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 to piece himself back together.
The first question to come to him was what had happened to him?
Then the next: 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!
His name came eventually—his own name. Kyle Crane.
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 holed up somewhere…
The Tower.
But that wasn't the last place. He squeezed his dry eyes shut, willing his brain to cooperate.
The Countryside. He'd gone there chasing a rumor—a cure, a way out. Talks about some cult and sentient zombies-
A flash. The color, red. Someone came right at him, mask 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…"
He scanned his surroundings. But this place didn't look like the Countryside. Or some lab storage inside a dam.
"Where am I?"
His voice was raspy. Weird-sounding. 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.
The colors around Crane seemed off, but he chalked it up to the darkness. No silos, no open fields, or windmills. Nothing remotely familiar. 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.
"This...this isn't Harran."
He cleared his voice again. What was wrong with it? Instinctively, his hand rose to his neck.
Where on Earth did he wander off to? Had he been wasting time doing fuck who knew what? 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 from the horrible, alien feeling.
That was the one important thing he had forgotten and it hit him far worse than his headache.
He remembered he was infected.
The bite from a random zombie when he parachuted into the middle of the Slums' streets.
When was the last time he took his Antizin?
The question sank into his chest like a lead weight.
He looked down.
"Grah-ah-AHHH!"
Crane screamed; his shriek turned into a panicked monstrous murmur. Because he now noticed the talons. And he tried to get away from them.
They followed. Those were his hands.
Shaking, he lifted them closer, hoping that he was delusional. Flipped them around to see the horrible truth.
"What-?"
Another thing stopped him, making him grip his throat in 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 sounded like somebody else was talking to him.
He tried again.
"H-How-"
No. Stop. This wasn't him. That wasn't him!
"This is a nightmare…! I-It has to be!"
Stop talking! That wasn't his voice!
"Why is this-"
He jumped again. What now?!
It sounded like his normal voice. But not from his own mouth!
He thought that out loud!
Like soundwaves!
And the manner of it…was eerily familiar. Someone else did this means of communication to him. Telepathically?
"T-This isn't real!"
His head was spinning, unbearably 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 was spiraling out of control.
"S-Stop-"
No, the voice was making it worse! His vision blurred, delirium creeping in as hyperventilation gripped his chest like a vice.
He fought to hold himself together, shaking violently. A sane person would've lost their mind entirely by now. Maybe he was already insane—that'd explain this nightmare. But if that were true, why wasn't he waking up from it?
Something was anchoring him, holding him steady. And it wasn't his willpower; what was left of that was hanging by a thread.
Calm down.
He squeezed his eyes shut, forcing himself to slow his breathing. It barely worked; 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 slipping back into old instincts for him, or at least the human side of Crane. Another city, another rooftop perch, but the danger was unmistakable. Below him, the scene mirrored the streets of the Slums: wandering Biters in the dead of night.
But something caught his eye. Bright and orange.
The creature was moving fast through the street, the tibia and fibula bending in and out. It coaxed a small part inside of him to go chase after it. Catch the firefly.
Then he froze. What he was seeing made no sense.
A skeleton running on its feet bones.
Or was this how the infected see? Didn't matter. His eyes trailed after the highlighted skeleton, noticing three hulking shapes swooshing through the shadows. Light flickered briefly, revealing their monstrous forms.
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.
Someone else was in danger.
He had seen this too many times before. Someone in peril. Someone who needed saving—and he had done the saving many times.
His legs refused to move, anxiety rooting him down. The moment they'd see him, they'd run away in fear.
But that was a person in danger!
Kyle! Move!
He bolted on the balls of his feet. The same man who dove headfirst into danger like before. Crane couldn't stand by, no matter how monstrous-looking or cowardly he'd become. He had never turned away either, when lives were at stake.
He could deal with his ugly reality later—after that person was safe.
As he ran, he noticed stark differences in his abilities. Faster than any human, not quite superhuman, but far beyond what he used to be. Vaulting obstacles with ease, he closed the gap on the mob, all 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, judging by the silhouette layered over the glow—as if Crane wore x-ray glasses. Even in the dark with his strange new vision, she stood out with 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 were right behind, snarling and prancing into the perimeter—one of them leading the charge and hammering their claws on the door.
Crane plummeted right into the perimeter, having grabbed a wrench lying around on the run.
"GAARGH!" One Volatile spun to him, screaming a clear warning: Back off. This is ours.
Not the exact words but that was how he pictured they said to him.
And know what, he thought to himself, he wasn't a human anymore. A human had few choices against a Volatile: run or fight desperately for survival. Three Volatiles would give any human a run for his money.
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 second went reeling back, holding its blood-soaked head.
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. These were the monsters he used to flee from—ones he wouldn't dare face without UV lights. Now, his newfound strength was devastating them.
Crane turned towards the Volatile pounding on the safehouse door, ready to act—
Right!
