn't over. Before the forceful crash, the leader had jumped out safely but not without a fresh cut on his head. Crane could see the anger—feel it daggering from desperate eyes.
Last one.
"I am getting that Antizin!" the packleader declared as loudly as he could, pointing a crossbow that he had on his back. "And you ain't stopping me!"
Kyle didn't get it—why the subject, Antizin, was suddenly brought up—until he noticed the hidden bandages under an orange sleeve. The glow beating inside was blood-orange, lighter than what he saw in the woman in red.
Another human infected.
But, he didn't care. Not for a total stranger or a man convicted of a crime.
There were no heroes or villains. It was live or die.
Kyle sprinted. Not away but towards the packleader. Despite the fumbling of an arrow and the fear creeping in, the convict stood his ground and fired.
The first arrow missed.
The second hit his shoulder—Crane muffled his yelp but he kept on going, fueled with the determination to live.
The third would have hit his heart, but last-second instinct suddenly whacked the arrow away—a carapace-plated arm acting like a gauntlet. He didn't stop. He wasn't going to.
He had killed men far worse than one grunt.
His left claw seemed to reach for the packleader. Before the crook realized it, he saw something shoot out from that claw and wrap around his crossbow. Something horrible that came straight from an alien movie. How the tables turned as his only means of attack was pulled out of his hands and by a tendril.
The other claw, balled up, was pulled back, ready for the punch. No, not a punch. A blade suddenly materialized out of the beast's arm.
It swung. At least, the prisoner thought it did. Then he couldn't breathe. Something filled his throat with liquid. And his head oddly swayed to the side. His body tumbled down.
Zero.
The deed was done. Another deep breath before Crane pulled the arrow out of his shoulder. Barely a flinch but he bit down his teeth; his need for survival numbed the pain.
Crane triumphed. Like many times he had done in Harran. He glanced up to the orange sky and estimated how many more minutes of daylight were left before he walked away from the carnage.
No time for celebrations. No more surprises or distractions. Crane was going into that tunnel. Now.
He climbed up a fire escape and sprinted his way to his destination. At the sixth roof, however, the sound of wheels echoed from the faraway streets. Maybe more of these felons' friends.
Nevertheless, Kyle was prepared. He'd take them all down.
That declaration, however, fizzled out when he counted the new vehicles heading in his direction. Owned indeed by bastards in orange. And one of those people had a large gun over his shoulder. It looked strangely modified, but he couldn't tell what it was. A machine gun? A grenade launcher? He couldn't tell.
How did convicts get weapons like that?!
Did that matter? It was a bigger squadron coming for him!
Crane slouched down in disbelief and annoyance at the sheer number. They were as bad and persistent as Rais' damn men!
"C'mon." All he could do was groan irritably.
His new body didn't feel the daytime lethargy; his burns were growing painless. The night would take all his problems away, and he could teach these jerks a lesson they'd never forget. Permanently. The sun was nowhere in sight on the horizon
Yet the horizontal slice of sunlight still tortured him. Taunted him.
"Be nighttime already!" That could give him the advantage he needed.
Then Crane heard it coming from behind—the sound of something fired and the whistling of something big.
He peered over his shoulder at the last second.
All of a sudden, thick crosshatched ropes covered his entire body. Arms and legs bound together. There was nothing but for him to timber down two stories high.
"No! No! No!" he thought-shouted and vocally hollered, "Omph!" on impact. He couldn't count the many times he had felt pain in all different ways.
"It's down! It's down!"
"Gaaaah…"
The ringing took its time to cease as Kyle slowly raised his head to watch the vehicles surrounding him in a circle. One by one, the orange suits stepped out, armed to the teeth.
"Dammit. We lost a whole team to this...this thing!" he heard someone yelp.
"Good."
"Good? What do you mean good?!"
"It means tonight's show is gonna have one hell of a killer."
Show?
"Call the Director. Tell him he's got a new main attraction coming in. And he's gonna pay double."
What was going on? Crane quickly and desperately tried to tear the net apart. He'd gladly use his teeth to saw the fibers. Hell, even let his other side help him this one time-
"I-It's trying to cut the ropes!"
"Shoot it with the tranq gun!"
Pif!
"Gak!" Crane felt a needle prick at his neck. He pulled the thing off to find a dart in his claw. A tranquillizer dart.
Oh shit. No, no, no!
His body instantly went numb. The drug was enough to knock out an elephant, even an infected-turned Crane. It became harder for him to see the prisoners towering over the weak Hunter, their smiles distorting and the color orange warping in a sickly, slurpy manner.
No. Let me go. He needed to get back to the Tower.
"Alright, big guy," one of them said. "Make us filthy rich."
On the spot, Crane thought to himself. The brunette sounded like a better choice to stick around. Far better than any Tom, Dick or Harry he'd meet on the street. Now he wished he hadn't left her.
After all, he was still a monster. The world would always treat him as such.
That was the new law of nature.
And as if the world had another thing to add salt to his festering wound, the hilt of a firearm came right at Crane.
Thud!
The darkness consumed him immediately. He never felt his body being dragged away.
"Jack. Where are you going?"
It hadn't been ten minutes since the last call.
"Nowhere," the brunette answered casually as she skidded across the rooftops. "I'm just looking for something."
"No. I see you heading for the beach. And that...Freakazoid, you called him? Is going the other direction."
"Oh, is he?" she uttered and shrugged her shoulders. "Didn't notice."
"Jack. You're supposed to be 'observing' him. Or at least...pretending to be friends with him."
"Being 'friends' with a Day Hunter. Now that's almost as crazy as hearing him speak to me."
"And letting the infected bite you without dying isn't?"
"He said he didn't want a babysitter. That's what I'm giving."
"Uh...did he upset you or something? This is the first time I've ever heard you get this riled up."
