The Crimson Hunger Pt. 01

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictional manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. All characters depicted in this story are 18 years of age or older.

Chapter One -- Hunger Never Sleeps

Ten years after Patient Zero

The first sign was the eyes. Not the fever. Not the confusion. Not even the hunger that followed.

It was the blood--spreading like fine red cracks across the whites, like lightning under glass. I saw it too many times to count. At the hospital, in the eyes of people I loved.

When it finally hit our town, I knew the signs before most. I'd been a nurse for six years before the world came apart. That uniform--scrubs, badge, neat bun--meant something once. Authority. Safety. Now it's just another memory buried beneath ash and regret.

We didn't call it The Crimson Hunger at first. It had numbers, acronyms, cold labels spit out by scientists on flickering news broadcasts. CH-V1 was the first name they gave it. But names like that don't last long when the world ends. Survivors gave it something simpler. Something honest.

It was a hunger. And it was red.

They said it started in a lab overseas. Something to do with blood repair or tissue regeneration so soldiers who wouldn't bleed out so easily. But who knows the truth. The virus didn't heal. It fed. And once it entered the bloodstream, it waited. Patient. Silent.

That's what made it spread so fast, humanity itself was the delivery system. Kisses. Fights. Fucking. A thousand little acts of love and violence. And once the virus activated? You had forty-eight hours. Maybe less.

Unless...

Unless you had sex. Unprotected. Skin to skin. Body to body.

Some said it was divine punishment. Others called it evolution. I don't care what name you give it. All I know is this: every time someone fucked, it keep a monster at bay.

Most of the world burned in the first six months. Governments fractured. Safe Zones formed. People sold their bodies not for pleasure, but survival. And somewhere along the way, we stopped being people and became symptoms.

Now, ten years later, the world's nothing but walls and whispers. I live in one of the smaller Clean Zones outside Nashville. A few thousand people, fenced off and always watching. Blood tests twice a week. Wristbands for the infected. And a law we don't speak of in polite company: Tethering.

Everyone knows the rule: if you're infected, you get placed in "The Ring" and will be assigned a tether partner if you don't have a volunteer. No condom. No exceptions. If they cannot be assigned one in time, euthanization is the only other option.

My husband Robert knows the rule well. His part time security detail assists with the euthanization process. Thirty-three, rugged jaw, always smells faintly of grease and pine soap. He was a mechanic before all this. Now, he works security on the border patrol and fixing broken gates and breaking up fights when food runs low. He's kind of the jack of all trades around here.

He doesn't talk much about the past anymore, especially about Jason.

Jason was our son. He would have been 20 later this year. A month ago, he went out with Robert on a scavenging run beyond the Redline. There was a radio distress call--just static and a half-screamed location. A trap, maybe. Or someone too far gone to be saved.

Robert didn't want him to come but Jason insisted. Jason was recently enrolled into the security detail and felt it was his duty to help. He's always been that kind of person though. A kind soul.

They were ambushed by Ravagers. I still don't know the full story as Robert hates talking about it. He barely made it back that night. Jason wasn't with him. Robert's clothes were torn but miraculously, not a single open wound. He still had to endure multiple blood tests and was confined to quarantine for 48 hours.

All Robert could say was that they were overrun. A horde of Ravagers ascended on them and Jason didn't make it. That he tried to pull him out and... couldn't.

There wasn't time.

We lit a candle that night. Sat on the porch in silence as the wind carried the smell of burning wood and decay. Robert stared straight ahead like he was still seeing it--whatever it was he saw in that building, that moment we lost our son.

He never cried. But I did.

Some nights, I still do. Just for a different reason now

Before the world ended, I was a mother caring for her two children while working three twelve-hour shifts a week in a second-floor hospital ward that always smelled faintly of bleach, burnt coffee, and baby powder. I was a nurse in the trauma wing, specializing in crash victims, gunshot wounds, and the occasional domestic incident no one wanted to label out loud.

I didn't mind the blood. I minded the silence. The breath that didn't come back. The scream that never was.

Back then, I believed in clean wounds, clean hands, clean endings.

Now I carry a kit with gloves I barely use and files I update with a pencil.

They call me a Tether Compliance Nurse, which is a sanitized way of saying I'm the one who makes sure infected people are still getting fucked enough to stay human.

I didn't ask for this job. I didn't want it. But when the Zone Council restructured after the second wave, they pulled names of former medical personnel from old license records. There weren't many left. I showed up. I didn't argue.

