Daniel's Story: The Turning

*Possible trigger warnings: seizures, blood, loss of temper, death

   *   *   *   *   *   *   *

I walked into the jail cell as the escorting guard closed the door behind me. I sat on the bench with a heavy sigh before sneezing several times in rapid succession. Two hours of almost non-stop sneezing wasn't just exhausting—it was a symptom of a much deadlier problem.

I was infected.

The doctors and scientists in this remote town—among the last to be hit with the zombie outbreak—had already taken blood and saliva samples. If the news channels were correct, I'd turn into a zombie sometime in the next two or three days. They hadn't been able to tell me if I'd be one of the rare few who retained their mind afterward.

Only three days left to live. I felt like screaming.

In a brief respite from the sneezing, which soaked several tissues, I closed my eyes and leaned my head back against the wall as despair crept in. It felt like I was trapped in a nightmare and was just waiting for the clock to strike zero.

~

Two days passed in agonizing slowness, worsened by watching others in nearby cells fall into seizures and rise with snarls and red eyes. I was exhausted—the sneezing never let up enough to sleep more than a few minutes. The doctors had finally found a medication that stopped the sneezing, but even the maximum daily dose only worked for about four hours.

In the cell across from me, Rebecca paced back and forth ceaselessly. She stumbled, and even as my eyes darted to her, she collapsed into the tell-tale seizures. It was painful to watch.

Even though it lasted almost thirty seconds, not a single doctor, scientist, or guard came by. Many had started sneezing themselves and were in various cells around the building. Some had been bitten and turned. The few who remained came in shifts. No one here had remained sane anyway.

Rebecca stumbled to her feet with a guttural snarl, sniffing the air. Her eyes landed on me, and she ran—well, stumbled—into the bars restraining her. Her lack of coordination marked the terrible loss of her humanity and identified her as a regular zombie.

Would I look and act like that by tomorrow night? The thought was gut-wrenching. I didn't want to be a monster.

An hour later, the guards came by to collect dirty dinner plates and pass out fresh water bottles. They left a cup of animal blood outside the bars of my cell. A warning that I had less than twenty-four hours left.

They made a note of Rebecca's condition—they wouldn't try moving her until the cell was needed by someone else—and left for the night, turning off most of the lights as they went.

Rebecca—it was hard to think of her as a zombie—kept growling and reaching for me. Unable to handle the sight any longer, I drew the privacy curtain across the front of my cell. No one would come until the morning unless we rang the bell for water or assistance.

I sat on the small bed in near despair. There wasn't anything I could do. Nothing to try and sway the odds in my favor.

People were turning into zombies all around—some had the nearly non-stop sneezing symptoms—but many didn't. Those who were bitten never sneezed. They and those around them had no warning.

I crisscrossed my legs, and after sneezing several times, I decided to settle my mind with the meditation stuff Rebecca had taught me. Even as I took a deep breath to clear my mind, pain ripped through my body as my muscles jolted on their own accord. The pain was so intense I couldn't cry out—I couldn't even breathe.

It was a million times worse than being tasered, and like in that security guard training, my muscles jerked uncontrollably as I tumbled off the bed. Fiery lightning lanced through my brain over and over, searing every nerve. I screamed in the confines of my mind as my body felt like it was being electrocuted repeatedly by fire and ice.

My mind finally went black.

~

My breathing was ragged as I came to. I groaned as I shifted my arms, still sprawled on the floor. I felt like I had been pummeled by a gym trainer for hours.

That smell... It smelled so good. What was it? The tantalizing scent demanded my attention. I had to find the source.

I forced myself to concentrate as I slowly sat up and took stock of myself. Was I really alive? Had those been the turning seizures or just a false alarm? The delicious scent almost had me getting to my feet.

The air froze in my throat. That was the smell of humans.

All the warnings rushed back to me: if I remained sane, I had to avoid raw meat, human flesh, and human blood at all costs—or my mind would vanish, leaving me a mindless zombie.

Now that I knew the danger behind the smell, it was easier to resist, but still so tantalizing. It also reminded me of the stupid zombies-need-animal-blood-to-remain-sane rule. I grit my teeth at the thought of having to drink that cup of animal blood, inadvertently growling. More proof of what I'd become. Unfortunately, the blood also smelled good.