"Are you implying he got under my skin?" she chuckled. How amusing. "Fifteen minutes. He's confused. Vulnerable. He'll come grovelling back. Beg me to help him."
"Okkk. Whatever this squabble you two have, you both need to get over it. The faster he gets on our side, the easier it'll be working on a cure."
"You only want him to be less hostile when he comes to your lab."
"I...won't deny that I don't want to get torn limb from limb if he comes here. And that's ifhe comes here," Bones quickly emphasized the point. "But if I'm gonna have to treat him as a patient, then we need to see eye to eye. Without the teeth."
"You two can work that out on your own."
"'Work it out', she says. Sure." The amount of self-doubt and dismay drenched the words, with the sound of Bones sinking into his seat.
"Come now. He can particularly make himself right at home with the Ravs. He has his mind intact."
"And for how long? He's a different case from all the others and we don't even know what how he got his humanity back."
"You know, he was still, well, feral, when we first met. Do you think his brain starting back up has anything to do with my secret weapon?"
"Uh. I mean…" The hesitation hung as the young man reeled back on the question. "It's possible. None of the test subjects managed to survive long enough after the first bite… We've been after an immune response, but we never thought about how it could affect an infected's body."
Jack didn't need to be in the same room to hear the gears turn in Bones' head. One of the smartest lads she knew and she listened attentively.
"His whole system could have rebooted itself and attacked the virus, thanks to the reaction... Or it could be a placebo effect," he ended up second-guessing.
Again, the gears moved on, harder in thought over that last part. The confidence in the words was like a chorus of notes being played, only for the last sentence to fall flat. The young clever Grad was struggling to come up with sound hypotheses.
"I really can't say until I start doing tests. If he's cool with it."
"You shouldn't brood about it, mate. You're already infected."
"Yesah. Stop reminding me," he whined. "I just hope we can get our answers sooner than later."
"Bones. My secret weapon is not a cure... It nearly tore the Community apart."
"I know. We all know... We just didn't handle it well at the start."
"We couldn't have predicted how things would have gone," Jack pointed. And with that, she ended the call.
Time was against her again. With the remaining hour of daylight she had left, she needed to head back to the stone dock she crashed into days ago. A horrible idea, but the decision to find the boat was already sound in her mind. WWhen she abandoned it, she had no clue how bad the condition was—either it had sunk to the bottom of the ocean or swarms of zombies had surrounded it.
Yes, her fearless leader did say to stay in Scanderoon. Yes, she was ordered to work on the assignment. And yes, she was told the Ravs would locate and communicate with the Tower again—she didn't have any doubt her ally, Talo and the scout group would fail. But the nagging feeling inside her got the better of her.
A job was a job. She hadn't decided on the spot to take the boat and go to Harran. Not yet. She could distract herself with side jobs in the meantime and hope that Asem's word would come through.
...Sod it.
She wasn't the type to stay in one place for too long.
"Alright, Caroline. Let's hope you're still intact."
The retrieval of Lenny's Caroline was a set mission to help distract her, at the very least. Afterwards, she could use it to maneuver around without taking the streets. The city had a couple of open channels distributed around, so what better way than to travel around by boat—no blocked roads, no noisy machines and most importantly, no zombies.
Moreover, it was her only way of travel to book it to the Slums. It had been her original plan before she left the Outskirts—to get to the Tower and see her cousin. Just to be sure. That everyone was alright. Alive. And fine.
She retraced her steps from Day One and exited the broken quarantine wall, expecting to see the boat where she last saw it.
"OH, blooming-!" Jack stopped her strongest curse.
Caroline wasn't where she had left it. Just the clear, calm saltwater and the buoys in the distance.
"Lenny's gonna murder me in cold blood."
Jack grimaced at that thought. She was already in hot water for taking someone else's boat to begin with. She searched about, just hoping for a glimpse it was nearby.
Those buggers who chased her into the pier must have taken it.
"Don't suppose you've seen where my boat went?" she casually, slight-jokingly, asked the nearby snappy blokes. She sighed at hearing inaudible murmurs and hisses, not an answer.
As if on cue, her pocket vibrated. With a frustrated roll of her eyes, she put on the comms.
"Bones. I already told you. I'm not going after Freakazoid."
"Who's Freakazoid?"
Jack quickly shut herself up. How untimely. It wasn't Bones' voice, but it had to be one person who shouldn't have heard that from her.
"And hello to you too, young lady. What can I do for you today?"
"Day's almost over," Siv pointed. "You should be heading to a safehouse."
"I can kill some time. Got an ongoing errand to run first."
"For this Bones guy, right?" she pried. "You said his name yesterday."
"Really shouldn't have been eavesdropping, princess."
"Then you shouldn't have a big mouth about your contacts, granny."
"Ok. I'll give you that one," Jack conceded. "He's a friend from the Outskirts. Our current radioman over there."
"Current? What happened to your previous?"
"She had to quit. Bones happened to be available at the time. He needs to get out of his stuffy lab more often."
"So he's a scientist?"
"Grad student. Harran University. Studied in...was it forensic anthropology or forensic archaeology?"
"Wow. Your group sounds understaffed."
"I should say the same for the Junction."
"Yeah. Won't deny that," Siv agreed with a weak laugh. "So that's why he's called Bones? He studies bones?"
A deliberate attempt to divert the conversation. She had something to say, but something also held her back from saying it.
"Human remains, actually."
She heard a quick utter of disgust from the other end.
"Pretty useful in studying those infected a little more," Jack continued. "Bones called their bone structures a marvel. A bit thicker than human bone density."
"S-Sure. Yeah. Useful," Siv exclaimed but couldn't keep to the same level of enthusiasm as the brunette had. She had seen the infected—how they were falling apart and some were gaining newer things—those mutations.
And to hear someone put their hands into an infected's corpse and open them up? She couldn't help but feel a little weirded out.
"...You didn't call to learn more about a Grad student's field of work."