That same, grating voice clawed back at his mind, for a split second. But its warning urged him to wheel right: one of his fallen opponents rose up and charged!
THUD!
The monster quivered back at the hard whack to the chin and now Crane's wrench was bent. Unusable.
Despite everything he gave, now he had all the attention on him. The Volatiles' glowing red eyes burned with raw fury, at him. The kind animals would have towards an outsider who had overstayed his welcome.
Great. Now what was he supposed to use? His claws? And three against one weren't good odds.
Then, a sound. Low and distant at first—a whooing noise. It grew louder, building into a sharp buzz.
Suddenly, blinding light—white, then blue.
Followed by a searing, unbearable pain all over his body.
"Gaaaugh!" Crane howled, collapsing to his knees. His skin felt like it was on fire. He was becoming weaker every second he stayed in the light.
What's going on?!
"Gaargh-hisssss!" The Volatiles weren't faring any better. Their screeches pierced the air as they recoiled, shielding their faces from the light. One by one, they fled, leaping over the barriers and into the night.
The last one—the one whose jaw he'd shattered—writhed in agony, gurgling a horrible sound from its jawless mouth. The strong, disgusting smell of burning flesh filled Crane's nostrils; the bastard was roasting up.
Right. Right!
Exposure to ultraviolet light!
A survivor's most powerful, deadly weapon against the undead. No Safe Zone was without them, no human should leave without a UV flashlight if it meant scaring off the common infected; burning Specials alive, forcing them back into the shadows.
And Crane was being cooked alive.
Get out! Get out now!
He obeyed the screaming instinct, tightening whatever cloth he had over his face. A dart and dive right out of the hot safehouse. But his stamina was so spent, rolling on the ground as if on fire—a stupid attempt at 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 move. With trembling limbs, Crane crawled, dragging himself far enough away to feel the UV's grip loosen. His stamina inched back, strength creeping through the haze of agony.
He gritted his teeth and scrambled away for a safe spot he could find; anywhere where he wouldn't get pounced by another Volatile—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…on the bright side! The safehouse's lights were on! The woman was safe!
He peered tiredly down from the balcony. And once again, he took a second to realize how terrifying his new 'self' was. His enhanced vision could cut through walls.
Inside the trailer, the woman sat on the floor, panting, exhausted from her ordeal nightly run. But finally, she was safe.
Crane exhaled, sagging against the wall.
He'd done it. She was really alive.
He could rest, feeling relieved-
"Holy hell."
Crane jerked his head at the thick accent. A woman's voice.
What was that?
He searched for the source. It sounded so crystal clear. Like someone was right next to him talking.
Was he hearing things now?
"That was way too close for comfort..."
No. That wasn't his imagination. That came from that woman, from inside the trailer.
Christ. Was this how well his hearing could go?
"Jack?"
Then he heard another voice—male this time, muffled slightly, tinged with background static. Radio chatter.
"Y-Yeah. Yeah. I'm good... Talk about a run for my money. Ahaha."
"You are one lucky woman, you know that?"
What the hell... He was hearing radio chatter. Going levels of bat-shit crazy. But he listened regardless—not that he had a choice to begin with.
He could clearly see the brightly outlined skeleton putting fingerbones to where her ear was.
Comms.
"Guess I have my guardian angel on overtime," the woman exclaimed, weakly laughing.
"Heh. Well, you did say you were a specialist."
Seeing another human, person, talk to someone on a line gave way to something Crane 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 cut in. "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 frowned. Was she attacked? He vaguely remembered something along those lines-
Oh.
Right.
He was the one who attacked her. At that chapel... Guilt gnawed at his insides as the details surfaced—how she had to fight him off to survive. 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," the woman replied, her voice carrying an odd, lighthearted chirp.
Crane blinked in disbelief. Did she seriously just shrug off the fact he had almost killed her? On top of that, being chased by three Volatiles? Monsters had practically tried to eat her alive, and her takeaway was: "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."
"Tomorrow... You better come back alive," the younger voice demanded.
"We girls gotta stick together."
How normal and easy it was for this woman to banter back, pretending that all the horrors she experienced were yesterday's news.
Crane absorbed the scene below—just a normal conversation in the middle of an outbreak. The kind he had at the Tower, the people he met along the way. And seeing it happen was laughable, strange, and, most of all... sad.
It honestly made him miss the real deal.
This cheekiness, the harmless small talk to lighten up their grim reality… Listening to an adult talk to some kid through the comms had too much resemblance to something similar in his past.
What a blast from the past. It didn't start off like bubby-bubby when Crane first started. Rahim was a jackass, pretending to be the boss and calling him lazy.
Then he remembered Rahim.
Crane squeezed his eyes shut. It hurt.
"And Siv?"
Crane looked back at the woman below him.