The scents were maddening—the humans more so than whatever was in the cup. My mind felt like it was on a slippery slope, like I was drunk and not in full control.

I didn't want to do this...but everything I was feeling only reinforced what I'd been told. I didn't want to end up like all the others, so I crawled on my hands and knees to the bars, pushing aside the curtain as I grabbed the thermos-style mug. The lid did nothing to stop the smell from spilling out—no wonder zombies found hidden survivors so easily.

Taking a deep breath, I pinched my nose and pretended the thick liquid was distasteful medicine. A dozen—delicious—gulps later, the coffee mug was empty, and my head was already feeling remarkably clearer.

My thoughts came easier. I took a deep breath and winced as the human smell and bloodlust strained against my control. I shoved it to the back of my mind, finding it easier this time. I refused to give in. I wouldn't become a monster.

There were dozens of humans in this building—I could pick apart each of their scents. At least eight were in this corridor. I could smell them, and not only that, I could hear them breathing.

I staggered to my feet—the soreness in my muscles was already easing—and pushed the curtain farther open. The lighting was oddly dim as the growling zombie across from me paused, her red eyes boring into mine. Her reaching hands dropped—the human she had wanted to eat was gone—and she shuffled back and forth in her cell.

Every footstep was audible. Not only hers, but all the zombies in this corridor. I could hear the air rushing in and out of their lungs with their heavy breathing, and their growls punctuated what should have been silence. I could even pick apart the humans from the zombies. Dogs barked in the distance. At least three vehicles were driving nearby.

Shaking my head, I backed into the corner and covered my ears. My hands did nothing to muffle it. The sounds. There were too many, too loud. Not painfully loud, but I couldn't stop them.

As I slid down the wall, I pulled the pillow off my bed and wrapped it around my head to try and block it out. The fabric smelled of human—of the old me—making the bloodlust surge higher.

I threw it across the small cell and curled into a ball, jamming my fingers into my ears. My muscles tensed as I tried to survive the sensory overload.

~

The night passed far too slowly, but as I gradually adapted, the changes no longer seemed quite so overwhelming. The lights brightened, and I suddenly wished I had more time. I didn't feel ready.

I remained sitting in the corner, still feeling off-balance as my ears far too easily picked out five sets of footsteps and two carts. A set of lighter footsteps walked down the hallway—that would be one of the three scientists here. Nina was usually the one who came to check on us. The others—likely volunteers—remained with the cart and passed out food.

My nose confirmed a human female was coming closer. She stopped occasionally as a pen scratched onto paper, near the zombie growl locations—how could I tell the distance that precisely?—and gave quiet good mornings to the remaining humans. Eventually, the brown-haired woman in a white lab coat came into sight.

Rebecca was already straining against the bars to reach her. Nina gazed at her sadly as she made some notes. She turned to me.

"Good morn—" her voice cut off as she did a double-take. She stepped closer to the bars tentatively. "Daniel?"

She didn't even have to glance at the piece of paper taped to the bars. She knew the names of everyone who had turned themselves in for the safety of those around them.

Half suspicious—what would happen to a zombie that remained sane? Would I become a test subject?—and half desperate for answers, for hope, for...something, I asked, "Yeah. It's me. I'm still here. What happens now?"

Her jaw dropped, taking another step forward in disbelief before catching herself. "How are you feeling? Do you need anything? How is your control? Do you want me to back up?"

Half of my mind was distracted by her words; not the content, but how the air itself was warped as it flowed through her throat and mouth. The rushed words were perfectly understandable.

"I feel like I was run over by a garbage truck. Several times." I paused, my own voice sounding different, although I wasn't sure if it was my hearing or another change that happened during the convulsions. "...I think I'm in control? You can come closer if you want, but I don't feel like being touched or having a needle jab into me at this second."

"I'll stay out here," she promised, walking toward the bars. She looked down the corridor and raised her voice. "Harriet? Could you bring another tumbler of blood? Thank you."

I remained where I was, reluctant to leave the corner. It was known, safe, and I had no idea how I'd react once I started moving.

"Do you remember what time you turned?" she asked, already writing.

"Just after the lights dimmed."

"What do you remember of the event itself?"

I winced at the memory. "The pain... That was the worst thing I've ever experienced."

