Cyrus continued his run, but his haste gave rise to caution as he kept an eye to the streets below. There was a chance he had misinterpreted the positioning of some of the nearby infected, and the possibility of being ambushed by his urges remained a danger.
Something familiar caught Cyrus’s eye. He could see his hovel hideout now. The rotting zombie corpse propped up on the roof illuminated in the moonlight acted as a scarecrow of deep depravity.
Cyrus made a b-line for his shelter, forgetting his sense of caution entirely. He knew if he closed the distance quickly enough, he would have protection from all zombie-kind, shrouded in the unholy stench of rancid decay. The kresnik hurtled over the houses, practically floating through the air, a cat-like creature flying through the early night’s sky. The infected had no hope of catching him before he was within the perimeter of his shelter’s zombie-repelling fumes. The stench was strong, and despite its repugnance, it was like the warm embrace of a loving parent.
Cyrus descended from the last rooftop and rushed for the door of one of the dumpier looking houses, dragging his prized leg behind him. He knocked over his display of piled zombie skulls as he pushed through the heavy door, the eyeless sockets staring up at him in indignant disdain. His hovel was nearly pitch black inside, cut off from any electricity like all the other houses in the facility.
Cyrus threw the severed leg across the room, where it landed on the chopping table as he entered the door. He slammed it shut behind him, turning back around to bolt the locks. His repellant could only do so much, never accounting for the possibility that the infected might throw him a curveball and suddenly change their behavior.
Satisfied that the locks were secure, Cyrus walked into the middle of what he had always assumed was the living room toward a large hole in the floor. It served as his cooking pit, the source of most of the horrible smell. Situated above the fire pit was a massive hole in the roof that served as a makeshift chimney. The irregular shape and burnt edges were a testament to Cyrus’s inability to find any tools to carve them out. Instead, he had used matches to burn a hole through both the floor and ceiling, partially setting his shelter ablaze.
Cyrus reached down into the middle of the fire pit and removed what was once a marshmallow skewer, taking it off the two burnt, twisted Y-shaped hangers on which it sat. He returned to the kitchen and picked up the severed leg, jamming his skewer into the limb’s severed end and pushing it through flesh and muscle until it exited through the foot. Cyrus put down the skewered leg and ambled over to another corner of the living room. He took a few boards from his modest collection of firewood, which consisted of paneling taken from some of the surrounding houses.
Cyrus dumped the wood into the fire. He searched the pit’s perimeter for his lighter and hairspray can, finding them in the seat of his salvaged lawn chair. Cyrus crouched down beside the pit. He held the lighter in front of the aerosol can and squeezed their buttons simultaneously, setting the wood ablaze.
Content with his handiwork, Cyrus retrieved the skewered leg from the table and placed it down by the ends of the improvised spit, setting it securely between the bent Y hangers. He remained beside the fire, occasionally turning the skewer with his claws to ensure the meat cooked evenly. He reflected on his new barbarous ways as the leg roasted on the spit, thinking he should feel worse for what he did.
I suppose it’s not much different from killing and dressing a deer, even if these things were human at one point, he thought to himself.
Cyrus’s cat ears suddenly pricked up, causing him to rise from his crouched position. He left the blazing fire and went to the window at the corner of the living room. He was sure Dr. Shen’s helicopter had returned at last. Cyrus had fully intended to keep a tally of the days spent at the facility after he arrived, but he had lost count early on due to his frequent primal outbursts. Regardless, he knew retrieval day was soon. Standing at the window, he separated the blinds with two clawed fingers and peered through.
Cyrus was disappointed by what he saw. He caught sight of the zigzag, fluorescent orange stripes of a lift helicopter, this particular craft sight a common sight within the facility. Lift helicopters flew over nearly every other day.
“Infected,” Cyrus whispered, seeing the massive crate hanging from the helicopter. It was only his best guess, as he never confirmed precisely what the helicopters carried in the massive crates. It was the best explanation as to why the zombie’s numbers never dwindled, even though the guards’ assault weapons resulted in massive carnage on a nightly basis.
