Jenkins jolts awake as the table rattles violently.
His elbow clips the coffee cup. Liquid sloshes, spills across the table. He snatches the cup before it tips, but coffee seeps into his notes anyway, bleeding through equations and margin scribbles. He blinks hard. Head heavy. Mouth dry. Groggy. Worn thin.
Paper clings to his arm as he pushes himself upright.
The sound comes again—metal screaming under strain.
He turns. Slow. Then fast.
The shrieker thrashes against the restraints, body snapping in violent spasms. The table groans, bolts whining in protest. Jenkins steps closer, pulse climbing, eyes scanning automatically—muscle memory, habit, denial.
The blood bag hangs slack.
Empty.
The last drops creep down the tube.
Then—
The creature convulses sharply, and blood erupts.
Thick, tar-dark fluid squirts from its nostrils, its ears, every torn wound—spraying the room, slamming into Jenkins's chest, his coat, his face. He recoils a half-step, breath hitching, frozen in place as warm blood drenches him.
His glasses vanish behind red.
For a second, he sees nothing.
The shriek rips through the room—high, jagged, unbearable—splitting the air like shattered glass. The creature's eyes roll back until the whites drown in black.
Jenkins's hands tremble.
He lifts one shaking hand and wipes the lenses blindly, smearing blood across the glass without taking them off. The world swims back into view, warped and crimson-streaked.
The smell hits next—metallic, acrid, wrong on a fundamental level.
The shrieker convulses harder.
Chains scream against metal, restraints bowing under the strain. Its shriek stretches—one long, needle-thin note—so high it rattles glassware on the shelves, sets instruments trembling in their trays.
Then—rip.
The body splits open like wet paper.
Blood erupts, a violent spray that paints the walls, the lights, the floor. Viscera spills out in a heavy, steaming rush—guts slapping wetly against the table, sliding, hitting the ground with sickening weight. The stench detonates in the air, hot and metallic, thick enough to choke on.
In the ruin, the heart lies exposed.
It beats.
Once.
Twice.
A weak, obscene throb—slick, glistening—before it stiffens mid-beat, muscle locking, life snapping off like a switch.
Silence crashes down. Only the slow drip… drip… drip of black blood pooling beneath the table remains.
Jenkins doesn't move.
He stands drenched, frozen, disbelief etched deep into his face. His breath comes sharp and uneven, chest hitching like his body forgets how to work. Blood slides down his lenses, warping the scene into red smears and shadows.
Slowly—carefully—he peels off his glasses.
They're slick in his hands as his fingers shake.
"Wh—" The sound fractures, barely escaping his throat.
He stares at what's left on the table, at what should not be possible.
A few seconds pass that felt like forever. He snapped back.
His heart slammed against his ribs, the sharp smell of blood clinging to him.
Panic surged, sudden and overwhelming. He tore the coat off his shoulders and flung it aside like it was alive. His hands grabbed the nearby alcohol from the shelf, and a bottle of Chloraprep and Betadine from the cart before bolting toward the door.
Cold air hit him as he burst outside. His boots pounded the ground as he sprinted toward the back of the manor.
"Jenkins!" Lucas's voice cut through the morning.
Jenkins didn't slow. Didn't look back.
Lucas watched his bloody face and clothes, he snaps into concern, his jaw tightening as he broke into a run after him.
Jenkins stripped his clothes off as he ran, shedding it piece by piece, fingers clenched tight around the bottles like lifelines.
He finally reached the pool and didn't hesitate.
He plunged in.
Water exploded around him, shockingly cold, stealing the air from his lungs. He scrubbed at himself violently, dragging through his hair, over his face, his neck, his arms—anywhere blood might have touched. His nails raked his skin raw. Chlorine bit. Panic burned hotter.
He dunked his head under again, rubbing at his scalp, his ears, as red clouds bled off him into the water, thinning, dissolving.
Above the waterline, his breathing broke into ragged gasps as he dove again.