A woman came up the corridor with another thermos mug and stared at me with wide eyes. She passed it to Nina before skittering back to the others. Her quiet whisper of, "His eyes are red!" was far too easy for me to hear.

The murmurs of shock and surprise would have made me feel like a new animal in a menagerie if I hadn't done security duty in a bank for several years. Most adults ignored me, but kids were fascinated and chattered about everything.

Nina glanced at the empty mug on the floor and held out the new one. "Would this help?"

Part of me felt like I should be disgusted by the idea of drinking animal blood, but another part of me—the bloodlust—wanted it badly. Although it wanted Nina even more. Or any of the other humans. All of them, preferably.

I stood up. "Probably. I'm beginning to understand what diabetics feel like when they detest needles but need the medication."

Keeping careful tabs on myself—the last thing I needed to do was lose control and grab Nina instead of the cup—I walked across the cell. I felt...surprisingly normal.

I was more aware of each shift of my muscles. The stiffness had completely disappeared overnight, despite not moving for hours on end. My sense of balance told me where every part of me was and where they were in relation to the floor and walls.

Taking the tumbler was easy enough, although I carefully avoided touching Nina's gloved hands. It was safer to take things one step at a time while I figured out the bloodlust and any curveballs it might throw at me. I'd been warned that the bloodlust would be my worst enemy and make certain things far too tempting. It had been surprisingly easy so far, but if so many sane zombies struggled with it, there must be a reason.

Making a face even though I felt no real revulsion, I drained the tumbler as quickly as I could. The cold liquid made my lip curl up in distaste even though it tasted good. The bloodlust informed me that it would have tasted better warm, and even better if it had come from a human.

Nina pelted me with dozens of questions: how I felt, if I'd injured myself when the seizures hit, to move my arms and legs, about my sense of smell.

She paused, then asked, "Do the lights bother you?"

"No." I wasn't sure where that question had come from. I didn't think I looked uncomfortable—I actually felt pretty good, better than I had in years.

The blood had definitely helped my state of mind and lessened the pull her scent had. I vaguely wondered if a third mug would completely remove the bloodlust since it was almost gone.

"Not a Nightstalker then," she murmured, "although Runners usually have to organize their thoughts before replying."

I shrugged. My mind felt like it was firing on all cylinders. Faster, actually, like it was analyzing things and thinking far quicker than usual without any strain or focus.

I knew I wasn't a regular zombie—those never remained sane even though millions of people had already turned into that type. Runners were stronger and faster, and while not common, they weren't uncommon. Hundreds had remained sane and were trying to help the scientists unravel this mysterious virus.

Nightstalkers were much more powerful, but terribly light-sensitive and far rarer. Fewer than two hundred had been reported worldwide, and only a couple had remained sane.

A couple of zombies had been even stronger, but they had been rightfully dubbed Terrors after a feral had destroyed dozens of towns and most of a huge military base before they finally managed to stop it.

The light didn't bother me, and I didn't feel strong enough to fight my way through a handful of people, let alone tens of thousands of heavily armed soldiers, so my guess was that I was Runner.

"Is the bloodlust under control? Do you need more blood?"

"I think I'm fine for now, but more could be left in case it's needed." I didn't want it—yes, I did—but at the moment, it was like a disgusting—no, it wasn't—lifeline.

This was going to be a long day.

Her pen scribbled quickly, yet I could easily make out each shift without struggling to track the movements. "Your breakfast is here, so I'll check on the others and come back. Just let us know if you need anything or if you're struggling with something."

The carts were only two cells away, and the scrambled eggs, hashbrowns, sausages, and toast did smell good. The blood smelled better though. No, it didn't. Yes, it did. Old thought patterns warred against the changes the zombie virus had wired into my brain during the seizures.

I rubbed my temple as Nina walked to the next cell. She noticed and turned her head to look at me as her feet kept moving, drifting to the side. The zombie in that cell finally spotted her and reached through the bars.

My eyes widened. "Look out!"

Before she could turn her head, the zombie caught her loose lab coat sleeve.

My heart and breathing sped up as my body responded to the danger. Everything around me seemed to slow down as I threw myself against the bars, desperate to help, even though I knew it would do no good.