"Yeah? "
"We'll find more supplies. This granny still has a few good 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 mumbled to nobody, taking her sweet time contemplating. The woman then sunk over to one corner of the trailer, to sleep.
Like how Kyle had with his first assignment—turning the power grid back on for Spike, and, after a long first day, decided to sleep it off inside the generator room.
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 not creepy, Kyle. You're not that kind of man.
The word, 'man', rang a horrible reminder to himself. He sighed, swallowing his fear.
He had to face the music, even if he didn't want to. Time to take a good look at himself and prepare…maybe stop himself from screaming again.
At his new body. His...zombified self.
Cane exhaled all the disgust out of him he could 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 rip the skin off and find something normal underneath?
Was this what happened when you lost to the Harran virus? What the hell was he now?
"O-Ok," he muttered.
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 it down. "I-It's alright. You can shake this off."
No, it wasn't. That was the rambling of a madman.
"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 became the one thing Mother said he would.
Another painful reminder from the past.
"...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 teeth grinding and the pain in his claws from the nails digging in. He wanted to hit something! He had lost everything thanks to her! The Faceless!
But what could he punch? 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.
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. Nothing. No pouch belt. No blue vials. No weapons, no tools—nothing. Not even his Companion phone. All he had was the rags on his back.
"Great... Must have dropped them."
Crane couldn't believe his own luck. He just got back his mind, got beaten to a bloody pulp by that lady, nearly roasted to death, and he lost the vials!
He slumped back, hunching his head low. "...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!"
They were a lot more trouble than they were worth. They were a dead end.
Kyle breathed in and out. In and out... And put his head back on. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw his reflection in the balcony door. Just the eyes, hauntingly silver-blue, hidden beneath the drapes wrapped over his head.
He knew the color of his eyes before. But not this. He tightened the cloth around his head, too afraid to see his whole face.
On one side, he knew he shouldn't give in. 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 twisted excuse of his old self.
Crane gave up on his inner combobulation. He was still groggily from his weird out-of-body experience—or was it back-in-body? Most of his energy had been spent battling his inner turmoil, the 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 really that easy to slip into denial? But what else could anyone do in his predicament.
"Heh," he scoffed at himself. "Don't really have a manual for this."
Smooth, Kyle. Real smooth. Maybe he should just bash his head in again and end it all.
He knew what he needed. Distraction. 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 busy, his body alive. He couldn't afford to falter—not when people depended on him.
Alright. Think.
He thought it over. First off, he was in a different city. And it was just as overrun with infected as Harran. 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... Everyone'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 that. Spare them from seeing their friend like this. Crane had to handle it himself, like always.
But he couldn't go on like this. He needed help. For once, it wasn't about him solving everything.
"Can't go to Camden either..." He groaned in frustration. Oh, c'mon. He didn't have any other option but what could he do? Camden was working on a cure…
That didn't mean he could give up. "...I should retrace my steps. Go back to Harran-"
A sharp, pounding memory hit him like a hammer. 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!
He wouldn't forgive himself if he took the lives of a mother and two children. But deep down, Crane already didn't forgive himself after seeing the devastation around him.
The coastline was in shambles. Ash and smoke blanketed the black skyline. With his overpowering senses, the chaos—screams, gunfire, Biters rampaging through the streets—bombarded
People were dying, running, pleading for their lives.
This was Harran all over again.
Something—or someone—brought the virus here and unleashed hell. And the realization twisted Crane's insides. Completely sick to the stomach, he forced the bile back in, the acid burning all the way down.
One more look at the burning city around him.
He caused all this, didn't he? When he left that manhole, he…
He destroyed this city.
"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? A small, morbid part of him wanted to know the truth—what had really happened to this city? 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. Stop. Before he realized it, he fell on his knees. The final blow was all it took to break him.
Enough. It has been too long since he kept on a brave face, because if he were to break, then everyone would break too.
Now that façade no longer mattered to him. He wasn't a man anymore. He wasn't human.
He had no more reasons to hold back the tears.
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 had been the bad guy this whole time.
Nobody could hear him—not the sleeping survivor in the trailer, not the mindless walkers shuffling below. 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's tear-streaked eyes snapped 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. Those three words rang like a powerful chant, louder in his head this 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 stains on the floor—he had really cried his eyes dry.
Crane was spent all right: uncertain, lost and tired. He was gone through being angry, being sorry for himself and denying everything within minutes. None of it had changed anything. The damage was done.
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 existence, Crane had no idea what he should be doing. No goals, no guidance, no voice on 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 so much before the Countryside. People too—two of them being the most important 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 that first day.
"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.
Crane inhaled deeply, exhaled slowly. Start thinking.
Despite being in this body, his mind was still sharp. Observant. Just like always, it zeroed in on details others might overlook. If nothing else, he could do what he'd always done—connect the dots.
"...Why...am I back?"
