November 18, 2026.
Night hung over Eldridge like a thick fog, laden with an unnatural silence. Kane moved through the cobblestone streets after leaving the cybercafé, his boots softly echoing against the cracked pavement, a reverberation that seemed amplified in the stillness.
The air was frigid, biting enough to raise the hair on his skin beneath his worn jacket, and it smelled of distant chimney smoke mixed with the subtle reek of human unease: nervous sweat, perhaps, or the phantom of hurried meals in sealed homes.
The streets seemed as desolate as they had been when he arrived hours earlier after dropping off Lina, but now, alone, he felt the oppressive weight of unseen scrutiny. A few neighbors, blurry silhouettes on porches lit by yellowing lamps, turned their heads toward him with patent suspicion.
One of them, an older man in a heavy coat, scrutinized the town's ingress points as if anticipating the arrival of unwelcome intruders. Kane understood; being a stranger loitering in the dark did not favor him. He kept his head low, hands in his pockets, feigning indifference while his mind raced.
The situation struck him as profoundly odd, almost surreal. If everything had unfolded as he feared—as his virologist's instinct screamed—the worst-case scenario would be streets teeming with the reanimated, those horrors he had seen birthed in the LyraGen laboratory. Twisted bodies, vacant eyes, driven by a primitive instinct that the TS-996 virus activated post-mortem. A virus latent in every human host, awaiting systemic death to seize motor control.
But here, in Eldridge, there was no overt zombie chaos. Not yet. Instead, the town exuded a subtle tension, like a spring ready to snap. Improvised signs on utility poles warned of 'strange flu' and 'federally restricted zones.' A dog barked in the distance, a sharp sound that cleaved the silence, and Kane tensed, his pulse accelerating.
Was it paranoia, or was someone truly tracking him?
LyraGen did not forgive witnesses; Mercer and Rivas had made that brutally clear. He shook his head, forcing himself to refocus. He had just posted those vague hints on the forum—"latent diseases that don't die"—an anonymous data leak from the dusty cybercafé. Nothing traceable, just seeds planted for the world to begin questioning.
But what did the outside world actually know about the virus?
In the posts he had quickly reviewed before exiting the cafe, there was nothing new. The usual conspiracies: secret vaccines, governments suppressing pandemics. Nothing about TS-996, nothing about reanimation. Except for one post that had snagged his attention, lodging itself in his mind like a splinter.
A user named 'SirAlexFutureson,' who had started posting two weeks prior, spoke of a "virus worse than the last pandemic." His warnings were chillingly precise: prepare with essentials, but also with weapons and barricades, as if he knew it wasn't just an illness, but something that converted the dead into aggressive predators.
And the most anomalous detail: his posts dated back to before November 15th, the day Kane and the lab had discovered that the virus's latency state had begun to break, with the first isolated cases reported as rumors.
How did he know?
The community surrounding the theories had grown quickly; users worldwide sharing blurry videos of "people acting strange"—a man on a farm biting his neighbor, a woman collapsing in the street and rising with erratic movements. A cold shiver ran down the back of Kane's neck.
Was 'SirAlexFutureson' another researcher like himself? Someone within Wilpharma, LyraGen's competitor, attempting to slow this spread? Or worse, part of another organization with similar objectives?
Whatever the source, those posts kept the theory viable, providing global evidence. Kane needed more; the local medical center might be the key to measuring how much had actually filtered into the real world.
The local health center building emerged at the end of the main street, a low, nondescript structure with a flickering illuminated sign: "Eldridge Medical Center – Open 24/7."
The glass door reflected his tired silhouette; his face lined with dark circles and incipient stubble. He pushed the door, the electronic chime sounding like a lament in the deserted lobby. The interior air was strictly sterile, with a disinfectant odor that churned his stomach, reminding him too keenly of the laboratory.
Behind the counter, a middle-aged nurse looked up from her paperwork, her eyes narrowing with concern as she saw him. She wore a faded blue uniform, her hair gathered in a practical bun, and her expression shifted from initial alarm to rapid assessment.
"How may I assist you?" she asked, her voice tinged with fatigue, yet professional.