Jenkins tore open the Chloraprep and poured it over his head and shoulders. The sharp sting flared immediately, combining with the chlorine's burn. He ducked under, water swallowing him, then came up gasping, and saw Lucas at the pool's edge.
"What happened, Doc?" Lucas asked, concern in his voice.
"Exposure to E.V.E–SR–00's blood," Jenkins said, voice tight but precise. "Cutaneous absorption is possible through the scalp; dermal uptake could lead to systemic contamination." He grabbed the Betadine, applying it in a broad sweep over his head and neck. "Immediate decontamination is mandatory."
Lucas frowned. "How'd that happen?
"I have yet to assess the breach in containment," Jenkins said, chest heaving.
Lucas crouched, steady. "You need help?"
"Yes. Please do sterilize the laboratory environment. And the shrieker must remain in situ for examination. Additionally, I require supplementary disinfectants—Chloraprep, ethanol, Betadine—in the event of a subsequent breach." Jenkins scrubbed vigorously, water sloshing around him, hands precise even in panic. "Decontamination must be absolute…partial mitigation is insufficient."
Lucas nodded once. "Maurice was fine though, when a shrieker's blood dried on him?"
Jenkins shook his head, hair dripping. "Skin has a lower probability of absorption. It's the scalp I'm concerned about."
Lucas frowned. "Why the scalp?"
Jenkins paused just long enough to answer, tone shifting into clinical precision. "The scalp has one of the highest vascular densities in the body—rich blood supply, thin epidermis. Add active hair follicles and sebaceous glands, and you create multiple pathways for fluid uptake. Contaminated blood seeping in bypasses the usual dermal barrier faster than anywhere else."
Lucas exhaled slowly, processing that. Jenkins returned to scrubbing, voice tight, measured. "I cannot take that risk."
He wiped water from his eyes, sharp, controlled. "Wear full PPE when you disinfect. Thank you."
Lucas turned and headed through the rear door into the manor. The cool air hit him as he stepped into the hallway. Ethan was there, adjusting his pack.
"Ethan, can you help me decontaminate Jenkins' lab?" Lucas asked.
Ethan shook his head, apologetic. "Sorry, man. We're heading out for another scav run."
Lucas nodded, jaw tight. "Alright. Where's David? I'll ask him."
"Think he's outside," Ethan said, slinging his bag over his shoulder. "You need anything else?"
"Yeah," Lucas said. "Jenkins said he needs more of that Chloraprep—uh, the jug of soap you got from Serenity. More Betadine and alcohol."
"Got it," Ethan said. "Actually, Harry and Mia grabbed those from the storage room."
Lucas nodded, then patted his shoulder. "Be safe."
Both men gave a quick nod and headed out.
Lucas spotted David talking to Maurice near the parked vehicles. He called out, waving him over.
David ended the conversation and jogged toward him. "What's up?"
"Can you help me decontaminate Jenkins' lab?" Lucas asked.
David raised a brow. "Sure. Why? What happened?"
Lucas glanced toward the lab, voice low. "Well…we're about to find out."
The scavenging team peeled out of the estate. Maurice leaned back in his seat, glancing at Dylan behind the wheel. "Surprised you didn't bring Yve?"
Dylan's eyes stayed on the road. "Couldn't risk it. She's drained… lost a bag of blood."
Maurice shook his head. "Still don't get how their biology works."
Dylan shrugged. "I know what she told me. That's it."
Maurice let out a short laugh. "Still can't process all this siren stuff."
"You'll get there," Dylan said flatly. "Took me a while to believe she's real."
Maurice stared out the window. "Might take me longer… never believed in the supernatural. I'm an atheist."
Dylan shot him a look. "What's that got to do with sirens?"
Maurice smirked. "Man, if someone like her exists… what else is out there? You never think about that?"
Dylan grunted. "No. Got enough on my plate."
Lucas pushed the door open and pulled the PVC strip aside. The sight froze them—blood everywhere. The shrieker looked like it had been torn apart, organs spilled across the table and floor. The sharp metallic stench burned their eyes. Lucas and David instinctively covered their noses with their shirts.