It was a valid question. A good one. Retaining his humanity—this level of awareness—it didn't make sense. It shouldn't make sense. The infected 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 take over—for his own regained sanity. Let the detective in him piece things together. 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. Enough to make him wish it hadn't dragged his humanity back into his head. To acknowledge his own predicament.
But now he had to, hur-fucking-rah.
Most importantly, what caused it? All he could recall was some gruesome taste in his mouth, and pieces of that fight...
His gaze trailed back to the glowing, highlighted skeleton lying inside the safehouse.
"...She doesn't have anything to do with this, does she?"
That was a stretch and a half. Some random survivor he just so happened to meet, helped him be sane again.
"What? She's gonna help me?" he hissed at himself, claws up. Great plan, Kyle!
A legit low, guttural sound from his own mouth. Like the pleading, half-human wail of an infected Runner. The kind of sound someone would make right before eating their friend's face off.
He snapped his jaw shut. God, how he hated that noise.
He didn't have the foggiest idea how it even happened. Just the knuckle sandwiches—enough to knock an average Joe into next week. And the taunts. And a lot of pain.
"She certainly beat the living shit out of me…"
Maybe that did it. Knocked some sense into him.
One thing was clear—she was a fighter. A terrifying one with that explosive personality of hers. 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. And the ballsiest thing she used: her fists. Not a weapon, fists.
Hell, she even used her teeth.
Who does that?!
He rubbed the bite wound on his neck. It still stung. "Can't believe she bit me-"
Then it hit him. A grim thought that twisted his stomach with guilt.
"Shit... She bit me..." He sighed shamefully, resting his head in his hands—ahem, claws. "Dumbass, I shouldn't have bitten her...twice."
Crane's problems kept piling up, one after another, and now he had to add more.
He didn't know—he didn't want to remember—how many people he might have bitten. 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 make sense of it, the longer he'd be in an endless loop of 'what ifs". There was nothing he could do about it now. The truth was staring him right in the face: he'd bitten that woman, and now she was afflicted, just like thousands of others.
Without Antizin…the outcome would almost certainly mirror his own.
One more to the monster's list of victims.
How many that number included, Crane didn't want to know.
He heaved a deep breath, collecting his thoughts.
When someone reached their end to the virus, Crane had always been the one to give the final blow; end their misery. Friend or stranger.
Crane didn't have that luxury from anyone when he lost control back when he exited out of that manhole… Wide awake in a body that wasn't his.
That was a fate he didn't want anyone to him. Same went for that lady. Nobody should.
But he was still wishful.
"She needs Antizin." Crane remembered the seizures that shook through his body and the hallucinations. She would experience the same torment until Camden's cure was ready—if it ever would be.
And he asked himself, that was when? Should he even try to look for a bottle to prolong her life?
He shook his head. How could he forget? "They've stopped dropping supplies in Harran... Then...she's gonna turn like me..."
One step at a time. He'd worry about the lack of Antizin later. But sad as it was, all options were out the door before he could hope…
Crane sighed with heavy shoulders.
Alright...he'd do it. If the woman were to lose the fight to her infection, then...he'd be the one to end her life.
He'd come to a grim conclusion: if it came to it, he would have to end her life.
He was the one responsible for giving her the virus, he should be the one responsible for taking her life.
That was the least he could do for her.
He was a zombie now. They kill without remorse. Without emotion. He might as well oblige like it was the latest trend.
…But only if it was too late. Crane hoped—desperately—that it wouldn't come to that.
"Sorry, lady," he muttered under his breath, knowing she'd never hear him from his perch. But he needed to say it. "If it comes to that...then, I gotta be the one to end it for you."
Now he had a goal to keep—his first task in this undead life. It sickened him but...there was the least he could do.
Crane 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. The faint glow was enough to entice his curiosity, leave his perch and walk over—well, not a true walk like a human being. More like the trotting of some deformed ape on two in a concrete jungle.
As he approached, Crane saw what it was: a cell phone but he stopped. Out of habit, he extended a claw out, as if reaching for it but the tips of his talons started to singe a little, a sharp painful reminder of the UV lights.
The phone was still within range of where the safehouse's UV lights beamed over.
Crane grimaced aloud. Just get it over with. Kyle kneeled closer and reached out, faster-
Something shot right out of his hand. A snake!
"Shit!" he yelped, jerking back in horror! But before he could do anything, the 'snake' snatched the phone and landed squarely in his claw.
With wide eyes on his arm, Crane staggered back as his trembling hand instinctively tightened around the device. His arm—it had split open, firing out a tendril like it knew what he wanted before slithering back inside…him.
So he could shoot vines out of him. Another new thing about himself.
"Ok... B-Baby steps!" he choked to himself.
Crane groaned and quickly distracted himself from his strange, alien-like biology with the phone in his claws instead. It was a cheap model, the kind anyone could afford before the outbreak—something normal. A tether to the world he once knew.