The bars bent, and the cement foundations cracked and gave way. In too much of a hurry to question what had just happened, I shoved the bars away and raced out of my cell, gone before the cement fragments had time to fall down on me. Unlike in the past, when my mind seemed foggy during stress, my thoughts remained crystal-clear.

Air whipped across my body from the speed of my passage. I could feel my muscles pushing harder against the air resistance, yet it wasn't strenuous. The zombie and Nina were moving as if in a slow dance, but the illusion was betrayed by the panic on Nina's expression and the zombie's bared teeth as he tried to pull her close enough to bite.

A clang came from behind as the bars struck the cell across from mine. Nina jumped, and her head started to spin in that direction, still frantically trying to get free. Screams echoed down the corridor as those handing out breakfast saw the scene unfolding before them.

I reached Nina, and my hand grabbed onto the zombie's wrist with a crushing grip—I felt and heard bones crack under my fingers—and my other hand ripped the scientist's sleeve free, taking care to only touch the material and not jostle her arm.

A small part of me was rattled by my newfound speed and strength, but the scientist was still within reach of the zombie, so I pushed my jumbled emotions to the side.

Somehow scaling back my strength and speed, I gently took hold of her shoulders and guided her back a few steps. I shook my hands free as my skin practically crawled from the contact, something I'd never felt before.

But Nina was safe. I stepped back so I wasn't in her personal space and sighed in relief. I'd saved her. Somehow.

As my heart slowed and my focus lessened, things began to move at their proper speeds, no longer so drawn out, yet nothing moved so fast I couldn't see it in great detail.

Nina trembled as her eyes flickered between the attacking zombie, the rather bent bars lying in the corridor, and me. "What- That- How-"

I rubbed the back of my neck. The thick jail bars were bent like copper threads. The cement that had held it in place might have been a few decades old, but I doubted its age had anything to do with how I had freed myself so easily.

The three helpers down the hallway huddled near the far door, staring at us in fear. Or, rather, at me in fear. Almost as if I'd tried to kill Nina instead of saving her.

The scientist was still recovering, as was the zombie, which stumbled away from me. If he felt pain in his wrist, he gave no sign of it as his attention returned to the human just out of his reach.

Nina's mouth opened and closed several times before she took a deep breath, closed her eyes for a moment, then exhaled and opened them.

"That...was a shock. Thank you." She looked back at the bars. "Well, you definitely aren't a Runner. A regular jail cell holds them. I'm not sure even a Nightstalker could have broken out of that."

I regarded her in disbelief. "Surely I'm not a Terror."

I didn't have that kind of power—or did I? I'd broken out of a jail cell and covered fifteen feet in less than five seconds.

Already getting over her close call, she waved a hand at the bars. "Well, you're something, and you're definitely not a Runner or a Nightstalker."

I guessed she had a point there. "So what now?"

She pursed her lips. "There aren't any empty jail cells, and it isn't like they'd hold you anyway. There are a few empty rooms near the lab. Do you want to move in there? If you're willing to give a saliva sample or a blood sample, I can check what the virus is doing and see how similar you are to the other zombie ranks."

A real room instead of the jail cell sounded like a dream after the last three days. "Sure."

Needles didn't bother me—never had—and I'd just proven I could remain in control even if she came that close. As long as I was careful and drank animal blood to keep the bloodlust in check, this shouldn't be too hard of an adjustment.

Sure, I might be super fast and strong now, but otherwise, I was still pretty much a human. Well, I also had red eyes and an unfortunately contagious and deadly virus in my blood and saliva.

Okay, I had to admit it. I was a zombie, and one of the most dangerous ones at that. But I'd already managed nine hours. How bad could it be?

"Let me check on everyone else, and I'll give you a quick tour of what we've done to this building. If you don't mind me saying, your presence will come in handy if ferals show up."

"I'm happy to help."

I moved the bent bars into the empty jail cell—there was no way I should have been able to manhandle them like a piece of cardboard—then caught up to the scientist who had resumed her check of the zombies and humans.

The people needed reassurance. My sense of smell confirmed they were infected; the virus undertone lurked just beneath the surface.

"That's it," Nina said as she took her gloves off. "I can give you a tour and then show you the lab. Would you prefer to eat breakfast in your room or in the cafeteria? It's the same food."