Bored by the view, Cyrus left the window for the fire pit and returned to his zombie leg. He crouched, continuing to rotate the skewer until the limb lost its green tint. A brown shade indicated a light roast, which singed off the hair. Cyrus found that the cooking time had only a small effect on taste. A burned leg was almost as horrible as a rare one.
He picked up the hot poker by his side and jammed it into the leg at the back of the knee, careful not to drop it as he brought it back to the table to cool. Cyrus had always heard that for best results, the meat needed to rest. It seemed no matter what he did to the meat, no matter how he cooked or seasoned it, it never tasted right.
Cyrus waited for a few more minutes before taking the leg in both hands and tearing into it with his razor-like teeth. He gagged frequently as he chewed. It was putrid, bitter, and a little on the stringy side, but he was hungry, and it was all he had. Sadly, it would not be enough to satisfy him for long. His metabolism had increased substantially, just as Dr. Shen had predicted. The more ravenous he became, the more prone he was to submitting to his primal urges. He would need to make a kill and return with the majority of the body soon.
Cyrus stripped the leg to the bone within minutes while still standing right at the table, unable to take a seat until he finished. His meager meal ingested, he carried the bare bones to the door and quickly unlatched all the locks, propping it open against the wall as he tossed his scraps through the doorway. He slammed the door shut and immediately fastened the locks. It was all part of his end-of-meal ritual. The flesh left on the bones quickly rotted under the Arizona sun, adding to the infected-repelling stench.
Finished disposing of his meal from hell, Cyrus made his way to the restroom to retrieve a towel to wipe his face. After finding one on the side of the sink, his attention moved to the open medicine cabinet door hanging above it.
The mirror on the other side was hidden from view.
Cyrus hadn’t looked at his face much since the change, and though he knew there was a high likelihood he wouldn’t like what he saw, he was curious to see how he looked. He clasped the side of the door in his claws, closing it slowly at first and then slamming it shut against the cabinet.
Cyrus could only take a brief look at himself before throwing the door back open, shocked by his bloodstained vestige. He nearly broke the mirror when he hit it against the wall. He appeared only slightly human. His facial features had changed so much that he resembled a hairless cat, his skin translucently white, his ears large and pointed, his eyes still yellow. Cyrus moved a clawed hand over his head, stroking his nearly bald scalp, pleasantly surprised when he discovered fine white hairs growing there.
“Looks are still a game killer,” he muttered. He skulked off to the kitchen for water, bloodstained towel in hand.
Water was one of the few things found in abundance within the facility. It was air-dropped every three days, always arriving in bulk, bottled, and wrapped in large palates. The infected usually got to it before he did, pilfering through and tearing into the bottles, lapping the spilled water from the ground. They never ruined all of it, though, which allowed Cyrus to create a considerable stockpile amassed within the unpowered refrigerator.
Once in the kitchen, Cyrus yanked open the refrigerator door and took out one of the bottles. He poured water onto the towel and wiped his face, removing all the blood. He knew he couldn’t do anything about ugly, but he could at least stay clean.
C
yrus returned to the living room and stretched out in his salvaged lawn chair as he gazed up at the ceiling. He was unsure what he ought to do next, as he was so certain Dr. Shen would pick him up this evening. He supposed it was feasible that when Shen used the word ‘month,’ he meant thirty-one days. There also existed the possibility the doctor had lied yet again.
Cyrus couldn’t bring himself to give credence to the thought. It just didn’t make sense for CyberGen to put in all that time, effort, and money only to leave him here. Regardless, he knew the time spent in the mock-up facility was irrelevant. It would be a long time before he saw his loved ones again if the opportunity ever presented itself.
Cyrus thought about his mother and younger brother Asher often. He wondered what they were doing now, wanting to be near them once more. He knew they thought he was dead, passed away in a manner typical to those with his disease. They would grieve and then come to some acceptance of his death, never learning what truly happened to him. They would never recognize him in his new, ever-changing state. His former life was over now. He knew he would accept it in time.