Lucas stepped forward, voice low. "What happened here?"
David scanned the mess, grimacing. "Looks like someone tossed a grenade."
Lucas exhaled. "Let's start cleaning up so Jenkins can move around again."
David groaned. "Just lost my appetite for the week."
Lucas shot him a look. "Jenkins said don't touch the shrieker. He wants to study what happened."
David frowned. "So I just stare at it while cleaning?"
"Cover it with a blanket or something. Stop being a wuss," Lucas said.
"I'm not used to this kind of mess," David muttered.
Lucas smirked. "Told you watching all those gore videos would pay off someday."
"Whatever. This is disgusting. I wanna throw up," David said, shaking his head.
Lucas glanced around, then turned to David. "Check the closet. Surgical gowns, sterile gloves, masks. And don't get any residue on your hair."
David paused mid-step. "Hair? Why?"
Lucas rubbed the back of his neck. "Jenkins mentioned scalp vascular density… just do it. I didn't catch half of it, but when he's that concerned, it's bad."
David muttered under his breath as he headed for the closet. "Great. Now I'm paranoid about my hair."
They suited up—gowns, gloves, masks—and began clearing the chaos piece by piece.
~~~
The scavenging team rolled to a stop at the treeline near Serenity Medical Center—the same spot as before. After a quick rundown and pairing off, they moved in.
They split fast. Dylan and Maurice headed for the surgery wing to grab the supplies they'd left behind. Ethan and Ava took the second floor, sweeping VIP rooms and private wards. Harry and Mia slipped toward the storage area for Jenkins' list.
The building was too quiet. Only the hum of boots and the occasional creak of old doors broke the silence. A couple of shriekers wandered into their path—dealt with quick and clean.
Harry scanned a dim hallway, flashlight slicing through dust. "Need a utility cart," he muttered.
Mia swung her light toward a side door, gun raised. She eased it open slowly, ready for anything.
Upstairs, Ava and Ethan pushed deeper into the floor.
They came up on the ICU. Ethan's beam caught movement—three shriekers standing like broken mannequins in the dark.
Neither spoke. They didn't go in. Ethan pulled a rope from his pack, looped it around the handles, locked the door tight. Both moved on, quiet as ghosts.
Maurice stepped into a surgery room, flashlight sweeping over a still figure on the table—a patient long gone, still open under. He let out a low whistle. "That's sad."
Dylan barely glanced at it, voice rough. "Yeah. Already cleared this room. Move deeper."
Maurice shifted uneasily. "Kinda spooky in here."
Dylan grunted. "Go wait in the car then."
They pushed farther down the corridor, boots echoing against the tile.
Back upstairs, Ava's beam landed on a wide glass wall. She stepped closer, reading the faded letters: NICU. Her stomach twisted. She pressed forward, flashlight slicing through the dark.
The light caught a figure—a shrieker, once a nurse. It slammed against the glass with a jagged cry. Ava flinched, heart hammering, but she held her ground. The screech echoed, rousing the others in the room.
High-pitched sounds cut through the air, smaller, sharper. Ava swept her beam downward—and froze. Tiny forms stirred in the shadows. Shriekers, but not grown. Newborns, their bodies twisted in miniature horror.
Her chest tightened, breath catching. She gripped her gun harder, forcing herself to look away.
Back at the storage room, Mia crept deeper into the freezer section. The air was stale, cold, and stagnant; the hum of the air conditioners long dead. Shelves lined with expired blood bags loomed in the shadows as her flashlight swept across them.
Her beam landed on a utility cart, wedged tight against a rusted metallic door. The horizontal push bar pressed firmly into the frame, keeping the door sealed.
Mia set her flashlight down and gritted her teeth. She yanked at the cart. It didn't move at first, but after a hard pull, it slid free—just as the door groaned, swinging outward with a heavy metallic screech.
The sound echoed sharply, like a gunshot in the empty freezer.