They trained me for two days. No handbook. Just protocol: red eyes, high fever, noncompliant behavior, missed tether--mark them and report. "Mark" means deactivation. Euthanasia, if you want the honest word.

I'm not a nurse anymore. I'm an executioner with a clipboard.

Most of my work doesn't happen inside the Clean Zone.

It happens out past the gates, through the narrow checkpoint tunnel where you're scanned, tested, and scanned again--right at the threshold between safe and salvageable. That's where The Ring begins.

They call it that because it surrounds us--encircling the Clean Zone like a halo of half-kept promises and barely-contained chaos. It's where the infected live. Not the ones who've turned--not the Ravagers. No, The Ring is for those who still look like us. Still act like us. But aren't quite us anymore.

They're the tethered.

Some by law. Some by love. Most by desperation.

The truth no one in the Clean Zone likes to admit? We need the infected.

They work our farms. Maintain the outer power grids. Haul trash and purify water. They're stronger, less prone to illness, and increasingly more immune to radiation and environmental damage from the burn zones that never stopped smoldering.

And beyond labor?

They keep families whole.

You see, not everyone who was infected got purged. Some of them had children. Wives. Husbands. And some of those families chose to stay together--offering themselves willingly as tethers just to keep someone they loved from slipping into something feral.

It's not a cure. But it's a delay.

One touch. One night. One more sunrise.

"Tethering is a resource exchange," the Council likes to say. "A labor-for-life contract. A partnership of survival."

That's how they justify it. And maybe they're right. Because the alternative is killing everyone with red eyes and a heartbeat.

The virus doesn't spread like people think. Not at first. In fact, you can't catch it from someone in their first 48 hours of infection. That's the window. The incubation phase.

During that time, the virus is quiet. Invisible. It attaches to the host's immune system, rewrites just enough code to survive--but doesn't shed. Doesn't jump. You can kiss them. Fuck them. Hold them while they shake and sweat. And you'll be safe.

But once they pass SP-48--the Stabilization Point--it changes. It becomes contagious. Virulent. Blood becomes toxic. Fluids become weapons. And if they haven't tethered by then--if no one's touched them? The virus takes full control.

That's when they turn.

"The virus waits until it owns you," one of the council doctors said once. "It doesn't want a weak host. It wants loyalty."

Whatever that means.

I cross the outer checkpoint around noon.

My wristband pings green after a moment's delay. The guard nods me through without eye contact. No one talks out here unless they have to.

The Ring smells like damp concrete, exhaust, and sex. It's not even a secret. The streets are lined with repurposed apartment blocks, trade tents, market stalls, and private booths guarded by makeshift bouncers for Tether agreements. Consent contracts are bartered like food. Immune brokers--the one percent--walk through like royalty, offering salvation by the hour.

They call them the one percenters because that's the estimate of the population that's immune to the virus. Some type of gene defect where they lack the correct receptors for the virus to bond to. Scientists were using this lead to help create a cure. Before all hell broke loose.

And somewhere in all of it, people still fall in love. They still try.

The Ring clinic is never quiet. Not really. There's always this low hum--ventilation, hushed voices, the shifting weight of desperation. I've come to recognize it the way a cardiologist hears murmurs others miss. It's not silence. It's restraint.

By midmorning, I'm already three cases in. Each one leaves a different weight on my chest, like bricks building something I'll eventually have to carry home.

First case: Lena and her husband Thomas. He's only a week into infection, still clear-eyed, still human enough to joke with the guards. They sit close during intake, fingers laced, her knuckles white. Lena smiles when she talks, but it's brittle. Like porcelain waiting for the wrong touch.

"He still kisses my forehead," she says while I prep the suppression injection. "Same as always."

I nod and say something gentle, something vague. But I clock the tremor in her hand and the slight delay in Thomas's eye movement when I shine the light.

Second case: a Clean volunteer. Council matched. Young girl, barely older than my own. Here for the ration credits and medicine allowance. The infected man she's assigned to is twitchy, deep into 24 hours. His name's Bryce. He won't meet my eyes.

"You sure about this?" I ask her as I check her vitals.

"I know what I'm doing," she says with a practiced smile. She doesn't. Not really.

They leave for the red-wing quarters. I flag the case for a two-hour wellness check.

Third case: Angela Holloway. Regular. Her husband, Mark, was a firefighter before everything fell apart. Now he's tethered to her, kept barely stable by daily sex and regulated hormone injections. She always shows up clean, brushed, and vacant.

