The nightmare of Friday night bled into Saturday morning. Iris drifted in and out of consciousness, caught in the grip of a searing fever. Her head throbbed, a drumbeat of pain echoing the frantic pulse of the city outside. Images flashed behind her eyelids: Mom's vacant eyes, the metallic stench, the searing pain of the bite. Each time she surfaced, the details sharpened, solidifying into a horrifying reality. Her throat was raw, a metallic tang of something bitter and alien coated her tongue. She heard distant screams, closer now, and the sickening, wet sounds that haunted her waking and sleeping moments.
Through the haze, she felt David. His hands were gentle as he pressed a cool cloth to her forehead, but his face was a mask of gaunt exhaustion, streaked with dirt and unshed tears. He murmured reassurances she couldn't quite grasp, his voice thick with a grief that mirrored her own, but layered with a desperate, grim resolve. She remembered the way he'd moved, a blur of efficiency, barricading the door, dragging furniture. He was fighting, not just the world outside, but the one claiming her.
Then, just as the first pale light of dawn began to creep through the gaps in their heavily curtained windows, something shifted. The searing heat that consumed Iris's body suddenly broke, washing over her like a cool wave. The frantic drumming in her head subsided, replaced by a dull ache. The bitter taste in her mouth began to recede, and the terrifying images behind her eyelids softened, blurring into indistinct shadows. Exhaustion, profound and absolute, pulled her down. She fell into a deep, dreamless sleep, the first true rest she'd had in what felt like an eternity.
When Iris next opened her eyes, it was to the eerie, almost sacred quiet of early morning. The sun, a timid promise, painted the apartment walls in soft, filtered grays. David sat slumped in a kitchen chair, his head bowed, seemingly asleep, his rifle resting across his knees. He looked like he hadn't moved all night.
She shifted, testing her limbs. Weakness lingered, a heavy weight in her muscles, but the debilitating pain was gone. The nausea had vanished. She took a deep breath; the air, while still tinged with that unsettling city smell, no longer tasted metallic.
Then she remembered. The bite.
Her gaze snapped to her left arm. She pushed up the sleeve of her t-shirt, her fingers trembling. Her breath hitched. The angry, festering wound, the torn flesh that had throbbed with infection just hours before, was gone. In its place, stretching from just below her elbow to her inner forearm, was a perfectly formed, silvery scar. It was flat against her skin, a smooth, almost iridescent line, too neat, too precise to be natural healing. It shimmered faintly in the dim light, an impossible mark.
A small gasp escaped her lips, catching David's attention. His head snapped up, his eyes, bloodshot and exhausted, locking onto hers. He scrambled to her side, his rifle clattering softly to the floor. He saw her staring at her arm, at the impossible scar. Relief, so potent it threatened to buckle his knees, washed over his face, quickly followed by a profound bewilderment.
"Iris? You're… you're okay," he whispered, his voice cracking with emotion. He reached for her arm, gently touching the scar. He probed it, his fingers tracing its unsettling perfection. He looked into her eyes, searching, desperate for confirmation. "You're… you're you."
Iris could only nod, her voice raspy. "Dad… what happened?"
He pulled her into a fierce, suffocating hug. "I don't know, baby," he murmured into her hair, his voice choked. "I don't know. But you're here. You're alive." He pulled back, his gaze hard, resolute. "And no one can know about this. No one. Do you understand? They'd… they'd take you. And they'd never let you go." Iris, still processing the impossible, nodded again, a cold dread twisting in her gut. She might be different, but she was still his daughter, and his fear for her was palpable.
The day crawled by in a blur of hushed instructions and methodical preparations. The apartment, once a haven of comfortable living, was now a makeshift fortress. David, moving with a chilling military efficiency, reinforced the door with furniture, covered windows with blankets and salvaged plywood, and meticulously organized their meager supplies. He seemed to pull things from nowhere: a dusty first-aid kit from the back of a closet, a portable radio scanner he produced from a locked drawer, even a small, discreet handgun and extra magazines. Each item was explained in calm, measured tones.
"We need to be smart, Iris. No heroics. Just survive," he'd repeated, showing her how to hold the handgun, his eyes hardened by necessity. "And this. This is only if there's no other choice."
As he worked, Iris started to notice things. The subtle, metallic decay scent she'd dismissed on Monday was now overwhelmingly strong to her, making her nose twitch involuntarily. She could hear the distinct, guttural moans and shuffles from the street below with unnerving clarity, sounds David seemed to barely register. It was like someone had cranked up the volume on the world, especially on the ugly parts.
He dropped a heavy can of beans. Before David even blinked, Iris's hand darted out, catching it with impossible speed and ease. Her fingers tingled slightly from the unexpected impact. She stared at the can, then at her hand, a tremor running through her. David just grunted, "Good reflexes," and turned away, too focused on the task at hand. Iris frowned, her mind racing. That wasn't just good reflexes.
As dusk deepened, the faint hum of the apartment's electricity died completely. The city below plunged into true darkness, punctuated only by distant, flickering fires. David switched on a battery-powered lantern, its beam casting dancing shadows on the walls. He'd barely paused all day.
Suddenly, the portable radio scanner, which had been spitting only static, crackled to life. A voice, strained but authoritative, cut through the white noise. It was the President.
"My fellow Americans," the President's voice rasped, filled with a barely contained panic, "I speak to you tonight from an undisclosed location. Our nation, and indeed, the world, is facing an unprecedented crisis. What we are witnessing is not merely a pandemic. Further testing has confirmed that the Cerebral Necrosis Virus (CNV) is a… a sophisticated biological weapon. Intelligence indicates this attack originated from… North Korea. This is an act of war."
Iris felt a chill that had nothing to do with the lack of heat. David stood frozen, his eyes wide, fixed on the radio.
"We are tracking an unparalleled rate of infection," the President continued, his voice cracking. "Within less than a week, over a third of our population has succumbed. We are activating emergency protocols… prioritizing extractions for vital personnel from key metropolitan areas. To all citizens: shelter in place. Avoid all physical contact. Report any signs of aggression, any unusual behavior. We will fight back. God help us all."
The broadcast abruptly cut out, replaced by static. The silence in the apartment was deafening, save for their own ragged breaths. Iris looked at David. His face was grim, hardened by the confirmation of their worst fears. This wasn't just the end of the world as they knew it; it was war. And they were caught in the crossfire.
"This is it, Iris," David said, his voice low, steady, a soldier's resolve in the face of impossible odds. He gestured towards the sealed windows. "It's real." He looked at her arm, then at his own scarred palm, a new, unspoken understanding passing between them. "And you're… different. We need to figure out why. And we need to get out of here."