His mouth hung open in a ghastly facial expression. Any sort of color he still had from the fevor left him as he paled. He spared a look to the floor and a look to you, mouth still hanging.

"God-" he placed both of his hands on his head, "Fucking- shit-"

A deep breath, in and out.

He was steadying himself.

Something you found hard to do as you finally exepted the facts.

You shuddered, and all the tears you lost those first three hours were for naught as more began bubbling to the surface.

The ugly sob that left you was immidiately countered as he scooted closer to you, tugging you into himself.

The hug you had was long, and tight, and so undeniably filled with the grief you both shared. Every brush of your limbs was appreciated, and every twirl of hair he'd spin and toy with was thanked for.

You wept into him, feeling his heavy breath. Feeling his warmth. Relishing in it for what might possibly be your last time.

In a way, you admired him. How he could be the one giving comfort, when really it should be reversed.

Here he was, sentenced to a fate that he'd never return from, yet you were the one wiping every drop of tear you had onto his hoodie.

Some comfort you were.

He was just as upset as you were, you could see it in the way his body tensed, and how every once and awhile, the hand that was twirling hair would pause, and shake before steadying.

That hour passed quickly, and when the next came, your hug had already ended.

You sat pressed beside each other. His knee bounced anxiously, bumping into your own leg in the same unfocused rhythme his fingers were drumming on your hip.

While normally, the arm wrapped around your side would be a bit strange and questioned, you didn't dare inquire, too sad and worried to comment on something you found comfort in.

It was a bit of a waiting game. One that neither of you wanted to play.

"Hey." He said suddenly, voice still solemn.

"...yeah...?" Was your response.

"Phone still charged?"

You nodded, "You and I both know internets out."

The dejected tone you spoke in made him put more effort into his own, "You can still take pictures, and if I'm not gonna be here, well, better leave something behind!" While his happy tone was fake, yes, it was a nessecary fake. One that encouraged you to smile back in such a trying time.

Nodding, with a small smile, you slipped your phone out of your pocket. The fact that you almost cried again at his word choice was hidden with a grin that matched his own.

Yet another hour.

You both senselessly took as many photos as you could. Funny faces, serious faces, smiling faces, anything and everything to try to distract yourselves from what was coming. The way his pale features slowly worsened throughout the photos was making you more anxious then before.

You could tell he noticed too, knee tapping faster and more anxiously the more you flipped through photos.

"I should probably leave you here." You started, tears building up in your eyes again as you slipped your phone away, "But I'm not-" a few drops fell, "Cause then- I wouldn't get to spend as much time with you as I could."

He looked at you, a battle fighting in his head, "I should probably tell you to go." A big hand found its way onto your own, "But I really, really don't want to be alone."

You smiled at him, before frowning when he violently shook his head and flickered his gaze all across the room.

"It's... really getting hard to focus..." was what he muttered, rubbing his thumb over your knuckles before squeezing.

The only thing you could do was squeeze back.

And there you stayed, seconds spent in each others prescence ticking on into minutes, before another hour made its way through.

He was getting more sporadic with his twitches. The knee would start. The knee would stop, his head would twitch, his arm would jolt. It got to the point where holding his hand started hurting too much, and you both decided to just sit next to each in as much peace as could be gathered from a moment like this.

He grew only paler, eyes becoming duller each time you met them. The last time you tried running a hand through his chocolate brown hair, he violently began to thrash, gargling snarls through his throat unwillingly.

You refrained from any such action afterwards, sitting beside him solemnly and peering from your periphials as he worsened. The gouging from his nails was still fresh on his face, and you wanted nothing more then to attend to him, but when you asked, he simply told you not to waist supplies.

He was right.

Just-

Just focus on the breathing.

He's still alive and kicking.

Finally, in the next hour, things rapidly declined.

The body beside you jolted forward, his hands clutching his head with anguish.

He yelled, begging whatever was out there to make the pain stop. His breath divuldged into panting, shuddering huffs of breath that reminded you of the first time he fell victim to the fever.

You didn't care if he was thrashing. Your friend needed you- needed you of all things in his last moments, needed help, comfort.

Latching onto him, you buried your face in his shoulder. Split up from your family- your friend- turning in your arms at this very moment, it made you curse and spat venoumously at anything and everything that could have made these things happen, as if this was some show, watched for amusement by others.

From the way his body convulsed in pants and coughs and sputters, and anything that could even remotely describe the way he was folding in on himself.

He turned to you, in tears, teeth clenching, "God- thank you for sticking by me you sweet person-" his panting was running his voice dry, and it cracked the more he spoke, "Because- I did not." He clenched his teeth, "I didn't-" Tears streamed down his face in a snotty mess, "want. To do this, alone."

You squeezed your face together, simply pulling him in for a hug as he continued to convulse and snivle things to you.

"And you know-" his voice squeaked upwards, "I only fucking got into parkour because of you."

"I never told you that."

You said nothing, simply holding him tighter.

"You just fucking loved it so much."

"Watch your profanity...." you weakly muttered out, clenching him and shakily letting out a breath.

He kept talking, ignoring your weak attempt at humor, "I thought if-" a swallow, "I learned it- you'd be impressed."

He straightened himself the best he could, trying to glimpse a look into your eyes. He barely could, as his eyes flickered in and out of focuse with every second passing, "Because I really." A pause for emphasis, "Fucking." Another pause, "Like you."