It certainly caught the girl on the other end off guard, without knowing she had stepped into the trap. "A-And? I was just curious!"
"Hm-hm." Jack didn't believe the youngster.
"And for the record! I'm not a kid. I've survived this long in an apocalypse," Siv huffed.
"It's not the end of the world but sure, go on."
All Jack got was a droned-out groan instead of a rebuttal over Siv's actual physical age over her mental age, like all the other adults have done questioning her in the Junction. "Look. You seem busy. I'll call later-"
"It's no bother at all, Siv," the brunette chided. "What's up?"
"Um..." The hesitation actually amused Jack. Even the little whisper away from the mic couldn't hide the fact the teenager had something on her mind. "Shit, you're not supposed to continue talking."
"What did you say?"
"Nothing. Did you find that Day Hunter?" she spat, hiding her panic in a quick huff.
Really. What was the need to change topics on a dime? Regardless, Jack let it slide and continued on with the conversation. "Oh, yes. Got more than what I bargained for."
In more ways than one. But Siv didn't need to know that.
"That doesn't sound good. Should we be going after this thing?"
"Hunt down the Hunter… Naaaah," she reassured. "He's not much of a threat anyway."
"He?"
"Pay no heed." Jack laughed. Now it was her turn to switch topics with the purpose of laying another trap. "One infected isn't something to lose sleep over. The Junction has more pressing matters, right? Food and water, meds."
Silence. So it wasn't any of those matters that got Siv's knickers in a twist.
"But hey. At least we have Antizin."
"Antizin. Right."
There was no dressing it. Siv willingly slipped her frustration out, a soft sound telling Jack she had slouched back in her seat.
"Well, don't you have enough?"
"Oh. Y-Yeah. Of course! Pft! We've got loads. Loaaaads of Antizin. Can survive the Ice Age if it'd hit us."
"Hm-hm. Running zombies down with snowmobiles. That's actually not a bad pastime."
"Throw in some skates. You could slice their limbs off if they slip on the ice." Siv giggled at that thought, her tension slightly loosening over the line.
But Jack didn't share her girth. The little hint the teenager had been hiding in this entire conversation was obvious—no way could Jack not notice it.
"Something's wrong, isn't it?"
Nothing at first. Then a fake laugh echoed from the earpiece. "Wrong? Nothing's wrong! A-And...if you're gonna accuse me of something, then… Then don't come back here-"
"You might as well tell me to drop dead." The hesitation spoke volumes to the ex-kickboxer. The young teenager really had nobody at the Junction to listen; perhaps most of the time, adults told her they had it handled or ignored her. "Talk to me. I can't do my job if you're not being honest with me."
Again, silence. And yet, the line didn't disconnect. Good, so Siv was staying on the call.
"...I'm not supposed to say anything. Everyone would freak out."
"And that is when?" she asked. "Three days? A week later? Everyone will find out about this white lie you guys are telling yourself."
"It's not me who lied. It's…" Siv fell silent.
"Mahir told you not to say anything."
A heavy sigh told Jack she was right on the money. The little princess had been holding onto this whole secret since this morning, maybe even longer.
"...He and the Doc don't want to scare the others off… But everyone's on edge here. The drops from Mahir's friend are taking longer and longer too."
"I thought you were all well-stocked on Antizin."
A groan from the other end. "That's what Will says so we wouldn't panic. But lately, we've been running dry. Some are taking more Antizin than others."
The brunette hunched down her eyebrows. That little bit of information was a concern to her that Jack muttered, "More?" softly. But another deep sigh from the other end made Jack focus on the conversation.
"It's not looking good, Jack. Some people are thinking of leaving and Mahir's trying to reason with them but… Even he's getting frustrated."
"That bad, huh?"
"Everyone's complaining and I'm sick and tired of it. If these GRE jerks and prisoners weren't around, things wouldn't be this hard…" Jack heard a small knock, the mic shrieking a bit from the sudden movement. "I just…dunno what we can do."
Ah. This was the urgent dilemma Siv worried over after Jack had left the Junction. A shortage of the suppressor drug was already bad news, and it didn't sound good if people were using it more frequently.
It wasn't as if the authorities outside would send in support after they turned their back on Harran. Generosity wasn't in their dictionary. Their focus had to be elsewhere: maybe dealing with the most recent outbreak, or keeping the virus from going beyond the Checkpoint and into the rest of Scanderoon's other districts.
However...with the GRE activity lately, Jack couldn't help but think that the authorities haven't decided to halt the airdrops. Simply put, they changed senders—to GRE and not the survivors.
Then Jack spotted the Bayside in the distance.
A lovely coastal edge of Scanderoon stretched far. With her eyes trailing the white sandy beaches down east, she recalled that the Scanderoon Prison was located somewhere at that direction.
It was there and then she remembered something from Mahir and was struck with an idea. Probably a stupid one.
She grinned widely at the idea.
"I'll get some Antizin."
"What?"
"That's why you called me, right?"
"Not really. I just wanted to talk to someone who isn't a whiner like everyone else."
"Aww, I've grown on you."
She heard a scoff. "Be serious, Jack," Siv said, trying to brush it off. "I don't have any idea where we can find more Antizin."
"But I do. I might know how to get some."
"How?" There was a wary tone in Siv's voice. "You're not gonna raid a GRE's pantry, are you?"
"Not the GRE's. Someone else's hoard. A greedy bunch of blokes," she chided as she fished out an Antizin botte, the one Doc gave her from her sling bag. "I can get the Antizin."
"...Alright." There was hesitation in her voice but the young runner didn't try to convince Jack to rethink it—she couldn't if she tried anyway. But she also wanted to believe in Jack's word. "You did try to go after a Hunter… Just don't get yourself killed."
"I'm Mad Jack, little princess. I'm immortal," she recited the same phrase she had used so often back in her days of kickboxing. "I also need you to do me a small favor in return."