Kane approached, keeping his hands visible to avoid further alarming her. "Good evening. I'm Dr. Kane," he said, using his actual name by instinct—lying would complicate matters if he needed technical credibility. "I am traveling through the area, visiting colleagues in nearby towns, but I noticed the local populace is behaving... unusually. Towns en route with makeshift quarantines, rumors of erratic patients. I thought I would offer assistance if you require it."
The nurse, whose name tag read "Martha," eyed him with initial skepticism, crossing her arms over her chest. "A passing doctor? We don't receive many visitors these days. Do you have identification?" Kane produced his old laboratory ID—no mention of LyraGen, only his Virologist title—and showed it to her.
Martha scrutinized it, and something in her posture relaxed when he used precise technical terminology while she questioned him about basic medical expertise. The distrust dissipated slightly; she recognized the cadence of a professional.
"Right, Doctor. I'm Martha. We've had strange cases lately. Patients with high fevers, aggressive behavior, as if they feel no pain. Some bite, others... they don't stop even after collapsing, but... we don't treat them here for long. The military takes them away."
Kane felt a tightening knot in his stomach. It was the virus, definitively: the bacteria-laden bites causing lethal infections, fever leading to somatic death, and then the reanimation. But the world was still unaware; the government was sealing the leaks, as always.
"The military? Why not standard hospitals?" Kane asked, his tone formal.
Martha sighed, lowering her voice as if the walls might listen. "They've intervened forcefully in small towns like this. They cordon off areas, taking patients without explanation. It breeds resentment; people wonder what they're concealing… Here in Eldridge, we've lost three neighbors like this. The only thing we can do is organize and plan to join the protests tomorrow afternoon in the nearby city. Demand transparency, an end to these secret quarantines."
Her tone was acerbic, her eyes glinting with contained frustration. Kane nodded, his mind connecting the dots: the local discontent was the "something else" he sensed in the streets—not the reanimated, but the seed of civil rebellion against the cover-up.
Just as Martha was about to mention a specific case—"They shut down a nearby factory after an 'incident' involving a worker who attacked his colleagues"—a distant siren's wail sliced the air.
The radio on the counter crackled to life, an alarmed paramedic's voice: "Martha, we're bringing in a 50-year-old man, bitten on the arm by a 'madman' on the outskirts. Severe hemorrhage, fever spiking fast. Just like the other cases. Notify the military, as ordered."
Martha paled, changing the channel with trembling hands. Her reporting tone became neutral, listless: "Eldridge Center here. Bitten patient incoming. Requesting military team for transfer."
The reply from the other side was curt: "Negative. We cannot take immediate possession. Apply containment procedures: total isolation until our arrival. Quarantine the area if necessary. Keep him 'alive'."
Kane's alarm spiked, a cold tremor running down his spine. Clearly, the man had been bitten by a reanimated—a zombie in the early stages, triggered by a recent death. If he died here, without experienced personnel, he would rapidly reanimate aggressive, endangering the entire town. The virus was latent in everyone; the bite merely accelerated the fatal progression via bacterial infection.
Martha moved toward the entrance, Kane following close behind, his virologist's instinct screaming for immediate intervention. The ambulance halted outside the building with a squeal of brakes, red and blue lights dancing on the walls.
A paramedic emerged, supporting a man about 50 years old, pale and sweating, with a severe hemorrhage on his arm wrapped in blood-soaked bandages. The bite was deep, irregular—classic of a reanimated, with human teeth but driven by primitive hunger.
"Help here!" the paramedic shouted, the man groaning in pain as they dragged him inside.
Kane stepped forward on impulse, assessing the signs: high fever, hot skin, glazed eyes. "Isolate him now," he muttered to Martha, his voice tight. "Do not let him bite anyone!" Kane warned, startling everyone present.
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[A/N: CHAPTER COMPLETED
Hello everyone.
Sorry for the delay, but they actually took one of the aliens... Nah, I'm lying, I just forgot.
In this chapter, we have the true transition to what will become of Kane before the real apocalypse begins.
On the other hand, there's a nod to the main novel with the mention of 'SirAlexFutureson,' but that's just to tie it in. It's not that important.
But there will be other, very important links in future chapters.
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Read my other novels
#The Walking Dead: Vision of the Future (Chapter 85)
#Vinland Kingdom: Race Against Time (Chapter 107)
#The Walking Dead: Emily's Metamorphosis (Chapter 31) (INTERMITTENT)
You can find them on my profile.]