For a moment, nothing happened. The room seemed frozen. Then—tiny shuffles, low rattles—the dormant shriekers stirred, roused by the noise. Mia's flashlight cut across the shadows, and movement erupted. The shriekers, long still, jerked awake and screeched, their bodies twitching violently.
Heart hammering, Mia raised her gun. She fired once, dropping one of the newly awakened shriekers, but the others surged forward. Adrenaline spiked as she spun and bolted toward the other storage room where Harry waited.
Harry, hearing the shot, rushed toward the door—just as Mia shoved it outward in panic. The heavy metallic door slammed against his forehead. He staggered, then collapsed to the floor, dazed from the impact.
"Come on!" Mia shouted, panic ripping through her voice as she fled, boots pounding the hall.
Harry groaned, head spinning, vision blurred, shriekers closing in. He scrambled up, shoved past the doorframe, and bolted, gun trembling in his grip.
Gunfire erupted—sharp, relentless. The sound ricocheted through the empty halls.
Down in the surgery wing, Dylan and Maurice froze mid-step, supplies clattering to the floor. They exchanged a glance—no words needed—and ran toward the noise.
Upstairs, Ava and Ethan heard the chaos. Ava's breath hitched. "What's happening?"
Ethan grabbed her arm, pulling her toward the stairs. "I don't know. They might need help—come on!"
Just as Dylan and Maurice rounded the corner, Mia tore down the hall, eyes wide, breath ragged. Dylan's gaze snapped past her—and froze.
Harry. Sprinting for his life. More than a dozen shriekers on his heels. His head bleeding, steps uneven. Then he tripped, sliding hard across the tile.
Dylan didn't hesitate. He raised his rifle and fired. Maurice joined in, shots cracking through the corridor as high-pitched screeches filled the air. They reached Harry fast, hauling him up by the arms. Maurice kept firing over his shoulder, dropping shrieker after shrieker as the pack closed in.
The stairwell door slammed open—Ethan and Ava burst through, guns raised. They froze for a split second: Dylan and Maurice were dragging Harry, blood streaking his forehead, shriekers flooding the hall behind them.
"God, Harry! What happened?" Ava shouted, firing as she moved.
Gunfire roared, echoing through the empty corridors. Doors rattled. More shriekers poured out from rooms they hadn't cleared. Shadows lunged from dark corners, teeth gnashing, the sound a storm of high-pitched screams and metallic clatters.
They pushed hard, finally breaking through to the entrance. Harry sagged in Dylan's grip, dead weight now—he'd passed out, making him heavier to carry.
"Come on! Move!" Dylan barked, voice sharp, as they sprinted across the parking lot toward the vehicles.
Then, in the distance, the rumble of an engine.
Ava's head snapped up. Mia. Behind the wheel of the military truck.
"Mia!" Ava screamed, waving frantically, desperation cutting through the chaos.
Mia looked back once—just once—then pressed the accelerator. The truck roared away, leaving the group in the dust.
For a heartbeat, the group froze, stunned by Mia's betrayal. Then reality hit: survival mattered more than anger.
They had one car left.
Boots pounded the concrete as they ran. Ethan fired shot after shot, clearing a path while shriekers poured in from the forest and behind the building. Windows rattled on the upper floors—third, fourth—figures slamming against the glass, screaming to get out.
They shoved Harry into the backseat. His head lolled, blood streaking his temple, breath shallow. Dylan slid behind the wheel, hands locked tight on it. The horde was closing in.
The engine coughed.
Didn't start.
"What are you doing?" Ethan shouted, panic cracking his voice as a shrieker slammed into his window. "They're right there!"
"Come on," Dylan growled, twisting the key harder. The car shuddered—then roared to life. He floored it. Tires screamed as the vehicle lunged forward, the first shriekers crushed under the bumper, bodies thudding against metal.
Hands clawed at the rear. Screams tore through the air. Dylan didn't slow, didn't look back—just pushed harder until the building and the chaos blurred into nothing behind them.
They managed to escape.
Barely.