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23

AUbrEY

T he hut is silent except for Red’s labored breathing and the tapping at the window. Over the last few minutes the tapping had slowed, but then it starts up again.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

I try to keep focused on helping Red. I try not to think about Hank with crazy blue eyes and a bloody mouth standing outside that window, tapping on it like a crazed monster. He could get in the hut if he wanted to, couldn’t he? But he’s not even trying. He’s just tapping away as if all he wants to do is remind us that he’s there.

Death by a thousand taps.

“I need more light,” I say, clearing my throat and keeping my voice steady despite the tension crackling through the hut. “And clean water if we’ve got any left.”

Eli is the only one who responds, bringing the lantern closer and setting more water to boil. His expression is carefully neutral, though I can see the changes in his boyish face. He looks scared now and, more than that, he looks at me like I can’t be trusted. I expected Jensen to act betrayed but to feel it from Eli cuts deep.

Red lies on the table, face waxy and drawn with pain. The bite wound on his arm looks worse than before, despite the cleaning and bandaging I’ve done. The flesh around it is swollen, darkening to an ugly purplish-black that creeps outward from the ragged edges. Not like any infection I’ve ever seen—too fast, too dark, the skin almost bruised.

“How bad is it?” Red manages, his voice a dry rasp. Out of everyone here he’s the only one who doesn’t seem to care much that I’m a federal agent, but that’s probably because he’s dying.

Fuck. I shouldn’t think that. I shouldn’t call it so soon. He could still survive this. But he’s lost a lot of blood and we’re out on top of a mountain peak in the middle of fucking nowhere and he probably needs a tetanus shot, rabies shots, antibiotics, and anything else they can throw at him. There’s an infection already spreading and I’m not sure how the hell we’re going to get him to civilization in time.

Not to mention the big question, the one that’s on my mind, and Jensen and Eli’s as well: Cole and Red don’t know about the hungry ones, they don’t know that the feral people are real. They don’t know the truth of what happened to Lainey, the things that Jensen could never explain. They don’t know that with Hank biting Red, that there’s a possibility that Red could turn himself. Is that why Hank only bit him and didn’t eat him? Did he purposefully turn Red knowing what would happen? Was Hank trying to recruit his friend?

Or did Red get lucky by fighting him off?

If you can call that lucky.

“I’ve seen worse,” I eventually say to Red, lying through my teeth as I carefully peel back the soaked bandage to reveal the full extent of the damage.

“Bullshit.” His laugh turns into a cough. “Is it…am I gonna turn into whatever Hank is now?”

“Don’t be fucking stupid,” Cole says from where he’s against the wall, seemingly frozen in place. “Hank just lost his mind and bit you. He’s not a zombie.”

But Red’s question still hangs in the air, unanswerable. I don’t know what’s happening to him, don’t know if the hunger is spreading through Red’s veins right now, transforming him from the inside out, or if that’s even how it works. All I know is the medical facts: his pulse is rapid, skin hot with fever one moment and clammy the next, pupils dilated despite the lantern light.

Tap, tap, tap.

Someone at the window again.

Each tap feels like it’s about to shatter my nerves and when I look at the others, I can see they feel the same way.

Tap, tap, tap.

“We’re going to do everything we can,” I say, telling Red the truth and doing my best to ignore the danger lurking just outside.

From the corner of my eye, I see Jensen pacing near the door, my gun in the back of his pants. I need him now more than ever and yet I lost his trust, probably for good. I mean, we’re both liars. Both keeping secrets for what we thought were good reasons. It should create a kind of equality between us, but instead it’s only driven the wedge deeper.

Outside, the wind has died down, making the tapping at the window more distinct, more deliberate. Hank—or whatever Hank has become—is still out there, still trying to get in. Still hungry.

And he might not be alone.

With a gasp, Red shivers violently, a full-body tremor that nearly knocks my hands away from his wound. “Cold,” he mutters through chattering teeth. “Why’s it so damn cold in here?”

The room is toasty enough, which means he’s worsening, and quickly.

“Get him a blanket,” I say, keeping my voice even. “And any alcohol, if we have it. For drinking. It will warm him from the inside.”

I’m not even sure if that’s true, but it sounds right.

Cole moves reluctantly, retrieving a battered flask from his pack and tossing it to Eli rather than handing it to me directly. Small, petty resistance.

Eli gives the whiskey to me, and I tell him to hold up Red’s head while I pour the whiskey between his dried and cracked lips.

“Bottom’s up,” I tell him.

Red swallows, grimacing as it goes down. “Tastes wrong,” he mutters.

