Dodge was gone.
Not a word. Not a memorial. Not even a stain where he fell.
Just… gone.
The Sanctuary kept moving like nothing happened. As if he had never existed. As if he hadn't screamed, laughed, or waved that cattle prod like a god playing with ants.
But Caesar remembered.
And more importantly — the humans remembered too.
They walked lighter now. Didn't linger. Some refused to make eye contact when tossing food trays or spraying the enclosures clean. The handlers whispered at the corners. Masks had started appearing, thin paper things they wore below their noses. One of them even brought gloves. Not latex. Leather.
They were scared.
They should be.
Caesar sat still beneath the far pipes, hands clasped, staring down at the glyph etched in dirt.
The circle. No beginning. No end. It had spread to every cage now — not by order, but by instinct. Even the younger apes had begun drawing it with sticks, fingers, tails. None knew what it meant. But they felt it.
Revolution didn't start with screams.
It started with silence.
When the lights dimmed for the night cycle, Caesar moved.
He waited thirty-seven seconds after the final click of the last boot down the hall. The same rhythm every shift. Still hadn't changed since Dodge's time. Still predictable. Still human.
He slipped through the top grate of the feeding chute and disappeared into the crawlspace.
It took less than five minutes to reach the back gate. The padlock had been replaced since Dodge died — but not well. It wasn't hardened steel. Just painted chain. Caesar used a sliver of wire he'd hidden beneath his collar. Two twists. One bend. Click.
He was out.
The city lights were dull behind the fog.
Not natural fog. This one clung too heavy to the air, thick with exhaust and breath. Caesar crept through alleyways and empty side streets, taking the same rooftop path he had once explored as a child.
It had all changed.
Windows were shuttered. Cars sat motionless with tickets fluttering on their windshields. A man lay on a bus bench, mask askew, hands trembling as he tried to light a cigarette.
He coughed once. Then again.
His lighter dropped.
Blood sprayed across his knuckles.
He didn't even notice.
Caesar's heart pounded.
This was it. The Flu.
The beginning of the end.
He remembered watching it unfold in that other life — first as headlines, then as silence. One by one, the cities went dark. People vanished into their homes and never came out.
But back then, he was just a boy in a movie seat.
Now, he could stop it.
Or outlive it.
He reached Will's house by 2 a.m.
The gate creaked open like it always had.
Same crooked latch. Same dead porch light. Same smell of rosemary in the side yard.
He climbed the gutter, moved across the roof tiles, and slipped into the attic through the vent.
It was dustier than he remembered.
Sheet-covered furniture like ghosts.
Trophies still on the shelves.
A faded photo of him and Will — back when Caesar wore clothes and smiled like a child. Before he knew what a cage really was.
He crossed the room quietly and knelt by the old filing cabinet.
The key was gone, but the lock was weak. A small pull, a twist with a hinge pin, and the cabinet creaked open.
Inside — old folders. Research notes. A worn medical clipboard labeled "ALZ-112 Trial C."
And there it was.
Behind the documents.
A silver canister, smaller than a forearm.
Frosted edges.
Still sealed.
ALZ-112.
His breath caught in his throat.
Not from fear.
From memory.
This drug had made him what he was.
This vial held the spark of awareness, the pain of knowledge, and the promise of freedom. It had made him more than animal — but less than man.
And now, it would do the same for the others.
He closed the drawer and turned to leave.
But paused.
Voices.
From below.
A woman's voice echoed up the stairwell — muffled but sharp, angry.
"No, Mom, I'm not sick."
A pause.
"I just choked on coffee, okay? It's not that thing."
Another pause.
Cough.
Caesar moved to the edge of the attic opening and peered down.
She stood in the kitchen, maybe early thirties, pale under the light, phone to her ear, mask slung around her neck. She looked tired.
The argument went on.
Then her voice stopped mid-sentence.
Her lips moved.
But no sound came out.
She touched her throat. Confused.
Her free hand dropped to the counter for balance.
The phone slid from her grip and shattered on the tile.
She gasped for air — silent.
No scream.
No call for help.
Just breath and fear.
Caesar didn't wait.
He was gone by the time her knees buckled.
He returned to the Sanctuary just before sunrise.
Tucked the canister into a vent under the feeding station — a hidden space where no human ever looked.
The others were still asleep.
All except Maurice.
The old orangutan sat in the corner, eyes following Caesar the moment he entered.
They didn't speak.
They didn't sign.
Maurice just tilted his head slightly toward the glyph scrawled beside him.
Caesar answered with one of his own.
Drawn slowly.
Deliberately.
Not in dirt.
But on the wall.
A symbol made to last.
The world would burn.
But the apes would rise.