Cyrus frowned, slowly rising to his feet once more, believing he heard the whooshing, sweeping blades of yet another helicopter.
Confident he was wasting his time, he leisurely walked over to the window and peered through the blinds, ready to find another lift helicopter. Scanning the horizon, his cat eyes widened with surprise.
A smaller, darker aircraft flew toward the facility, difficult even for him to make out.
Convinced without confirmation, Cyrus bolted from the window and made for his burnt-out chimney, leaping through the hole to land on the roof, making for the departure tower. He had no idea how long the doctor would wait.
* * *
Cyrus bounded over the roof of the last house and dashed for the base of the exit tower, relieved when he found the doors separating the ladder from the rest of the facility wide open. The helicopter had landed moments earlier, now concealed from him at the top of the tower.
Cyrus dashed for the ladder, not bothering to check for zombies at any point on his run. He focused solely on the base of the tower. The night had reached the apex of darkness, and the only light came from the crescent moon and the towers. The passage of time intensified his resolve. He rushed through the doors to the ladder and ascended toward the top of the tower. The moonlight barely caught Cyrus in its rays. The kresnik nearly ran up the side of the wall on all fours. His physical prowess enabled him to clear the distance in no time.
Quickly ascending the tower, Cyrus slowed down as he prepared to clear the ledge at the top. He knew the guards would be displeased should he suddenly bolt onto the roof.
The muzzles of two assault rifles greeted him just as his head appeared over the ledge, warranting his concerns. Each weapon rested in the hands of nervous and uneasy tower guards.
Neither man looked pleased to see him.
“Hey, what’s with all the hostility?” Cyrus asked, looking up at them, red laser pointers dancing across his forehead. “I’m just here to go back home,” he said as he crawled over the ledge to stand in front of the guards.
Both armed men wore black body armor. Both remained silent, likely surprised that the creature below was capable of speech. They stepped back to give Cyrus room.
“The last thing I want to do is harm anyone,” Cyrus continued, giving the guards a broad, toothy grin. He decided to channel his own misgivings back at them.
Both guards moved farther back when they saw his prominent fangs.
“Sorry. Just following orders.” The guard retained his deadly aim. “Can’t be too careful.”
Each man stepped to the side so Cyrus could approach the helicopter. The aircraft sat motionless on the pad. He felt the guns follow him as he passed.
“Hello, Mr. Blackthorn. I trust you are ready to go back home?” Dr. Shen turned and identified himself. He walked toward Cyrus, his glasses gleaming in the moonlight. He stared at the kresnik, taking in his new appearance.
“Heck yes,” said Cyrus, leisurely walking toward the doctor. “It’s been no fun at all. No one to talk to for a month. Nothing but those things down there. It was a real drag.” Though he was excited to leave the facility, he wanted to seize the moment and make Shen talk. “Before you take me back, I have a few questions I need answered.” Cyrus lowered his voice, letting out a low growl. He couldn’t keep up his casual ruse much longer.
“Do your questions need to be answered here? This is neither the time nor the place, Mr. Blackthorn. If you’ll come back with me, I’ll answer whatever questions you might have.”
Sensing Cyrus’s hostility, the doctor pulled a strange-looking device from his lab coat pocket. It was a remote control. The doctor placed his thumb over the big red button in the middle, prepared to press it.
By the way he held it, Cyrus knew it was the remote to his shock collar.
“Can you tell me what those things down there are exactly?” Cyrus ignored Shen’s wordless threat. “They move and act like zombies, I’ll give you that, but they sure don’t look like they were ever human.” His anger grew. It had been brewing since he stepped foot in the town mock-up. Cyrus would make the doctor admit to his lies. He couldn’t tolerate Shen holding his cure over his head and using it as a tool to force him around any longer.
“They are human infected. The disease only occurs in humans. I told you that. The infected we have quarantined here are in the advanced stages of the disease. That’s why they look like they do.”
“Wrong answer!” Cyrus howled, suddenly flipping into full predator mode. He broke into a run and charged at the doctor.