“No complaining,” Jensen chides him with a small smile. “We’re giving you our rations.”

Then he looks at me expectantly and gestures with his head toward the bunks.

I nod and tell Eli to clean the dressings with the freshly boiled water, then I step away from Red and follow Jensen to the bunks, out of earshot of the rest of them.

“How long does he have?” Jensen asks, voice soft and gruff.

“I don’t know,” I admit. “I’ve never seen anything like this before.”

“You sure? I don’t know what you’ve seen at this point.”

“I’m not a doctor. I don’t have all the solutions.”

“You want solutions, Agent Wells?” he counters, emphasis bitter on my title. “There isn’t one. Not once the hunger starts spreading. You’ve seen what Hank’s become. Red will be the same by morning.”

Red makes a sound, half-laugh, half-sob. I guess we aren’t out of earshot after all.

“Well, ain’t that just perfect,” he says, his voice hoarse. “Survived fifteen years of ranch work, barfights, and Marcus’s bullshit only to end up zombie chow in the mountains.”

“You’re not a damn zombie,” Eli says firmly as he changes the bandages. “You’re going to be fine.”

But the lies are becoming harder to believe.

Outside, the tapping at the window starts again, more insistent this time. Three quick raps, a pause, then three more. Almost like Morse code. A message trying to get through.

“I think he’s messing with us now,” Cole mutters, glancing nervously at the windows, the curtain keeping us from seeing what’s outside. “Trying to get in our heads.”

“Or trying to communicate,” I suggest, though the idea sends a chill down my spine. If Hank retained enough of himself to try to send a message, what else might he remember? What parts of his humanity might still be intact, trapped inside a monstrous shell?

If push came to shove, is there a way to reason with them?

Or would that be our final, fatal mistake?

Red’s breathing changes suddenly, growing faster, more shallow. His eyes, when they open, are unfocused, darting around the room as if tracking movement that isn’t there.

I rush over to him. “Something’s wrong,” I say, pressing my fingers to his neck to check his pulse. Racing, erratic. “His fever’s spiking.”

Before anyone can react, Red’s yelps “God save us all!” and his body goes rigid, back arching off the table in a violent seizure. His legs kick out, nearly catching Jensen in the chest. His arms flail, the wounded one striking the lantern and sending it crashing to the floor. Eli manages to catch it before the kerosene spills, but the hut is plunged into semi-darkness, the only light coming from the dying embers in the stove.

“Hold him down!” I order, grabbing for Red’s thrashing arms. “Don’t let him hurt himself!”

Jensen and Cole move quickly, pinning Red’s legs while Eli grabs his good arm. I manage to secure the wounded one, avoiding the bite area as best I can. Red’s strength is shocking, far beyond what a man in his condition should possess. It takes all four of us to keep him from convulsing right off the table.

The seizure seems to go on forever, though it’s probably only a minute or two. When it finally subsides, Red goes completely still, so abruptly, that for a moment I fear he’s died. I press my fingers to his neck again, feeling for a pulse.

There—weak but present.

“What the hell was that?” Cole demands.

“Seizure,” I say, though it didn’t look like any seizure I’ve seen before. “Probably from the fever. The wound, it’s infected and spreading.”

Eli retrieves the lantern and relights it, illuminating Red’s face in its golden glow. His skin has a waxy, gray pallor now, cheeks sunken as if he’s lost weight in the past hour. Dark veins stand out against his neck, tracing ominous patterns beneath the surface.

It’s happening fast.

Too fast.

One minute he was joking about being zombie chow and the next he looks nearly inhuman.

“Is he…” Jensen begins, then stops, as if unwilling to voice the question.

Before I can answer, Red’s eyes snap open.

I scream.

They’re blue.

Pale, searing, glacial blue.

“Everybody back!” Jensen orders, reaching for his rifle.

We’re barely clear of the table when Red moves—not the slow, pained movements of a severely injured man, but a sudden, violent lunge that takes him off the table and onto his feet in one fluid motion. The bandage on his arm begins to unravel, revealing the wound beneath.

It’s no longer bleeding. The ragged edges have begun to knit together, the blackened skin receding to reveal something smooth and pale beneath.

He’s healing.

No. Transforming.

“Red?” Cole says, voice shaking slightly. “You with us, buddy?”

Red’s head swivels toward Cole, movements jerky, unnatural. His lips pull back in what might be a smile, revealing teeth that seem too sharp, too numerous. When he speaks, his voice is a raspy approximation of his normal drawl.

“So hungry,” he says simply.

Then he lunges.