"He forgets our daughter's name," she tells me while buttoning her shirt. "But he hums our wedding song before he takes me."

My stomach turns. I keep my face neutral, hands busy with the sanitization protocol. She leaves without waiting for my response. She never does.

I scrub the tether chair harder than usual. Something about that song--it drags a memory forward like something rising from a swamp.

A year ago. Evan Richter. Thirty-five. Claimed the woman was his girlfriend. No verification. The scan team was overloaded that week. Someone must have waived the neural scan.

I was on shift when it happened.

She screamed, but not first. Evan did. Like something broke inside him, something too twisted to survive the infection. By the time security stormed the red-wing, she was already dead. Torn open. Throat crushed. I helped clean it. Identified her by a freckle on her hip.

I pushed for the policy changes after that. Mandatory neural scans. No contact past SP-48. Some called me cold. Said I was stripping hope from the infected. Maybe I was. But I'd seen what blind hope could do to a human body.

By early afternoon, I finally step out of the clinic. The air's heavy with salt from the ocean, and faintly tinged with the sterile scent of bleach and blood. It clings to my skin, to my thoughts.

I glance at my watch. One more case today and I'm done.

Then it's off to my motherly duties.

By the time I peel off my gloves and dump them into the biohazard bin, the sun is already dipping low over the horizon. My shift ended twenty minutes ago, but it's never just clocking out and walking away. There's always something--paperwork, a tethering discrepancy, a supply inventory short one vial. The little fires of every day that keep me late.

I scrub my hands at the sterilization station until they're raw and pink, then splash cold water on my face. It doesn't do much. The day clings to me like a second skin--sweat, antiseptic, and the faintest trace of blood. I've learned not to notice it.

I step into the hallway and nod to Rhys, one of the night shift medics. We trade tired smiles and a few muttered updates before I slip outside into the cooling evening air. It's not far to the gate. The Ring always looms behind me like a heavy thought, but once I cross into the Clean Zone, everything shifts. The scent of citrus disinfectant fades. The air somehow feels lighter, even though I know it's only psychological.

I scan in through the checkpoint, nodding to the bored-looking guard with the scanner rifle slung across his chest. He waves me through, and the gates hiss open.

The Clean Zone isn't glamorous, but it's orderly. Rows of modest homes stretch out like neatly lined dominoes. No broken windows, no weeds in the walkways, no graffiti scrawled on the walls. Order. Safety. A lie we tell ourselves, but one I'm grateful for every day.

We live in Sector C, mid-tier housing--close enough to the central compound that Robert can still bike to his mechanic placement, but far enough from the administrator blocks that we're not stuck breathing recycled HVAC all day.

I walk most of the way home, weaving through a handful of families out for evening strolls, kids on scooters, teenagers from the Young Adults program still in their color-coded work garb. I spot a few in the dusty green of agriculture and one girl in the maroon of security observation. Stacey's not out yet. She usually gets home just before curfew.

The Young Adults program wasn't optional, not after the Reorganization. At thirteen, you start bouncing around work placements--farming, sanitation, medical, trade work. They log your metrics, attitude, and adaptability. By your eighteenth birthday, they assign you a role for life. You don't get to argue.

I hate that for her. I want her to choose. But choice is a luxury now.

By the time I reach our street, the sky is purple and the first of the solar lamps are flickering on. Our house is the third from the end--two stories, plain white siding, a reinforced steel door with a keypad Robert installed himself. It's modest, but clean. Ours.

I pause at the door, letting myself breathe for a moment. Tomorrow, I'll have to return to the Ring. Tomorrow, more tethers, more eyes haunted with desperation and hope. But tonight, I'll be Riley the wife. Riley the mother. Riley who pretends, for a few hours, that the world still makes sense.

I punch in the code and step inside. The door clicks shut behind me with a soft finality. Home.

Dinner is quiet, at first.

Robert is shoveling in the last of the mashed roots while Stacey is spinning her fork in lazy circles around her plate. The synthetic lighting above hums with a familiar buzz, casting a warm glow over the dinner table. Our home is modest, but it's safe. It's home. The reinforced windows give me peace, even when my thoughts don't.

Stacey perks up after a few bites. "I helped with diagnostics in AgriTech today. Miss Vella said I had a knack for soil readings."

"That's great," I say, trying to match her enthusiasm. "You've always had an eye for detail."

Robert leans back in his chair, arms crossed. "Didn't think you'd like farmwork. Thought you were more of a med-tech kind of girl. Like your mother."