"Anything," Siv said with a bit of hopeful emphasis.
"I'm looking for my missing boat. Was wondering if your runners could do a recon for me."
"...You're leaving us?" There was a thick vibe of disappointment in the teenager's voice. A bit of anger.
Jack could understand why. But she didn't hold back.
"The Coast wasn't my destination, Siv. I didn't even know there was a second outbreak till I crashed here."
"...Where were you supposed to go?"
"Harran."
"Harran?!" she uttered. "What's so important to go there?"
"Family and friends," Jack explained, straightforward and with the punches. Best to come out clean than to say nothing—why hide something like that anyway? "Wouldn't you leave home if you've lost contact with someone you care for?"
"...Is this about your cousin?" Now her little fit was gone. Just a tiny bit.
Now it was Jack's turn to sigh. "...Even if we don't see eye to eye all the time, he's still family. He's all I got."
"Yeah. I get that." Not entirely; that was what Jack could read from the tone. The young teenager might not have forgiven her mom for small things but, she did worry about her. Blood over water.
"It's a short trip. If he's alive, I'll be back before you know it. And...if he's not… Maybe it'll take a little while longer."
"Why?"
The answer was simple. "Well. I'd have to make preparations… He's my cousin. No one deserves a half-arsed burial..."
Silence. It was an honest answer Siv never expected, to the point where she felt a bit guilty for her earlier angry remark.
"...Hey, Jack," Siv suddenly called out, stopping Jack from taking off her earpiece. "Your cousin is alive. I'm sure of it."
"Yeah… I hope so too."
That was all Jack could say. Just a bit of deceitful hope until she saw it for herself. But it was making her hate herself even more—a simple means to delude herself and stay focused.
She was about to put her comms away when a thought crossed her mind. "One more thing. Can you ask Will what's the recent duration between dosage? How long it takes before a refugee ask for their next Antizin shot."
"Recent duration?" Siv repeated. "Sure, I guess."
"Good," Jack droned without giving her a chance to ask why. "Catch you later then."
"Um, ok?"
Jack hung up. Now the next hassle. She ran a thumb on the fragile Antizin bottle in her hand. Would she be able to pull this off?
Well, she's got to try. She had already committed to the task for Siv and the Junction.
"Now where can I find that fighting ring?" she asked herself and got no answer. Only silence and dull wails. "Hm... Kinda wished Freakazoid didn't part ways with me."
He was the equivalent of a giant hunting dog, right? Most night zombies had horrifying, tremendous ways of finding and tracking down humans.
Jack strode back through the hole in the white stone wall. She could try searching near the prison and along the Bayside.
She actually found the answer not too far from the docks.
"Shit! Ehhh-! Hey you!"
A man on top of a bus with broken wheels was easy to catch by anyone, including Jack just passing by. Inside and outside the vehicle was a small swarm munching on something. How odd to find a lone survivor outside and before nightfall, even odder for him to plead for help that it prompted Jack to point a finger at herself—did he mean her?
"Yes! You! Come help me!"
She shrugged her shoulders and obliged. A job was a job, after all. It took a quick pitch of her crowbar for the stragglers to go down and stay dead. One Viral easily had its head smashed against the side of the bus.
"Oh, thank god. Thank you."
Jack paid more attention to what the infected was feasting on than to the stranger, relieved that his personal space was freed of terror and death. Bags of meat stacked against the bus, hand-packaged from the looks of it. Two additions had tumbled over them; if she had to guess, the survivor didn't go there alone as two poor sobs in orange suits got jumped on while delivering those...meat sacks.
All three men wore orange jumpsuits.
"Thought I was a goner," the Turkish prisoner uttered as he climbed down from the bus, swallowing his remaining fear. Just a scrub, right down at the bottom of the hierarchy. The kind who followed the ones tougher than him. "Screw this. Tonight's show isn't worth it."
Show?
"I'm getting to the Checkpoint! I'm not infected anyway," the man mumbled to himself. He was about to hightail out-
"Now that's being ungrateful," Jack droned. "Just a thank you? You can do better than that."
"What do you want?" He was a little cautious at the sudden pry—a woman who saved his life just outright asking for more than gratitude?
"Tonight's 'show'. Could you kindly give me the details?"
The chap's face darkened. There was a sliver of fear in his eyes. "H-Hey. You got it all wrong. It's just a stupid boxing tournament. Against zombies."
Her grin stretched. Talk about coincidence.
"Even better!" Jack droned, shocking the prisoner on the spot. "And here I thought it would something small. I'm looking to participate in it."
"Participate?! Lady!" the prisoner grunted. "This is Alexander's crazy crew!"
"Alexander. That name's been getting around lately."
"O-Of course! He's the one running things since this outbreak started."
"Your big boss... Noted. Now about that fighting ring-"
"You're still on that?! You'll have to come out alive after six rounds. Winner walks away with all the bets."
"Does that include Antizin?"
"Of course! It's one way of getting a bottle. But you'd have to be completely dense to try it. They toss you against Goons."
"Sounds like my cup of tea. Mind giving me the directions, mate?"
"Are you insane?!" he hissed. "You're fighting against zombies!"
"Directions." Jack neared into his personal space, with the sharp end of the crowbar aimed right at his throat. He could feel it dig at his apple as he swallowed. "Now."
The brunette meant serious business, regardless of how much the man thought she was a madwoman.
"Uh...s-sure. It's that way."
Seriously?
Fine. If that was how he wanted to play...
Jack 'pretended' to look at that direction. And the prisoner bolted the other way. With a sigh and a roll of the eyes at how obvious the lie was—especially the attempt to run away from her—the professional fighter wheeled around and sprinted after with one good swing of the crowbar. It hooked his leg up and with the momentum going, she spun the prisoner midair.
"Uogh!" Down he went, all the wind knocked out. To make absolutely sure he couldn't escape, a knee pushed down on his abdomen. "Wait! Wait!"