Cole barely has time to raise his arm in defense before Red is on him, movements blindingly fast. They crash to the floor in a tangle of limbs, Red’s teeth snapping at Cole‘s throat like a piranha, held back only by Cole’s forearm braced against his chest.

“Get him off me!” Cole screams.

Jensen and Eli move simultaneously, grabbing Red’s arms and trying to pull him away. But Red’s strength has multiplied exponentially, his transformed muscles resisting their combined efforts. It’s like trying to move a boulder, his body locked in place by inhuman determination.

I grab the rifle and, with as much power as I can muster, bring it down on the back of Red’s head. The blow stuns him just long enough for Jensen and Eli to haul him off Cole, throwing him back against the table. Red snarls, the sound more animal than human, and prepares to lunge again.

“The rope!” Jensen yells to Eli, who is already moving toward our packs. “We need to restrain him!”

Cole scrambles backward, putting distance between himself and Red. Blood trickles from a scratch on his neck where Red’s nails—now elongated into something like claws—raked him. He pulls his knife from its sheath, holding it out defensively.

“I don’t want to fucking hurt you,” Cole says to his friend. “Don’t make me do it, old boy.”

Eli runs back with coils of rope, and he and Jensen approach Red cautiously, one from each side. Red’s head swivels between them, tracking their movements with predatory focus. His breathing has changed, becoming more labored, each exhale accompanied by a low growl that makes the hair on my arms stand on end.

“On three,” Jensen says quietly to Eli. “One…two…”

They move, Jensen grabbing Red’s arms while Eli loops the rope around his chest. Red howls, the sound piercing, and thrashes violently against their hold. But then Cole jumps into the fray and within moments they have him secured to one of the support beams, multiple loops of rope binding his arms to his sides.

Red continues to struggle, strength undiminished, but the ropes hold.

For now.

I can’t help but stare at him, trying to wrap my head around what we all just witnessed. The transformation of a man into something else entirely, something driven by hunger so profound it obliterated his humanity in a matter of hours. Is this what happened to Hank? To Lainey? To the McAlisters? All the lost hikers and travelers who came to these mountains and never left?

“What do we do now?” I ask softly.

I don’t voice what we’re all really wondering.

Jensen turns to me, his expression grim in the dim light. “We wait,” he says simply. “Watch him. See if there’s anything left of Red in there. We don’t know how it happens but the fact that he can speak, the fact that we’re able to restrain him, that means he’s not quite turned. I believe he has a ways to go. If there’s a chance the spread can be stopped…if maybe we can help him before…”

It sounds like a lost cause but I don’t think any of us want to deal with the alternative right now.

He glances toward the window, where the tapping has momentarily ceased. “Let’s hope the ropes keep. And hope whoever is out there doesn’t break in before dawn.”

Red strains against his bonds, muscles bulging, veins standing out against his skin like dark rivers. His eyes, that unnatural blue, follow our movements with predatory intent. His teeth, still changing, still sharpening, snap at the air between growls.

“And if there isn’t?” Eli asks. “If there’s nothing left of him?”

Jensen meets his gaze. “Then we do what needs to be done. Same as we’ll have to do with Hank.”

The implication hangs in the air, heavy and terrible. I look at Red—at what used to be Red—and try to see any trace of the man who was. I never liked the man. He was crude and predatory and I’d never want to be in a room alone with him. But he was a human being.

There’s nothing in those blue eyes but hunger now.

Endless, insatiable hunger.

The tapping at the window starts again, faster this time, more urgent. As if they can sense what’s happening inside, can smell the transformation taking place. Can feel the pack growing.

We gather on the far side of the hut, as distant from Red as the confined space allows, all of us armed to the teeth.

“We need a plan,” I say after a moment. “We can’t stay here indefinitely, waiting to what happens.”

“First light,” Jensen agrees. “We leave at first light, head back toward the ranch.”

“And you know we’ll be safe in the light?” I ask.

“All I know is that you rarely see them in the day.”

“How the fuck do you know that?” Cole asks him. “How do you know about any of this shit?”

“My family’s been here a long time,” Jensen tells him but leaves it at that.

“And him?” Eli asks, nodding toward Red. “Do we take him with us? Or do we just go and…leave him here? Like this?”

None of us answer. None of us want to voice the alternative.

Outside, the night stretches on, black and cold and filled with hungry things. Inside, we watch Red transform, the last traces of his humanity slipping away with each passing hour. And we wait for dawn, for decisions that can’t be avoided, for whatever comes next in these mountains that have claimed so many before us.

And are about to claim another.