Stacey shrugs. "They'll eventually rotate us. I'll be in BioNext next. Maybe I'll be elbow-deep in petri dishes."

We all laugh, and for a moment, things feel normal--before the sirens start.

The first one is distant, barely audible over the chatter from the other units in the sector. Then it grows louder. Wailing, pulsing, rising in pitch. My blood runs cold.

Robert is already halfway to the window. I follow, heart thudding in my chest. Outside, red warning strobes are flashing from the main tower down the street. People are starting to gather, unsure of the cause.

"What the hell..." Robert mutters, grabbing his jacket.

Stacey looks at me, wide-eyed. "Is it a breach?"

"Stay inside," I say quickly, already moving for the door. Robert and I step out into the dim, flickering lights of the compound street.

Something's happened. Something bad. A breach, or worse--maybe a fire in the Ring? Maybe someone tried to smuggle something through the checkpoint again.

We corner an older neighbor, Benson, who's been in and out of security rotation. "Word is," he says between ragged breaths, "a Ravager got through in the service corridor. One of the tethered went full feral. Took out a handler. Shitshow in Sector 6."

Robert swears under his breath. I feel my stomach drop.

Not because of the breach. But because I know what this might mean.

My mind spirals. He could turn. I swallow hard and try to keep my breathing steady.

Robert's talking to someone else now. I'm barely listening. My mind's not on the lockdown, or the breach, or the potential curfew. It's with that quiet, musty room on the edge of the Red Zone.

I need to find a way out. Tonight.

Somehow.

Robert grabs his jacket from the hook near the door, strapping on the lightweight armor vest he keeps ready for times like these. His movements are quick, practiced. He's done this before, but something in his expression tells me this time is different.

"I'm going to check in at the tower," he says, adjusting the comms unit on his collar. "They've called for extra security detail. I'll find out what the hell's going on."

I nod, trying not to let the panic show on my face. "Be careful."

He cups my cheek briefly, his thumb brushing just under my eye. "Just wait at home with Stacey, okay? I'll be back as soon as I know something."

And just like that, he's gone.

I wait until his footsteps fade down the street before I slip outside, pretending to lock the door behind me. I head in the opposite direction from the towers, eyes scanning the perimeter fences for weaknesses, blind spots. If the lockdown drags into the night, I'll need to find a way out.

Near the north perimeter--where the Clean Zone butts up against the abandoned rail line--I spot a maintenance ladder tucked behind a storage unit. The fence here is older. Not crumbling, but not upgraded like the others either. There's a utility conduit that could serve as a makeshift foothold. It's risky. One slip and I'd fall straight into the electrified section, but it's... doable. Maybe. I log the path in the back of my mind and make my way home.

Stacey is curled up on the couch watching the live tower feed when I return. The sirens have stopped, but the red strobes still flash against the windows. She doesn't ask where I went. Smart kid.

Robert returns a little after midnight, face drawn and jaw tight.

"A tether turned and attacked a handler in Ring Sector 6 like we were told," he says, rubbing a hand through his hair. "Went full feral. Killed him. They had to shut down the entire segment. Total lockdown is in effect until further notice. No traffic in or out. They don't even want medics near the breach zone right now."

"How long?" I ask, forcing calm into my voice.

He shakes his head. "Could be days until the lockdown is lifted. I've been reassigned to containment duty. First shift starts at dawn for my unit."

I nod, throat tight. We clean up in silence, and eventually the house settles for the night.

Once I hear Robert's breathing deepen and Stacey's door creak shut, I slip out of bed.

I dress quickly in dark clothes, grab my credentials, and slide out the back door. The streets are eerily quiet.

I make it to the north perimeter again. The fence looms taller than it did earlier. Lights that had been out before now blaze white-hot above the corridor. Someone's reinforced it.

Damn it.

I try the far corner where the waste pickup route runs. Still sealed. Still guarded. I approach a checkpoint, trying to keep my face neutral.

"I need access to a Red Zone," I say, flashing my medical badge. "There's a tether subject I was monitoring for post-exposure symptoms. He's due for a scheduled interaction, and it's a potential critical regression."

The guard doesn't even blink. "No one's going in or out, ma'am. Especially not into a Red Zone. Orders from Central."

"But if he turns--"

"Sorry, not our concern at the moment." he replies, stone cold.

The finality in his tone leaves no room for argument.

I return home empty-handed, fury bubbling under my skin.

