GTAG Chapter 73: Drinking the Blood
Roars, screams, curses, and the sound of flesh being devoured echoed endlessly in her ears, never once stopping.
Among those voices was her mother's.
She would never forget the moment her mother, with tears streaming down her face, shoved her roughly into a metal box, shouting at her not to come out, not to make a sound, to live on no matter what.
The bus had already been overrun. In the chaos, her mother didn't have time to think clearly. After shoving her in, she even locked the box, perhaps believing it would be safer that way.
But whether it meant being bitten and turned into a zombie, or slowly starving inside that cramped space, neither outcome was any better.
Hank's strength was terrifying. Just one look at the scattered corpses all over the ground was proof enough.
With smaller cars, Hank had to pull the zombies out and smash them onto the pavement to kill them, leaving the interiors relatively clean. He was planning to drive some of those, after all.
But with larger vehicles, he didn't bother. There were too many zombies inside, so he just slaughtered them on the spot, leaving behind interiors smeared with blood and mangled limbs.
Colette stared at the blood-soaked remains covering the bus floor, a wave of despair crashing down on her.
She had heard her mother's death with her own ears. With corpses surrounding her on all sides, the desire to live faded from her heart.
She was still just a child. The horror was too much.
And now, even her last wish—to see her mother's body one final time—was impossible.
Forget it. Let it all end here.
She trudged past broken limbs, ignoring the blood splattering on her pants, and returned to the iron box that had confined her. Closing herself inside, she shut her eyes.
Exhaustion crushed her. Out of fear of making noise and attracting zombies, she dared not move, dared not eat the canned food stacked inside.
She hadn't eaten in a long time.
Huddled in the box, Colette's head spun. The feverish dizziness was familiar—it felt just like when she'd been sick before.
Back then, her mother would always stay by her side until she fell asleep. But now, she was utterly alone.
She didn't even know how she managed to drift off.
Her temperature soared, her head throbbed with pain. Even in unconsciousness, the headache tormented her.
In her final moment of awareness, she felt herself being lifted out of the box.
She instinctively rubbed her head against a chest—hard, yet warm.
That was her last memory before darkness claimed her.
Time shifted back.
As the car drove farther and farther away, Hank grew more restless.
Maybe it was because he couldn't bear to let that girl die alone. Or maybe it was selfish—he was too lonely. He needed someone, anyone, to remind him he was still human, not a monster.
But reason told him the truth. He was a monster now. There was no denying it.
And yet, Hank slammed the brakes and turned the wheel.
He told himself it was for food—there wasn't nearly enough in the trunk. That small stash wouldn't last him a single day. He had to go back for more.
And maybe… just maybe, check on the girl.
What he found chilled him.
To Colette, it felt like a fever. But Hank could see clearly—she was infected.
If he had come a little later, she would have burst out of the box as a zombie.
Hank fell silent. He hadn't expected this.
His eyes landed on the scabbed wound on her elbow. The virus had already entered her body.
In his mind, he replayed the scene of her chasing his car, tripping on the bloody ground, and scraping her arm. That tiny accident had doomed her.
He had thought the girl might die. But not like this. Not in such a pitiful, humiliating way.
For a moment, Hank even considered killing her himself.
At least then, she would die human. Not as a reeking corpse.
But he couldn't do it.
In this wasteland, even finding a single living human was nearly impossible.
The girl in his arms might be the last one alive.
How could he let her die?
He didn't even know what drove him. Slowly, Hank raised his wrist to his mouth and sank his teeth into it.
Drip.
Scarlet blood ran down, gathering on his claws before dripping freely.
Hank held his hand to Colette's lips. Unconscious, starving, she instinctively swallowed the liquid.
Then he cleaned the wound on her arm, wasting an entire precious bottle of water.
Once it was cleaned, he smeared his own blood onto the injury.
Only then did Hank place her in the passenger seat.
He packed the back seat with food, tied bundles to the roof—until the car was swollen and ugly.
But to him, it was beautiful. Each bundle was survival itself.
With Colette beside him and a car full of supplies, Hank finally drove away.
The tires, stained with zombie blood, left a trail that stretched far into the distance.
But as Colette lay unconscious, Hank was plagued with dread.
He didn't know if his blood would work.
He was immune to the virus, yes. But that didn't mean his blood could cure another.
What if she turned into something like him?
Would she hate him for it? Hate him for making her into a monster?
The questions gnawed at him, so much that he nearly lost control of the car several times.
Until the moment Colette opened her eyes, Hank's heart was in torment.
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