"Where are they holding the next ring match?" she sang, digging the blunt end of her melee weapon into his torso.
"At the Shipyard! Near the cruise station! B-But you need admission anyway. Or the boss gives ya a pass."
Jack's calm smile grew wider. "Let me figure that one out." She purposely gave two pats on his cheek, like praising a mutt for a good job. She withdrew her weapon back with a twirl as she stepped back. "Now run off before night falls."
He didn't have to be told twice. The man galloped up on his feet and ran as far away as his legs could possibly take him. He was wailing too loud that a few walkers staggered after him.
"Alright, Jackie," she cheered to herself. "Let's see how this goes."
The ex-kickboxer managed to reach the dockyard before the sun sank behind the blue horizon. Dim rays seethed behind a small cruise ship that had been abandoned for an emergency docking, casting a looming shadow across the docks. It didn't take long before she followed after the loud applause behind stacks of giant containers. They had been recently moved using the shipyard's cranes to create reinforced walls.
Eventually, Jack found the entrance of the man-made outpost.
Heavily guarded. By men who were doing time for petty and dangerous crimes.
She took everything into consideration beforehand with a watchful eye. It was challenging to reason with men who spent time behind bars—dangerous for a woman to try. They were free from the shackles of authority, and they had gone wild like that one 1979 movie about a dystopian Australian time, which she enjoyed. The convicts were high on the idea that they had taken over the Coast as their own.
So Jack had to tread lightly. The two guards immediately drew their rifles at a warning level just as she waltzed towards the gates, hands in pockets.
"Evening, gentlemen. I'm here to take part in that fighting ring you have back there." She pointed to the gates.
Straightforward. No sugarcoating her words. Of course, the two guards didn't budge. Some onlookers had a few sneers. Yeah, yeah, laugh it all out. She had been through this kind of treatment before.
A third thug came forth. Turkish mob from the tattoos on his arms.
"C'mon, lady," he taunted, almost baffled that a woman like her approached them. "Why throw your life away? You could be giving us some sugar tonight."
The men laughed with him.
Jack simply listened.
"Why don't you come with me? I can protect you from those Biters. Give you a roof, food, Antizin. What do you say-?"
"Pssh."
The talkative thug frowned at the sudden chuckle the brunette tried to keep in. Then she let the snickering out—the look on the bloke's face was priceless.
"You can't be serious. You should be protecting yourself from me, lad. Don't you know who you're dealing with?"
"What's that supposed to mean?" he snapped.
Jack frowned. "What is with people today? Did my name fall off the map or something? Look, mate. I don't have the time to keep you cosy because you can't sleep without bailing your eyes out. And..." Her eyes trailed up and down. "You're clearly out of your league."
The insult clearly took him back. Then he angrily sized himself up. "Listen here, you bitch-"
"That all you can throw?" Jack taunted, already bored with her visitor. "If you want to be a big boy, then you do better. It's that simple."
She could see in his eyes that he wanted more than respect. He hadn't seen a woman for months.
"You're forgetting just how bad your situation is," he barked, immediately grabbing the brunette by the collar. A woman in his grasp, and she hardly batted an eyelid. The convict pointed to the ground he stood on. "You walked here. So how about we start over without your attitude before you get yourself hurt-"
Without warning, Jack lashed out with a swift knuckle punch to his side, knocking his wind out. The thug kneeled down, realizing too late what had happened to him—and the next hard kick she gave. One way or another, he was forced on his stomach with his arm behind his back and a foot pinning him down.
"Get her off me! Argh!" The guards had their guns up but their faces said it all: they were unsure how to assert a situation like the one their friend was in. Jack's pull on his arm tightened. "I'm gonna kill you!"
"I'm not here to be your plaything, twat. I'm here for the tournament you boys' been bragging about around town," she demanded calmly. "So unless you're the boss, I strongly suggest you zip your lips and let me through."
He said nothing. Just a bypasser trying to have a bit of fun on the side. And if he were to say he was in charge, bragging would be a death sentence.
"Good. And one more thing."
She shoved her foot hard on his shoulder. With one good push.
Crack!
"Aargh!" he screamed, feeling like a hot iron rod pierced through his shoulder. His arm went completely limp. "AAAAH! AAAAGH!"
"I warned you, didn't I? You should have protected yourself." She shot up, leaving the prisoner in pain. Jack was completely undaunted by the nearby prisoners hurrying over to the injured man—not for the sake of helping him or taking revenge but to stop his screams while they took care of the nosy stragglers.
The ex-kickboxer shone a wide grin at the guards. Like a hyena having doubled down on her prey before turning back with a cackling smile. "So. Can I participate in your boxing ring?"
That smile had stayed since her arrival—not a simple switch-off when she took the thug down. Despite the two guards looking at her as if she were preparing for a death wish, they didn't retaliate.
"...Even if we did, there's no way a woman like you is going to survive."
"A woman like me?" There was an odd tone to her droning. She was a hungry wolf, ready to play with live food before sinking her teeth.
The guard didn't understand why the tenacity, his rifle jittering in his hands as she neared him. He could see it in her face; it didn't matter if the barrel was right at her stomach or if he was bigger or taller than her. He couldn't tear his eyes away, and neither could the other guard.
"Mate. I've been kicking humans' arses for the longest time. Recently, zombies' arses. Do you want more demonstrations of my skill?"
He swallowed. "...You were on TV, weren't you?"
The tension suddenly dispersed as Jack backed away, amazed and allowing him to breathe. "Finally. Someone recognized me. I don't have to go through the trouble of introducing myself with some trial by fire, do I?"
Still no budging. But the longer he delayed, the more enticed she was to walk back into his personal space.
"Now. Are you gonna let me participate?"
He could have fired. He should have. But that would bring out the freaks nearby.