He fiddled with the device. It might hold answers, anything helpful. He was in another city without his old Companion App. But there was one glaring problem: talons can't swipe the screen.
Instead, he added more scratches to the already-cracked phone. Did he even have fingerprints anymore?
Crane nearly gave up but managed to stumble into the phone's notes—an in-phone diary.
"Tagged for drop collection with the girl. Should be a quick and easy 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 their life. He continued through more notes, skipping the unimportant ones.
"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 remembered hearing about that area months ago—one of the first evacuation zones hastily set up before the infection swept through, sealing its fate.
What was more surprising was the woman herself—she was from the Outskirts?
That threw him off completely.
He glanced back to the trailer, expecting the woman to discover she was without her phone, but the skeleton slumbered peacefully.
Not like he could just waltz up and return it without her trying to kill him on sight. After all, he did bite her.
Twice.
"Got derailed into Scanderoon and lost Lenny's boat! At least I'm alive!"
Scanderoon. Ok, now he knew which city he was in. He had been right next door to Harran this whole time.
Then the last note. The most important and suspicious one 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."
Crane turned back to the phone, scrolling further through the notes. Most were mundane tasks: pick up specific items, scout enemy outposts, something about talking to a fisherman at Hope Harbor?
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 'secret weapon'? What the hell was that supposed to be?
The whole note was infuriatingly vague. Even the old Crane, with all his reckless heroics, wouldn't have taken on a mission this absurd.
Something about this irked him but he couldn't figure out why.
More reason not to get attached, he thought. Whoever this woman was, it didn't matter. It would make things a lot easier for him. He had to remind himself again.
He wasn't human anymore. So he shouldn't go soft ever again. He had to be colder.
Look at what happened to him the last time he gave a past to a stranger. He became a freak of nature.
Still, irony wasn't lost on him. He had decided to come after the lady with the red jacket 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.
The more he thought about her, the more she reminded him of himself when he first landed in Harran. A new face, helping out a group, tasked with proving her worth through work like collecting airdrops.
The only difference?
He had done it because he had orders to follow—orders from GRE.
Oomph, a real blow to his conscience. He didn't like remembering everything linked 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.
And there he was. A mutant far away from his second home.
"... 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 firm squeeze on the phone. He knew how hard it was to start from nothing in a place like this, cut off from everything.
Might as well take the time to get used to his new form while he took over these small tasks for her.
Time for work.
Everything was completely backward 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 really belonged to the infected. It wasn't just a time for Specials to crawl out of their hideouts and hunt—it was their peak performance window. And now, he understood why on a disturbingly personal level.
Nighttime gave him full strength, like the jolt of a morning coffee—but far more potent. His body brushed off the beating and burns from earlier as if they were 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.
At 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 launch himself across rooftops with ease.
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 caught himself thinking: 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 reminded himself how wrong it all felt. The unnatural momentum gave him a strange sense of comfort, as if he was in a league of his own. Was this his body naturally adapting? Or was it something the beast inside had already mastered, leaving him to simply pick up where it left off?
Either idea unsettled him.
"Don't get too comfortable," he 'thought-said' to himself. Who knew when he would fall off the deep end again.
That ominous presence was still there, lurking in the recesses of his mind. He could feel it, scratching faintly at the door, promising it'd behave this time if only he let it out.
Fuck, no.
Crane wasn't going to open that door—not even a crack. He had to stay in control. He had to stay as himself, at least until the job was done.
To push away the unsettling thoughts, he distracted himself with a bit of sightseeing, marking down mental 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'd already made up his mind.
There was one observation Crane couldn't shake off. At first, he hadn't noticed it.
Back when he was human, it was survival outside the Tower—dodging teeth, claws, and anything that wanted him dead. But now, as he moved through the streets and over the rooftops, something became increasingly clear.
He wasn't welcome by the infected.
The common Biters groaned at him wherever he went, as savagely as they would to any human. Somehow, they knew he wasn't one of them anymore. Kyle had morbidly thought this form of his could act like a sort of camouflage in plain sight. That plan went out the window before he could try.
Then there were the Specials.
He couldn't, in a way, sense their presence. Back when he was human, his gut had always 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, giving him one clear warning.
Stay out of our hunting grounds.
Their prey was theirs to hunt.
Prey. The word struck him like lightning. He wasn't their prey now, but others were. The intrusive thought of lurking after a human, pouncing on and sinking his teeth on their flesh-
He shoved it away quickly. One or two times, Crane wanted to throw up again.
Don't think about it.
He didn't… It never happened.
Shaking off the unease, he refocused on mapping the area.
Several streets away from the overpass, he spotted an area crowded with orange-lit skeletons, big and small, clustered together. It had to be the Junction the lady mentioned in her phone. The setup wasn't ideal—unlike the Tower having high ground—but they looked well-stocked and fortified. Ready to handle anything, whether man or infected.
And Crane wasn't about to test that. He moved on.