You just kept crying, gurgling out his name in your unbridled feeling of deep misery.

But you wish you answered him then.

Wish you had said something back sooner.

Because the one moment he was quivering, and the next...

He wasn't.

He collapsed on the into your arms, unmoving.

And you immidiately reacted, laying him on the floor and placing your hands on his arm, "Chris- come on-"

You shook him, still shaking, "Christian- hang on a little longer-"

"I'm not joking- you ass."

You knew.

You did.

You really did.

But did you wish you didn't?

Yes.

He wasn't down forever.

It started as a slow tapping of his nails.

In rythmn, calculated.

Before it paused.

His eyelids were next, peeling back with a newfound calmness.

His pupils were full blown, unsure, before decidedly narrowing in to attention.

His teeth clacked with a tight snap of his jaw, and he let out a long, calm breath.

He wasn't who he used to be.

In a lurching gag, he shot up into a crouch, snarling and baring his teeth at you in a similar way you'd seen him before turning.

In the deepths of his eyes you saw the want and need for bloodshed, lurking and throwing itself into his actions.

You recoiled your arms, slowly standing and watching as he analyzed your every movement.

The moment you recognized the way he lowered himself, was the moment you jumped out of the way, dodging his deathly leap and letting him skid off into shelf, which toppled onto him at the force.

You needed to be quick. Raking the room with your eyes, you noticed something.

The metal chains, hanging along the way. Clearly meant for a more utility purpose such as lifting, but normalicity didn't matter at the moment.

A sprint, a grab, and a turn of you feet, and you were met with the sight of him shaking the shelf off with a deep growl.

You tightened the cold metal in your hands, the jingling it made unaturally cheery sounding for such an intense situation.

You knew what to do.

Tensing did nothing to steel yourself for what it was though.

He lept, nails first, at you, before you dodged, using his moment of recovery to sling the metal around his neck.

The hitched breathe that released him was of shock, his arms flinging backwards to try to pull you off, and he fell chest first onto the floor, snarling and foaming at the mouth with struggle.

You pulled tighter and tighter, feeling his muscles shake and become weary the longer you held.

They were infected, not dead. And everything alive needed to breathe.

You listened, chocking growls settling before he finally slumped to the ground without movement.

In all honesty, you should have kept holding. Held down longer and longer, until he wouldn't have had a chance to survive.

But you didn't.

Instead, you wrapped the wretched chain around him, using clips, and anything you could find to harness him.

Faux fabric, tightly knotted and layered until you were sure it would hold.

And afterwards, craftsmanship finished, you wound the chain leash to the sturdy piping.

You covered his face with the hood, not being able to bear the dead look on his face.

Two days, of seeing him slowly turn in your arms, and now that it was said and done, you sat exhausted in the corner, gun clenched in your hands, eyeing the unconscious body lying a distance away from you.

The few minutes that passed after you finished and solemnly slunched into the corner were quick. Seconds ticking past each time you blinked.

You thought back on pleasant memories. All the happy and fond moments you had, slowly being poisoned by the discontentment you now felt. Sadness permanentaly tarnishing your childhood.

A few more minutes and he woke. You kept staring. Even as he lurched forward at you, jerking the wind out of himself, and snarling when he couldn't reach you.

Everything about the way he held himself was wrong.

From the way he ground his nails against the floor.

The way he crouched on all fours with a predatorial air about him.

To the shadows of his face that clenched in a wrathful hate.

All of it was just, wrong.

It wasn't him.

Not the him you knew at least.

It sickened you all the more to know that he was never coming back.

Tears welled up in your eyes again, pushing against another flood gate you locked within yourself.

But it was different.

He was gone.

There was no way you could stop this.

And as such, you rubbed your eyes.

Wetness smearing against your hand as you steeled yourself.

Things were different now.

Things were harder now.

If you wanted to survive, you had to become harder too.

.

.

That was harder said then done.

The next three days, and you never slept, not once. If you so much as began to nod off- through all the snarling and pacing of his feet and hands- the thought of being riped apart surfaced in your mind, jolting you back into reality.

The rumbling growls, and the nails that had begun to curve into claws were frightening.

The once flat teeth, now sharpening into rows of carnivious spikes were terrifying.

But you didn't once raise your gun to shoot him.

You just, simply, couldn't.

At the end of the five days spent inside the safe room, you finally bridged the thought that, 'yes. I need to keep moving.'

It was a mystery why he had calmed. You dared place a foot in past the circumference he could attack you, and he only seemed unerved by you. Not agressive.

You fastened his chain to your arm, winding it somewhat tightly against your skin.

The stray bite he aimed at your leg was warded off with the but of your gun.

You probably hit harder then was nescessary

He learned quickly not to test your limits.

He still did though.

On the off chance you weren't looking, he'd crawl closer, snarls always giving him away.

Building to building you traversed always moving as quietly and as swiftly as you could.

He always tugged on the chain, bounding ahead of you and jerking you along. Growls and yelps, animalistic noises and body language to accompany it.

He wasn't a good companion.

But hey, you thought bitterly.

'At least I'm not alone...'

.

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__________________

Welp. That concludes this trip to the past. Yall know just how tramatic it was to see yo best friend turn.

Yup.

That how it happened.

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The next chapter shall continue with where we left off in both the helicopter and the third perspective.