Why was this woman, an old champion, so hell-bent to join a tournament?!
"What's going on here?"
Another prisoner stepped out of the gates. Older but less brawny than the guards or the injured thug. His first glance was to the woman—the obvious question being, why was a civilian doing there—before he turned to the thug on the floor.
"What happened to him?"
"He was blocking my way," Jack answered.
"Hm." The older prisoner didn't send an order of any sort. This one had the brains, but she could tell he was playing his cards cautiously. Certainly not the boss, but probably a simple supervisor. Maybe a quartermaster to the crooks. "You've gotta be looney to be coming here."
"And? What does that say about you lot pitching yourself against the infected?"
"Don't lump me in with these numbskulls," the man added. "I'm just here to make sure everything runs smoothly." He took a hard glance at her. "I'm not gonna convince you to think otherwise, am I, miss?"
"Just call me Mad Jack."
He was surprised. "The old kickboxer champion?"
"In the flesh."
"And you want to join this ring?"
"You know my reputation. I never turn down any fight."
The quartermaster thought about it. Debating in his mind whether he should break protocol and let her through. "...You have to pay admission-"
Jack lifted up the Antizin bottle like a gambler with her chips. "Would this be enough?"
The expression on the man's stern face told her, yes it was, no matter how hard he tried to hide it. The supervisor then took out a walkie-talkie.
Click!
"We got an outsider. She wants in on the fighting... Yes. She. Her name's Mad Jack." There was soft chatter on the line. A few nods from the quartermaster before he ended the call. "Let her through."
Her grin grew wider as she pitched the small bottle at him. The guards stood back in their positions, allowing her entrance as the older prisoner led the way.
There were a couple of glances and whispers, but Jack tuned them out. She focused on examining her surroundings and creating a mental map. Just a maze of containers and not a single sign of a matching ring. Tops were covered up with tarps and more boxes to make sure no infected could sneak in—or perhaps so that nothing could get out.
Moreover, she didn't see any place for supplies and Antizin to be stored away. Did they hide them well so that there wouldn't be any burglaries? But she heard the sound of the ocean under the cheers. So this little outpost was stationed right next to the water.
"What's your story?" the older man asked. "You can't be trying to relive your glory days."
"I just want more Antizin. That's the honest truth."
He cast his wide black eyes back at the brunette. Did he really hear that correctly? "By betting away your only bottle?"
She simply shrugged. "You gotta break an egg to make an omelette, right?"
No chuckle out of him. "Your funeral. No weapons beyond this point."
Another guard at the checkpoint held out his palm to a basket beside him. Like airport security checking passengers for unwanted items.
Another hassle—a dangerous decision to go weaponless in a place filled with thick-headed crooks. But rules were rules. Jack chunked her weapon and anything valuable on her into the basket.
But that wasn't enough apparently.
"Sling bag too," the guard was quick to point out.
She held in an annoyed sigh, even letting out a mumbled curse. But she obeyed with some hesitation, almost refusing to let go of her sling bag. Calmly, she stepped back and let the tall bloke rummage through her inventory.
"Heh. What do we have here?" He held out a small brown pill bottle. With a twitch of the cap off, he shook out two, three red capsules. "Thought you were some famous sports champion."
She smirked. "That's a rich assumption. But sure, go ahead and take a woman's medication. Don't know what it'll do to you."
The thug's one eye widened, and his voice got stuck in his throat.
"Actually, I'm curious about the side effects. Do you think less sex drive? Or maybe shrinkage of the-?"
"Enough," he demanded, almost unable to compose himself. As a means to shake off his displeasure, he tried to close back the bottle and slammed it on the table like it was ungodly filthy.
"I was going to say the brain."
"Just give it to her, for goodness sake," the quartermaster ordered impatiently.
The guard gave her back the bottle—but not her bags, of course. At least she got a small victory out of the exchange, seeing the man visibly uncomfortable in his stance. "Ahem. Go on right in."
"Much obliged," Jack pledged a salute to him and strolled onwards.
"Pretty redundant to be caring about these sorts of things," her tour guide murmured as he continued the lead.
"Perhaps. Who knows. I might find a lovely night in all of this chaos. Doesn't hurt to be careful."
"Those don't look like contraceptive pills."
Jack raised her eyebrows. Impressive. "And how would you know about women's products?"
"I have a girlfriend," he retorted, saying it like it should be common knowledge.
"Really?"
"Yes," he spat softly at her surprise. "She's outside the city, safe... Used to write to me every week before all this happened."
"You're rather sweet for a criminal."
"A man too bashful to do stuff for a woman doesn't deserve her time."
"She must be a wonderful woman to make you think that."
"She is… She stuck around for this damn fool... But she's probably given up on me." Jack's pace slowed down as she listened to the genuine sadness in his voice. A typical smoker from the sound of his lungs and worn-down knuckles showed that he had been through it all. "Was supposed to leave prison months ago."
A misdemeanor, and if she had to guess, less than a year of jail time. The charges could be anything: assault and battery, theft, alcohol violation, etc. But he did his time willingly in hopes of seeing his beautiful girl again.
Too bad the Harran virus came to Scanderoon.
"...If she's a wonderful woman in your eyes, I'm sure she still has you in her heart."
It could have come with ill intent. A joke. He had zipped his lips about his personal life, within his cell walls, and in this epidemic. But a stranger managed to pull at the right strings to get him talking.
She pulled again. "Perhaps you'll see her again."
And there crept an old, grateful glint in his eyes Jack managed to see. His pace suddenly became a little faster. He had a job to do; feelings could be appreciated another day.
"This way."
The scent of saltwater grew richer in her nostrils, and the excited yells were getting clearer. Louder. It wasn't long before the tops disappeared to reveal the starting night sky. Up ahead was the grand view—it was probably the largest container ship she had ever seen up close, its hull groaning against the crashing of waves. The tournament was inside that hulk of metal.