He finally realized the greenery was a bit out of control. How long had it been? Months? A year? Longer?
He hoped not.
One troubling fact was certain while cruising around the blocks: there were no airdrops.
Not a single container. So far, he had searched every plausible location within distance but came up empty. Scanderoon was right next door to Harran but would the Ministry of Defense abandon this place as well?
Actually, scratch that. They did try to bomb Harran… They might as well have turned a blind eye on Scanderoon.
It was a sobering realization.
No airdrops meant no Antizin.
And without Antizin…
No, stop. There could be other ways, Crane told himself. Survivors were out there. They had to have come across supplies somehow.
He just needed to keep searching—places that hadn't been ransacked yet, spots overlooked. It was nighttime; no one would be stupid enough to go out at this time.
Or so he thought.
Turning a corner, Crane spotted three orange silhouettes at a two-story store building: two at the ground floor and one on the open-top floor having a smoke. It wasn't a fortified safehouse—barely any UV protection in sight.
He crouched down, watching them from his perch. Their thug-like pacing and the way they carried themselves screamed trouble. Hands leveled, gripping sturdy shapes.
Guns. Great.
His gaze shifted to the rooftop smoker, who sat comfortably on top of a familiar object. Crane leaned forward, narrowing his eyes for a better look.
An airdrop container. So the Ministry was still dropping supplies. At least they weren't that heartless...yet.
"Sure. Have the one guy with an assault rifle sit on it."
For a moment, he considered letting it go. Maybe they were just survivors staking their claim. Finders keepers, he reasoned.
"This is stupid. Why the hell are we staying here for?"
Until Crane overheard them talk.
"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," one of them 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 those monsters will break in? These lights won't even hold for long!"
"They're slow and dumb. Just whack them off you."
"They come in packs, idiot! You want to get eaten alive by those things? 'Cause rotting in jail's sounding better by the second."
So escaped prisoners. With guns. Geared and worn down from surviving the outbreak... Not Rais' men bad, but bad enough, Crane thought.
"Stop your whining. We aren't the only ones holding up here. Saw a woman staying at the construction site a while ago. Chased by some Volatiles."
"A woman?" The first man's tone changed, a sleazy grin practically audible. "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 chuckled darkly. "Aye, I see what you're getting at. Then we better keep this under wraps. We don't want to share."
And they burst out laughing.
Enough to make Crane's jaw clench. 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 that never meant stooping to their level. He fought bad guys all day back in the Slums, as a human.
But 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. The guy on top had the perfect vantage point to shoot anything that dared approach.
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 flickered to his hands. Claws. It was claws.
"Hm…" He still wasn't fully used to the weird, alien biology. Regardless, he held one claw out like he had seen a superhero do in the comics.
Nothing happened.
Crane gave a hard shake to his wrist and tried again-
His claw split open before his very eyes, tendrils firing out with a horrifying fluidity. They latched onto the unlucky bastard.
"Wha-?!" The black tendrils coiled tightly around the man's body, slithering over his head and even his mouth—wet, slimy sensation of saliva and teeth made Crane recoil in disgust.
Ugh! He pulled hard in hopes of untying the tendrils, but that instead took the prisoner over the wall.
"AHHH!"
"Oops."
The prisoner survived the fall—barely. Freed from Crane's grasp but not without a concussion, he scrambled to his feet and bolted for the door, screaming frantically.
"Shit! Shit! HELP ME!"
"What - Why are you outside, Atilla?!"
"HELP ME! THEY'RE COMING!"
That could've gone smoother, Crane thought. But the top floor was unguarded now.
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 growing noise outside the store dragged him back to the present. More walkers headed to the prisoners, angrier. Vocally threatening the strange prowler to back off.
Crane didn't stick around to watch the blood-soaked fireworks. Grabbing all the supplies, he bolted off into the night.
At least, that airdrop gave him the last things he needed on the woman's list—minus any request that required a face-to-face meeting. He wasn't exactly in the right shape to make polite introductions.
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.
The thought was laughable but he didn't reject it. Any sort of feeling like that, he'd grab it on as tight as possible.
Now came a bigger question: how would he even supposed to deliver the supplies to the Junction…? Maybe he could toss the bag over the fence—clean and simple.
"P-Please!"
Crane's feet skidded like a cat coming to a halt. The voice came from his right, behind a metal fence. Behind it, three big orange skeletons looming 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 clutching his leg, clearly injured.
"Oh, sure." one thug jeered. "You'll make fine bait for the freaks."
Frightened eyes widened even more at the sight of a dragging sledgehammer. With a huff, the man heaved the hammer high above his head. The youngest runner gapped silently and closed his eyes, hands latching over his head. It wouldn't help him.
They're going to smash him 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 runner hollered.
"It's your fault for setting up camp near Alexander's property," the packleader replied coldly. "Stick to your own corner of this stinking city."