I lie in bed, eyes wide, muscles tense. Every tick of the old wooden clock feels like a gunshot. Tomorrow will mark forty hours since our last contact. I tell myself there's still time. That the virus needs a full 48 hours to stabilize.

But deep down, I know that's not always true.

Sometimes...

Sometimes it doesn't wait that long.

The alarm chimes far too early.

I'm up before the sun, blood pounding in my ears, already dressed before the world has even thought of waking. Robert left an hour ago to report for duty at the new containment post. Stacey is still asleep. At least that makes things simpler.

I gather my things quickly--a spare set of scrubs, my forged clearance pass, my trusty 9mm, and a sealed med kit stuffed with just enough to look legitimate. My stomach churns with nerves, but I force myself to move with purpose. There's no time to hesitate. No room for mistakes.

I head for the northern gate again. It's busier now, the morning shifts prepping supply runs and sanitation crews. I slide into the crowd, moving with them, keeping my head down and pace steady. I flash my badge and offer a tired nod to the guard on shift.

"Medical runner, quarantine support," I mutter, gesturing to the ID.

He scans it. Frowns. Then scans it again.

"Never seen you on this route before."

"I was rerouted from MedTower 4," I lie smoothly. "They pulled me from the ring assignment to do double rotation. Said the handler incident shifted priorities."

He still looks uncertain. My heart hammers.

Then the checkpoint comm unit crackles.

"Gate Charlie, stand by. We've got movement on the perimeter. Possible breach in Sector 4."

The guard stiffens, distracted. Another soldier jogs over, urgency in his voice.

"Orders came in. Nobody out. All exits sealed until the sweep team clears the zone."

"No--" I start, but the gate is already locking down.

The crowd thins quickly, rerouted or dismissed. I slip to the side, heart sinking. Another dead end.

I'm running out of time.

I duck into a side alley near the storage depot to regroup. My fingers tremble as I pull out my map of the old utility infrastructure. There's one access point left that might still work--the sewer tunnels. Robert's security clearance gets him into those, when he's working his secondary duty as a perimeter guard.

He keeps the key in a small metal box above his workbench in the garage. I remember seeing him use it just last week to inspect a pump failure in Zone D. It's not something I can copy. Not in the time I have. So I did the only thing I could last night while he slept: I took it.

Stole it. I didn't want to resort to this but time's running out.

My chest tightens at the thought. Robert is meticulous with his tools. He's bound to notice it's missing soon. I'll have to return it before he does--but that means I need to be fast.

I move quickly now, cutting across the district toward the old water maintenance shed. It's tucked behind the ration depot, rarely patrolled. I use the key to unlock the rusted panel at the rear and slip inside.

The tunnel entrance groans as I shift the hatch open. The air that hits me is foul--thick with rot and dampness. I climb down the ladder, boots splashing into shallow water.

Down here, it's dark and cramped, the narrow tunnels barely wide enough to stand in. My flashlight flickers as I move forward, bouncing off wet concrete walls and rusted grates.

I try not to think about the things that might be down here. The things that could've crawled in through broken filters or forgotten ducts. I just focus on the map in my head--on the route that leads me to the Red Zone.

But as I round a corner, a sound stops me cold.

Not water. Not pipes.

A growl.

Low. Wet. Close.

My breath catches.

There's something down here.

Something hungry.

And now I'm not sure what scares me more--being late... or not surviving long enough to try.

The growls echo louder as I press forward, gun drawn, hands steady despite the quick thrum of my heart. Years ago, I would've frozen. But this world doesn't allow for fear anymore--not for long. I've trained with every weapon I could get my hands on. If you can't defend yourself, you die. It's that simple.

I round the final bend of the tunnel, my flashlight cutting through the darkness--illuminating a cluster of figures clawing at the barred exit ahead. Four of them. No... five. Pressed against the gate, their dead eyes wild and bloodshot, nails screeching against the metal as they try to force their way in.

The gate's holding, but it won't forever. The hinges rattle with every slam of decaying flesh. I raise my 9mm, aiming for the head.

The first shot cracks through the tunnel. One drops instantly. I wince at the deafening sound as the gunfire echoes.

Another turns at the sound, shambling toward me with a grotesque lurch. I squeeze off a second shot--then a third. Both find their marks.

The fourth takes a little more effort, jerking at an odd angle after my first shot clips its jaw. I adjust my stance, plant my feet, and fire again. This time it drops.