A third hassle. This was going to be difficult to escape, Jack thought to herself.
"You can turn back now," the quartermaster offered without even looking back.
"I already said, I've never turned away from a fight," she started. "So what are the rules? Nothing below the belt, mister-?"
"Duman. Rules are simple. You can do whatever you want with your opponent. Just beat all six rounds and you got yourself the trophy."
"No breaks in between fights?"
"Hmph. You can get a break when you're dead or after six rounds. Like I said before, your funeral."
SPLOSH!
The wet noise caught Jack's attention as they entered the belly of the beast. They reached a sort of lobby, and from what seemed like a kitchen stationed nearby, came out a strong whiff of iron. There was the disgusting sound of something slouching across the floor along with the ship rocking. A large man in a black apron with a double-chamber gas mask on his mouth swung his large clever at some meat. A real-life butcher from a horror movie.
Jack then found the source of the horrid sound. Buckets full of red blobs, flesh and piss, along with chopped-up limbs stabbed on hooks and hung up on one wall. Green boils all over them.
Bolters. And it was quite possible that two or three other limbs had once belonged to some unlucky criminals.
"What...is that for?" Jack asked, watching the butcher fill three red packets, seal them up, and place them into a crate. Meat bags with the same packaging Jack had seen near the bus earlier. With one good boot, the butcher kicked the crate out the kitchen and next to a stack of said crates.
"Something for our feral contestants. Gets them into a blood frenzy during the nighttime," Duman explained. "We've had a few try to climb over the walls."
"Huh."
"Hey, Duman!"
For a moment, the brunette was left alone with Duman being distracted by a passing cellmate. That was when Jack spotted something on top of the crates, drawing her closer to them over the rancid smell.
It was out of place, something one wouldn't easily find inside a ship.
Jack pulled at the floral-patterned curtain—the fresh, stinky red packets revealed underneath. She had seen this cloth before.
"Hey." She wheeled back to see Duman having come back down. "Don't go messing with those. Once that stuff is on you, the infected will be all over you like flies."
"OOOH!" A booming voice erupted from somewhere and everywhere, right above them and through the speakers. "That's gonna leave a mark. But he can leg it off!"
"Shit. Sounds like the match's almost over. Hurry up," Duman pushed on ahead and up a set of stairs.
Jack followed after as she adjusted her jacket a little.
"Head to the end, and the Director will let you in."
"The Director," Jack said. "Corny name."
"Don't let him hear that," Duman said, clearing his throat. "The man may be...extravagant but he has a short fuse. Heard he blundered his cellmate last year."
"Ooooh OH! He's still trying! Gents! Shall we rise the stakes?" yelled the Director's voice again. "Oh. No, wait. He's calling quits. Nuh-uh. You all know the rules. Six rounds or your life!" The laughter crackled through the speakers, mending with the cheering from the crowd.
"Five minutes prep," Duman explained. "Give these idiots a good time, would you?"
Meaning a good fight or a good death? But the stern man wasn't explicative. "But of course."
Duman went off to his own business. She was alone in the container-stacked corridor, no one to spy her rolling the small pill bottle between her fingers.
She could have almost lost her meds...
"Sharp man. Almost saw through my little white lie."
She did spin the truth. She never did say they were contraceptive pills; everyone would fill the gaps themselves. It cracked a smile on her face at how easy it was that she didn't need to lift a finger.
Then the smile faded off as her grip on the bottle tightened. If that guard had never given her back the brown bottle, things would have gotten ugly.
So she kept it back in her pocket. Concealed away from anyone but herself.
Calmed her nervousness down and put her focus on what was ahead.
There was a rejuvenated sense as she walked down the corridor. The applause and upcoming fight brought back the rushing feelings from her memories. The danger. The glory. The thrill of her opponent on the other side of the match. She even shook her shoulders and cracked her knuckles, a usual and religious habit she did before a match.
Too bad she wasn't going against a human this time.
Jack reached the end. Or was it the start? The 'ring' was behind another checkpoint, barricaded up by gates, UV lights, barred wires, and two guards—all the necessities to keep something dangerous from entering the hallway. From where she stood, all she could see was a prisoner on the steel floor with his stomach ripped up. Under the loud hollers, she listened to the sound of electricity and the painful grunts of some infected tasered back to its cage.
"Aw, looks like that's it for Sabir. All too sudden." With one foot disrespectfully on top of the dead fighter, was another criminal. The only difference from any other onboard the ship was the black vest and a microphone in his hand. A referee dressed for the glamor. "But don't worry. The night is still young. Let's get this baaall rolling for our next contestant!"
The referee was eating the spotlight up, literally bathing in it. The bloodbath didn't faze him. The splatter of intestines didn't even disgust him. The show only mattered. That uncanny determination remained on the man's face as he walked proudly to the checkpoint, shining a rather pearly-white grin—much whiter than what a convict should have.
He had his eye on a new contender to speculate on.
"Hello, Miss Celebrity!" he ushered with the kind of award-winning tone you'd hear on TV shows. "I couldn't believe it when they told me. The very person herself waltzed right into my showbiz!" He gestured his hands at her as if taking it all in with marvel. "Mad Jack."
The flamboyant referee took a courteous bow. He held out his hand ever so dramatically, like a gentleman wanting to kiss the offered hand of a Victorian lady.
"A pleasure meeting you in person!" he introduced himself. "Call me the Director."
She didn't accept the gesture; her hands stayed in her pockets. "So you've heard about my reputation?"
"Who doesn't? You're one fire of a woman." And now she wanted to gag. End her misery quickly. "An opportunity too! Why, you and me? We should talk business together. If you manage to survive all this, of course."
"I'm just here for one night."
"One night can't be enough for you. I can see it in your eyes. You want the thrill."
"On the contrary, I'm already living the dangerous life," Jack chided. "Plus the benefits are more promising."