The third prisoner glanced nervously around, a finger twitching near the revolver tucked into his waistband. "We should head back-"
"Just use those UV lights on them," his heavy-weapon-wielding friend uttered, pointing at the portable UV flashlight he carried—their means of protection. How confident they were to walk around at night. "Hey. Why don't we get these two bitten?"
The runners stiffened, their expressions shifting to pure terror. But the thug meant it.
"The boys' been needing more contestants for the fighting ring."
Crane blinked, bewildered. What in God's name?
"N-No," the younger runner whimpered.
"Nah. I got a better idea. This one makes for a good little mole!"
"Orhan!"
The leader of the pack grabbed the younger, timid runner by the arm, with his two goons keeping the injured man in check.
"Alexander's been thinking of expanding his reach lately. And your Junction is looking mighty nice for his new throne."
"Don't you touch him!"
"Hey, hey," the packleader cooed. He squatted down to the injured runner, watching the anger and shock sweep in his face. "Look around you. It's a hellhole out there. And your people don't recognize a helping hand when they see one."
With a sharp yank, the thug grabbed the injured runner's chin, forcing him to meet his cold, calculating gaze.
"All you two need to do is pass the good word to your boss that we're offering 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 kick came out of nowhere—a dirty, petty move at the injury.
THUD!
"Fazil!" his younger companion yelled, rushing to shield him, only to be grabbed by the hairline and flung aside. The boy tumbled helplessly, landing at the feet of the thug with the sledgehammer. The long handle pressed cruelly down on his throat.
"O-Orhan!" Fazil screamed, writhing on the ground.
"You should be worrying about yourself, kiddo."
Fazil barely had time to react before a crowbar slammed into his open wound. The pain was immediate, and his agonized screams filled the air.
They hit a chord inside Crane. He almost jumped in. Almost.
Because if he were to leap in, the situation would only get worse. The usual by-the-book protocol stopping out of habit.
The entire time through his short expedition, he was counting down the similarities between Harran and Scanderoon.
It was no different. The darkest part of humanity still had the same grip as it had in Harran.
Those prisoners were no better than Rais' men.
The packleader's crowbar twisted, gandering more delicious wails. The sick bastard relished it.
So go off the rails.
The screams couldn't deafen that dark whisper in Crane's head.
They can't hurt anyone anymore.
"What is wrong with you?!"
"Wrong?"
The pack leader turned slowly toward the younger runner, a hungry, almost playful glint in his eyes. Orhan immediately regretted his outburst. The thug strolled up to him, grabbing his collar in one meaty hand.
The attention shifted off Fazil. He skulked on the ground, muffling his cries as his wound bled freely.
"It's free reign," the pack leader sneered. "No rules, no boundaries. No cops. We're the kings in this city. And you peasants need to behave."
"P-Please," Orhan stammered, trying to be brave. "I'll do anything… Just let him go."
He hoped that would give Fazil a chance to crawl away. Or someone coming to their rescue.
Please. Anyone hear him!
For a moment, the thug seemed to pause, almost as if considering it.
"...Nah."
The lunatic wheeled back to Fazil.
The crowbar rose high, aimed directly at his skull.
"No! Stop! Stop!" Orhan cried out in desperation.
For a moment, the packleader seemed to listen. The crowbar didn't swing.
He stopped because he thought he 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 perched itself over the fence.
"Enough."
It lunged.
"Rraaagh!"
"Gaa-! AAAAH!" The packleader was down in milliseconds. Tendrils shot out, wrapping around him, pulling him down in milliseconds. His thrashing, futile.
Snap. 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!"
But it was too late.
The monster closed the distance between them.
BANG! BANG!
The two frantic shots were misses.
A flash of claws disarmed the gun, sending it skidding across the ground. Then a swift kick sent the man sprawling backward.
"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 sledgehammer-wielding thug turned to flee. There was no point in staying—better to leave the Runners as bait for the monster.
"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 grab onto anything. "HELP ME!"
No one was coming.
A glance over his shoulder revealed the nightmare: the beast loomed over him, claws poised. These fools welcomed him in by shutting off the safehouse!
The prisoner flailed desperately, throwing a weak punch to the beast's side. Pathetic! It did nothing to stop him.
The blood rage gave the Hunter that tunnel vision.
Kill him!
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 under the crushing blow.
"Rraaagh!"
The Hunter roared triumphantly. 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 trembling survivor beneath him sobbed uncontrollably, arms shielding his head. The young runner backed up until his shoulders hit the wall of the safehouse. Trapped, Orhan crumpled into a ball, shaking with fear in his tear-filled eyes.
He was the next meal for the Hunter.
It slowly clicked in Crane's head. Like a swimmer breaking 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—shoving the monster into the depths of his mind. He physically stepped away from the runner. That the big, ghastly Hunter meant no harm to him. Anything to prove he wasn't a threat!