Only one left. It growls, fingers reaching through the bars toward me. I don't hesitate. One clean shot. Silence.

The tunnel reeks now of blood and rot. My ears ring from the gunfire. I check the bodies quickly, making sure none are twitching. Then I approach the gate.

I unlock it with shaking hands, slipping through and relocking it behind me. The metal clunks loudly into place. I exhale hard.

Fresh air hits me like a blessing. I'm out. I shut and relock the gate behind me.

The road ahead is cracked and overgrown, winding through the remnants of what used to be a commercial district. I keep to the edges, moving fast but alert. The red zone i'm heading to isn't far from here--maybe two miles if I cut straight through the ruins.

Not the safest path, but the quickest.

Red Zones are unstable by design. Half-feral areas kept just structured enough to serve their purpose. Ravager sightings are common, which is why they're policed by mercs--hardened, overpaid, and trigger-happy. Their job is to kill anything too far gone to help, not ask questions.

I approach the checkpoint cautiously, hands visible, my medical badge clipped to my coat.

A tall guard with a thick scar across his face steps forward, rifle slung across his chest.

His gaze follows me as I walk past, looking me over.

I nod, holding out the forged clearance pass. He just grunts, almost dismissing me entirely before jerking his head toward the entry gate.

"Just a fair warning, it's been pretty rough in there today... even for this place. If you run into trouble, we're not saving you."

I nod once and pass through, heart pounding, every step taking me closer to the razor's edge of a secret I can't afford to lose.

They call this particular Red Zone, The Meat Market--and not because anyone's selling pork chops.

It was once a rundown suburb on the edge of the city, filled with discount strip malls and vape shops. Now, it's a festering gash in society's side--lawless, stinking, and loud. Everything here is for sale: drugs, weapons, flesh, information, even infected blood if you know who to ask. The name fits. Everyone's either buying meat or selling it.

I keep my head down and walk fast, the cracked sidewalk sticky with grime beneath my boots. The stench is a gut-punch--sweat, rot, smoke, and sex. Fires burn in old barrels. A man with a melted half-mask sells grilled rat on a stick next to a topless woman hawking expired antibiotics. Her massive breasts slap together as she claps excitedly at their deal. People brush past me, unconcerned, high or horny... or both.

To my left, a rusted-out bus has been converted into a brothel. Its windows are blacked out, but I can hear the moans and the rhythmic pounding echoing from within. A tall dark skinned man in a bloody apron stands outside with a shotgun and a grin. A painted sign above the door reads:

"Deal of the Day - Sloppy Seconds Half Off."

Charming.

Further up the road, two women are sprawled across the hood of a wrecked car. One's on her knees, sucking off a shirtless man who keeps his eyes on the crowd like it's no big deal. His right hand tangled in her hair, or at least what remains, using it to guide her mouth up and down his abnormally large shaft. An old jack daniels bottle occupies his left hand as he takes a swig from the lip.

"Fuck yeah bitch," He moans in between gulps. "Just like that."

The other woman has her legs spread wide for a younger man whose moans blend with the background noise like they belong here. No one gives them a second glance.

Degeneracy is currency here. You fuck, or you get fucked. Or you don't survive.

A fight breaks out ahead. I sidestep the scuffle as one man slams a pipe into another's shoulder, screaming about a deal gone wrong. Nobody stops them. There are no rules here. Just survival.

I pull my coat tighter and duck into a shadowed alley near the back of an old pawnshop. This isn't my first time here. I know the route, even if I wish I didn't.

As I pass a side door, it creaks open. Inside, a group of people huddle around a woman tied to a chair. She's blindfolded, completely naked. Her body is trembling, though from fear or anticipation, I can't tell. One of the men steps behind her, his pants already undone, stroking himself. Another films with a cracked tablet.

I force myself to look away.

A man stumbles out of a nearby shack with lipstick smeared down his thigh and bite marks on his chest. He grins like he just won the lottery.

Every part of this place whispers danger--but it also screams temptation. You can feel it in the air. A charge, raw and electric. It's no wonder so many infected end up here. You lose yourself in the filth, and for a while, the hunger doesn't feel so heavy.

Do as you please without consequences. Not a bad way to live out your last precious remaining days. It's hard to blame them. The other though... the ones that take advantage of people's misfortunes. Those I do have a problem with.

I push forward, weaving through crowds and stepping over broken glass and used condoms. A woman leans out of a second-story window and moans loudly as someone slams into her from behind. A breast finds its way out of the top of her shirt from the force. Her face contorts with pleasure, hands gripping the ledge for support. People cheer from below like it's a show.