"But think about it. Out there is unpredictable." Alsan, or the 'Director', roped his arm around Jack's tense shoulders, dismissing her thinning frown. "But if you work for me, it's all supervised. We're stuck in this outbreak and every day, people are fighting for survival. Crowds need something. You know what that is?"
"Hope?"
"Relief! They want someone to pay the price for all their misery. They want someone else to get hurt. Of course, competitors like Sabir over there," he started, pointing a thumb at the corpse being cleaned out of the ring. "They die too easy." The turn was so sudden, it put Jack in fighter mode but her hands stayed in check, balled up, however. "But you! The Wild Dog herself... You can last longer than these chumps."
"And you want me to last long but also lose?"
"Lose? No. Well. Nobody really believes they can outrun this outbreak." Such disgusting honesty that even beat hers. "It'll be incredible if you survive all six rounds. And if you do, I can give you more fights!"
"Yeah." Jack unhinged herself from the clingy guy. She knew where this was going—she had been there before. "I'm not the kind to take a fall. I'll do the six fights. Then I'm walking out with Antizin."
At first, the Director tried but not enough words would persuade her when Jack gave her most serious face at him.
It was enough to kill.
"Alright." He held up his hands defeatedly. "I know when to quit ahead. But remember. The offer still stays." He turned back, listening to the impatient yells getting louder and louder. "Time to give these people a good show, Jackie."
"Please don't call me that," she grumbled, feeling an unwanted tinge down her spine. Only she herself was the one who could say that nickname to herself. But the Director didn't listen and simply stepped back into the ring. Mic back up.
"Gentlemen and more gents, we've got a very interesting guest tonight! Three years with the world championship title-"
"It's four," she hissed, holding out four fingers. "Four years."
"And the most dangerous female kickboxer of the 21st century. You heard that right! The villainess of the ring! The Wild Dog herself is going to blow you right off your feet with more than just her teeth. So put out all the bets, people and give it a round of applause for Mad Jack!"
Jack traded places with the Director—out into the ring she stepped forth as he hurried back to safety with the gate closed behind her. Under the night sky, she glanced around at the squarish, man-made arena. Rather creative using the storage containers.
The audience sat behind barred fences, high enough that not even an infected could jump over. She could see some evidence that a few walkers tried and failed. The cheers roared, but it wasn't for Jack. Some catcalling, however, was tossed at her.
She simply ignored them all. Frankly, it did feel a little like her glorious days. People back then shouted her name. A few fans of other kickboxers had called for her head.
Because she always prevailed. She defeated their heroes in their eyes.
"Garrgh!" The sudden sound of metal shaking caught her attention as pale-skinned arms waved out from another gateway on the other side of the arena. It sounded eager to sink its teeth into her.
Jack breathed in and out deeply. She lined up her fists.
"It'sssss SHOWTIME!"
A lever was pulled from somewhere, and the opponent's gate opened.
"Time to fight, Jackie," she told herself. "Make it count."
A/N: 30/11/19 Both revamped and reedited this chapter.
*This has been a long-awaited disclaimer that has to be put down in words, no matter how many times I've said no or discreetly explained that Crane will not evolve into a brute for anyone to fuck in bed. Whatever your kind of fantasies are, it's yours and I won't question it but I have been greatly disappointed at this constant prying since I've started this fic. It's even come to a point where I have to reveal a spoiler that's supposed to happen onwards in the next chapter: Crane cannot transform because of Jack's blood. It is only his skill tree that will evolve just like a Hunter's gameplay. Moreover, his form might even deform back to close to being human, thanks to Jack. This is where I am disappointed at readers pushing for something that I have to give out a spoiler before it's revealed. And even when it's in between the lines, some of you still push hoping I'll bend. This is what I hate: being told to change the storyline for your pleasure regardless of how many times I've said no! Regardless of knowing that I've already planned how this story goes. I welcome constructive criticism but not to the point where quite a number of my review has been "making Crane big, hulky and monstrous". I have even grown to hate my own creation because some of you can't take a damn hint! And this is not recent, this has gone on long enough. I am angry that it has come to this disclaimer, the revealing of a spoiler and disliking my own work!
I am writing a story about Crane's humanity and Jack's survival. That has been my goal since I first wrote my prologue. And there are other readers who want to read this more than a monster fetish. This fanfic is not one of those kinds of fics. And if you keep pushing for Crane to 'evolve', whether as a joke or not, then I will end it. Even anything to tell me to change my story plot like stopping Jack from helping directly or not. I will refuse to continue this fic and let it be buried for good.
That is my final warning: Crane is not going to evolve. Jack's blood stops him from changing. That's it. This is not a joke, there is no chance ever of me changing my mind.
Moving on to a note that people will care reading: I will admit this chapter has been a lot improved than my previous one. Crane's character in my previous chapter was too passive and cowardly because I thought too much on his fear of his new form. But this is still the same Crane - he would take measures into his own hands like he has in the game. The more I improve my chapters, the more I'm improving my writing on Crane to still be the protagonist in the prologue arc - something that I had noticed I did poorly before. I hope he still keeps true to that protagonist spotlight, just as much as Jack's rising up too. I've also thought more on Crane's skill tree, with some inspiration from the fight against the Mother in the Following and more. The blade might be a little game-breaking but I'd say its only for emergency.
And...it's his ulna bone. If his arm isn't suited in any way, it could particularly snap right off.
Anyhow, I hope you enjoy this chapter for what it is. And what this story will be.
Btw if I'm not clear again about this disclaimer, the next review to ask "Crane to evolve" is getting reported.
7/2/21 - Fixed mistakes and edited parts according to new timestamp from pilot.
20/2/22 - Went over a full chapter edit with some fixes, retwists, deletes and adjustments. Removed specifics on Siv's exact age and changed some dialogue
7/4/23 - Made some changes and adjustments, changed some motion parts in the fight scenes