The guards kept their weapons trained on him, ready to fire once given the word.
“Don’t shoot him!” commanded the doctor. “We don’t want to injure him! He’s far too valuable to us!” Shen pressed down on the red button.
Cyrus screamed as the overwhelming pain of the collar’s electrical charges coursed through his body, stopping him just before he could reach the doctor. He continued to howl, fighting through the pain. He somehow managed to stumble the last few feet, grasping for Shen’s throat.
“You might as well throw that away, doctor!” Cyrus roared. He grabbed Shen by the shirt collar and hoisted him up into the air. “The shocks aren’t working!”
Shen dropped the red-buttoned remote, and it skidded across the roof.
Cyrus spun the doctor around, holding him up in front of the guards, the way an angler might hold up a big catch. “Hold your fire, or I give the doctor the world’s worst tracheotomy!”
The kresnik put his free hand to the doctor's throat, the tips of his claws pressed against Shen’s windpipe.
The guards looked at Shen in desperation, their eyes asking what they should do next.
“Lay down your arms and do what he says!” Shen ordered. “You’ll barely be able to scratch him anyway. Your weapons aren’t of a high enough caliber. Even if you could kill him, he is now more valuable to CyberGen than I am.”
“Put the guns on the ground and slide them away!” Cyrus commanded. “The doctor and I just need to talk. So long as he answers my questions, no one gets hurt!”
The guards hesitantly placed their weapons on the ground and pushed them across the rooftop.
Satisfied, Cyrus turned his attention back to Shen. “Tell me the truth!” he roared in the doctor’s face.
“It’s the truth, Mr. Blackthorn,” the doctor replied calmly, though his body trembled. “It doesn’t matter if you believe it or not.”
“Doctor, were those things human infected, or weren’t they?” Cyrus softened his voice slightly.
“They are human infected, just like I said.” Shen resisted, though Cyrus knew the doctor could only hold in his fear for so long.
“Dang it, doctor!” Cyrus’s hungry glare became a frown. “There’s no way those things are purely the result of a viral infection! You made them in the lab, didn’t you? Tell me the truth! You know I’m per
fectly capable of killing you right here!” He scratched the side of the doctor’s neck with one of his claws, drawing blood, a droplet running down his throat. “Tell me what I need to know!” He raised Shen farther up into the air. “I don’t want to have to make good on my threats!”
‘It seems one of the side-effects of your transformation is heightened moodiness and aggression,” the doctor remarked, disregarding the deadly claws so near his throat. He was determined not to give Cyrus any satisfaction that his threats were leaving an impact. “I’m sorry, Mr. Blackthorn.” Shen shook his head regretfully. “I’m not at liberty to give you that information!”
“How stubborn can you be?” Cyrus snarled.
He placed his free hand against the doctor’s stomach, right under his ribs.
“What did you do to make them? Tell me what I need to know, or I’ll kill you in a much slower and much more painful way! Worse than having your throat torn out!”
“Alright, I’ll tell you!” the doctor screamed hysterically. He finally snapped, failing to keep his fear in check. “The infected down there are not human! You might even say they aren’t infected at all.”
“If they’re not human, then just what are they?” Cyrus returned to a civil tone. Finally hearing what he wanted, he lowered the doctor to the ground, retaining his grip on Shen’s collar.
“They are laboratory-grown specimens, never bitten or infected.” Shen lowered his voice, still sufficiently terrified. “Their genome consists mostly of chimpanzee or gorilla DNA with the viral genes already integrated in. The genes of several other primates were also spliced in to give each type of zombie the desired look.”
“Why would you ever want to do that?” Cyrus tightened his grip on the doctor’s collar.
“We needed stronger zombie specimens.” Shen’s tone changed in kind. “We wanted to give you a challenge! We wouldn’t have been able to properly subject you to selective pressures if we pitted you against a bunch of infected human weaklings. We’ve also had difficulty finding very many humans infected with the virus. What can I say? It just doesn’t spread very quickly.”
Fall Prey: The Hunt Page 28