Maybe it is.

Welcome to The Meat Market, where even the monsters come to feel human again.

A man grabs my arm as I pass a darkened booth. "Hey sweetheart, looking for a playmate? We're running a special--two for one. No teeth." His smile is missing half its teeth already.

I shove him off with a glare, my hand brushing the grip of my pistol holstered at my side.

He laughs. "Feisty. I like that."

I don't respond. I keep walking, jaw clenched. Every second I spend here puts me at risk--of exposure, of infection, of being recognized. And yet I'm pulled back again and again because of one reason.

I glance up at the flickering neon sign above the old motel. Only a few letters still work. It reads:

"N***T* I*N"

but I know what it used to say: "Nights Inn."

The lobby is dark, the front desk empty. No one runs this place anymore. It's self-governed chaos. I pass through the halls, careful not to step on the syringe that's rolled into the middle of the floor.

Room 107.

I knock twice. Then once. Then twice again.

I wait but the door doesn't open.

I knock again, harder this time, the flat of my fist stinging. Still nothing. My heart slams against my ribs. I try the handle--locked. Swearing under my breath, I dig out the backup key.

The lock clicks.

I push it open with my gun drawn, immediately hit by a wave of stale air and the coppery sting of dried blood and sweat. The room is trashed--overturned furniture, cracked floor tiles, a half-eaten ration pack smeared across the counter. A pill vial lies empty on the floor, its label torn off but unmistakable. I gave him those. An emergency delay, barely a few hours of clarity if he's lucky.

Still silent.

Then I see him--slumped in the far corner, curled into himself, rocking. His shirt is soaked through with sweat, arms twitching in uneven spasms.

I move in slowly, gun still raised.

When I crouch down and touch his shoulder, he whips around so fast I nearly pull the trigger. Bloodshot eyes lock onto mine--wide, dilated, crazed. He snarls, more animal than man.

I take another cautious step back, my heart pounding in my ears as I keep my gun trained on his twitching form. The sight of him like this, teetering on the brink between humanity and monstrosity, sends a chill down my spine. How could this have happened? We've been so careful, so vigilant...

"I'm here now," I say softly, fighting to keep the tremor from my voice. "Just stay calm, okay? Don't make any sudden moves."

His head jerks up at the sound of my words, his bloodshot eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that makes my blood run cold. He opens his mouth as if to speak, but all that comes out is a guttural, inhuman sound - somewhere between a moan and a growl.

I swallow hard, my mouth suddenly dry as I watch him struggle against the virus's grip on his mind. Every fiber of my being wants to rush to him, to hold him close and reassure him that everything will be alright. But I know better. One wrong move, one moment of distraction, and he could lunge at me - and then we'd both be lost.

"Listen to me," I say, putting as much authority into my voice as I can muster. "You need to fight it. Push it back. Remember who you are."

As I speak, I slowly lower my gun, never breaking eye contact. It's a risk, but I need him to see me as a person, not a threat. "We're going to get through this together, okay? Just like we always have."

My hands shake slightly as I reach for the hem of my shirt, slowly pulling it up and over my head. The cool air of the room prickles my skin as I let the garment fall to the floor. I can feel his gaze on me, intense and unfocused, struggling between the primal urges of the virus and the last vestiges of his humanity.

"That's it," I murmur encouragingly, reaching behind my back to unclasp my bra. "Stay with me. Focus on me."

I let the bra slip from my shoulders, baring my breasts to his hungry stare. A part of me recoils at the thought of using my body like this, but I push the shame aside. This is about survival now, for both of us.

I hook my thumbs into the waistband of my pants, holding his gaze as I slowly shimmy them down my legs. They pool at my feet and I kick them away, standing before him in nothing but my plain cotton panties. The air feels heavy, charged with a twisted mix of desperation and desire.

"It's okay, I'm here now."

His eyes roam over my exposed flesh, lingering on the curves he knows so well. For a moment, a flicker of awareness passes through his expression. A hint of hope that it's not too late. The hope I needed to push on.

A sharp gasp escapes my lips as his weight crashes down on top of me, knocking the wind from my lungs. His hands, rough and desperate, tear at the flimsy fabric of my panties, shredding them like tissue paper. I feel the cool air on my exposed pussy for only a second before he's inside me, stretching me, filling me completely.