But it wasn't enough. The poor kid was badly shaking like a leaf, and Kyle couldn't blame him. The kid was inches close to a monstrous zombie, for goodness' sake!
Crane's first instinct was to leave, to give the kid space and a chance to flee. But then his gaze fell on the supply bag slung over his shoulder.
That's it!
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, barely registering the big sack in his possession. Registering that he was still alive.
He glanced up, thinking everything was a dream. But what made the whole experience stranger was the Hunter's behavior.
Orhan was still scared. Eye to eye with a monster. Who suddenly looked…docile.
Then the Hunter stepped back. Five feet. Ten feet.
Was this real?
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 winced, shielding his face as the scorching UV rays faded. Through his arms, he saw the older runner, Fazil, clutching a portable UV flashlight and tossing out two flares for good measures. The brief burst of light bought just enough time for Fazil to haul the younger runner, Orhan, to his feet.
Together, the two limped away, one leaving a trail of blood behind.
Good, Crane thought, even if Crane got more than he bargained for. But it wasn't nearly good enough—the safehouse was destroyed, night was still in full swing, and their only defense was a single UV flashlight.
If they weren't careful, 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 reason.
A sharp, searing pain flared in the side of his abdomen.
Confused, 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 in him. A dark colored dye-like stain spread out on his torn shirt.
"Shit."
A shiv was in him. Shit, the shiv was in him.
The punch from the last prisoner? He had managed to leave Crane a parting gift with that final punch before he killed him.
Crane let out a strained 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."
Clenching his teeth and inhaling deeply, he pulled.
"AAARGH!"
An unearthly scream tore from his throat as he staggered back, claws instinctively pressing against the gushing wound. God, it really hurt! It REALLY hurt! It didn't help that the UV hit made him a little lightheaded.
"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 needed to stop the bleeding, fast.
Luck—or maybe something else—gave him a break. Amazingly, there was a piece of gauze near his feet.
Likely dropped by one of the runners as they fled. Whether it was an accident or a small gesture of gratitude, he didn't care. He grabbed it and hastily pressed it to the wound, wrapping it as tightly as possible to buy time.
Crane bit down again on the agony zapping through his whole body. He thought over his next steps with bated breath.
Alright... alright. He needed a safe place first. Away from any survivor and infected.
No. He still had one thing to do before that.
Another deep breath.
"C'mon... Leg it."
The stab wound was a major setback for Crane, doubling the time it took to retrace his steps.
What should've been a swift return became an agonizing crawl. Each movement sent waves of pain through him, and the dizziness made it even harder to navigate the unfamiliar alleyways. If it hadn't been that one orange glow sleeping comfortably on the floor in the distance, and like a distant beacon, he might've gotten lost entirely.
The construction site became his first pit stop.
He stopped ten feet shy of the safehouse's ultraviolet barrier, cautious not to expose himself to its deadly rays again.
Pulling off his head covering wrapped around his face, he stared at it for a moment.
He didn't remember donning it—maybe around the time his feral side took over. Maybe, deep down, the monster subconsciously put the rags over his face, out of fear someone would realize that Kyle Crane had turned into a zombie.
Who cares. Why bother hiding his horrid face now? 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 bundled the phone right up like a present, along with a few things he thought the fighter might find helpful.
"This is gonna hurt. Again." Crane braced 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 didn't stir the woman up—she was sleeping like a rock while the whole city burned. Crane couldn't help but be a little jealous at how comfortable she was behind defensive walls.
He missed the comfort of a sleeping bag.
Better she didn't wake up to find her grotesque guardian, bleeding outside. 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 had taken an important life twice before… He would do it again.
"Stay awake!" he commanded himself, pushing himself up. "You've gotten through the first hurdle."
Stay conscious a little longer! Just flex that shit off.
His body wasn't listening to him anymore. His legs buckled, and he tumbled to the ground.
No! Not here. Too open. Too dangerous!
He could hear them coming. The Biters' snarls grew louder, closer, and 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. Ambulance meant medical supplies. Medical supplies meant he could patch himself up.
Crane used his last 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 Crane. Completely unfazed that she was sharing the small space with a monster.
Why…was she here?
Crane's mind was too numb from the pain to process it, let alone question it. But somehow, seeing her was a silver lining.
The infection hadn't touched her face. 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.
"Jade…?"
This was another hallucination. There was something different about her. But in that moment, Crane didn't care.
For some reason though, she looked at him grievously.
Yeah. Because she had to see him like this. A broken shell of the man he once was.
"...Sorry," he murmured. "...I've been doing a shitty job..."
Jade said nothing, but there seemed to be an understanding in her gaze. A gentleness. No words from her lips but she got it. Just get some rest.
"There's always tomorrow."
Yeah. He could agree with that.
Crane closed his eyes.
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
1/1/25 - Reedted some parts to be more streamlined and removed some unwanted text.