"A-ah!" I gasp, my nails raking down his back as I try to anchor myself against the onslaught. Tears spring to my eyes from the force of his passion, even as a traitorous heat begins to build low in my belly.

His thrusts are erratic, almost violent in their intensity. His hips snap forward with a frenzied rhythm, driven by pure primal need.

I bite my lip hard enough to draw blood, focusing on the pain to distract myself from the grim thoughts swirling in my mind. What if this doesn't work? What if the virus has already progressed too far? The idea of losing him forever, of becoming a monster myself, fills me with a bone-deep dread.

But even as the dark scenarios play out in my head, I force myself to surrender to the physical sensations. I wrap my legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, urging him on. Each brutal thrust sends jolts of pleasure-pain through my core, blurring the lines between love, duty, and desperate necessity.

I feel every throbbing inch of his hardness buried deep inside me, pulsing with an almost feverish heat. It's like his cock is made of steel encased in velvet, so rigid yet smooth as it plunges in and out of my slick channel. The sensation is overwhelming, bordering on painful in its intensity.

I know this ferocious rutting, this single-minded focus on mating, must be a symptom of the virus's influence. It's forcing his body to prioritize reproduction above all else, overriding his higher brain functions. A shudder runs through me at the thought of what other changes might be happening beneath the surface...

His movements become increasingly erratic and forceful, his hips slamming against mine with bruising intensity. Drool trickles from the corner of his mouth as he pants and grunts, lost in a haze of viral-induced lust. His hands, now tipped with sharp nails, dig into the soft flesh of my thighs hard enough to leave marks.

The wet squelch of our coupling fills the room, obscene and animalistic. I can feel my own arousal building despite the circumstances, my treacherous body responding to the stimulation even as my mind reels. Tears leak from the corners of my eyes, trailing down into my hair as I surrender to the brutal pace, praying silently that this desperate act will be enough to save him from the fate that awaits.

Through the haze of pain and pleasure, I catch a glimpse of something that makes my heart soar - a tiny fleck of white amidst the crimson sea of his eyes. It's faint, barely noticeable, but unmistakably present. The red tinge seems to have faded ever so slightly as well, the furious blush of the virus dimmed by the life-giving force of our joining.

A sob catches in my throat, relief and exhaustion warring within me. Could it really be working? Was there still a chance to save him from the abyss of undeath?

"That's it baby, come back to me," I gasp out between ragged breaths, my voice hoarse with emotion. "Fight it, You're stronger than this thing."

I clench my inner muscles around his pistoning shaft, trying to anchor him to the present, to the feeling of our bodies joined as one. My hands come up to cup his face, thumbs brushing over his cheekbones in a gesture of tender encouragement.

Just then his movements begin to slow, the frantic, jackhammering pace giving way to something more measured, almost hesitant. His brow furrows as if he's struggling to process something, to push through the fog of viral influence.

"M... mom?" he croaks, the word emerging as a rusty whisper. His bloodshot eyes blink rapidly, the white flecks seeming to expand, pushing back against the encroaching red.

Joy explodes in my chest at the sound of my name on his lips, tears of relief streaming freely down my face now. I nod frantically, cupping his face with trembling hands. "Yes, baby, it's me. You're coming back to me," I choke out, my voice thick with emotion.

His hips stutter and jerk as his orgasm overtakes, his cock pulsing and throbbing deep inside my clenching pussy. Hot ropes of his seed paint my insides, marking me, claiming me in the most primal way possible. The feeling of his release, combined with the overwhelming relief and residual pleasure, pushes me over the edge as well.

"Aaahh!" I whimper, my back arching as ecstasy crashes through me. My walls flutter and squeeze around him, milking every last drop as waves of bliss radiate out from my core. In this moment, lost in the throes of shared climax, the horrors of the world outside seem to fade away, leaving only the two of us, mother and son, clinging to each other and the tenuous thread of our connection.

As the aftershocks subside, I find myself cradling Jason's sweat-slicked body against my own, my fingers threading through his disheveled hair. He's still twitching slightly, the virus's influence not entirely vanquished, but the manic gleam has faded from his eyes, replaced by a look of dazed confusion and tentative awareness.

"We... we did it Jason," I murmur, pressing a soft kiss to his forehead. "You're still here with me. You fought it off. I don't know what I would have done if I lost you again."

I know the reprieve is temporary, that we'll have to do this again soon to keep the virus at bay. But for now, in the aftermath of our desperate coupling, I allow myself to bask in the sweet relief of having my son back, even if only for a little while longer.