"I can eat in the cafeteria," I replied, not wanting to cause anyone extra work.

She brightened. "That works for me. I haven't eaten yet either. If I ask too many questions, please let me know."

"If it helps you understand this virus better and come up with a cure for those infected, ask as many questions as you want."

My reply was apparently the key that unlocked the floodgates. She asked question after question in a calm, methodical order as we walked side by side down the hallway.

"Do you notice an increased aversion to contact? That was something most sane zombies immediately noticed."

"When I touched your shoulders, it felt like my skin was crawling."

"And the distance between us doesn't bother you?"

I glanced at the two feet of air separating us. "No more than when I was human."

The way the sentence casually rolled off my tongue, like I had already accepted I wasn't human, surprised me.

"And the thought of me touching your arm?"

Even considering it made me scrunch up my nose, which I hadn't expected. Not knowing my own reactions left me feeling off-balance, like I didn't really know myself anymore.

The quiet siren-like call of the bloodlust was interested in getting closer to grab onto its prey. I stomped on that pathetic attempt at temptation, ready to throttle the bloodlust and its stupid obsessions at this point.

"I'd rather not," I eventually said.

She didn't look the least bit annoyed as she jotted that down, putting a small star beside a reminder to herself to avoid any unnecessary contact. Her questions kept coming, occasionally pausing to point to a doorway or out a window if I might need to locate that place later.

Many people we passed did a double-take when they caught sight of my eyes. Some were too distracted to notice. About half were in military or enforcement uniforms while others wore civilian or work clothing.

As we passed a group of men and women in dun-colored camouflaged military outfits, a large man leaned to the side and rammed his shoulder into mine. "Zombie scum."

Rage unlike anything I'd ever felt flashed through me, and without even thinking, I jerked my elbow back with a snarl, striking him in the back. Bones cracked and crunched as my thoughts caught up.

I stopped my arm mid-strike, but the blow sent him crashing into a nearby wall. He gasped for air, blood bubbling in lungs that had been punctured by far too many bone fragments.

The smell of human blood on his failing breath—directly exposed to the air—sent a jolt through me, jumpstarting the bloodlust to levels close to what I'd felt when first awakening. I blocked the temptation even as the gravity of the scene hit home.

Guilt and remorse flooded in, but it was too late. The damage had been done.

My heart dropped as I realized my actions were going to result in someone's death. I squeezed my eyes shut. I'd lowered my guard too soon and lost my temper over a stupid insult. Now someone was dying.

The mental anguish drowned out the shouts around me until something brushed against my hand.

"Daniel?"

I opened my eyes, finally seeing half a dozen firearms pointed at me. Behind them, four were trying to administer first aid, but the man's lungs bubbled with every breath. Nina pulled back her hand.

"Daniel? What..." she trailed off, at a loss for words.

I closed my eyes again. The words didn't want to come out. I wanted to deny it, shove the blame onto the one who had antagonized me, but I refused to slide down that slippery slope.

I shook my head slowly, unable to find words to express myself. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to do that. My temper...just snapped."

A man in front of me shouted, "Sorry?! You practically killed him!"

The raised voice stirred something deep within, something that didn't like being belittled or yelled at. I kept a firm hold of my temper since it had become far more explosive than it had ever been.

I could have given a dozen excuses—I'd just turned last night, it hadn't been intentional, I wished it hadn't happened—but I voiced none of them. I was guilty, and an insult shouldn't have resulted in death. The man's breathing came in ragged gasps, failing. Soon, he'd be gone. Never before had I wished so badly that there was an "undo" button in life.

The weapons remained pointed at me as if I were a monster. Perhaps I was.

Would a bullet be enough to stop a zombie like me? A zombie couldn't bleed to death, but a headshot would knock me out cold. I doubted I'd wake up, although my body would reanimate. I'd seen that on the news. Zombies could heal after having their heads blown half apart. The head needed to be completely severed from their body to kill them—or me.

Nina stepped between us, telling the man. "I'm terribly sorry. Daniel turned last night and is still figuring out the changes the virus caused. I'm technically at fault for escorting him down the hallway. We were on our way to the lab. Please send your commanding officer to me."

My eyes shifted to the scientist, quietly telling her, "Sorry, but you can't just brush this off. I might not have intended to harm him, but I believe this still falls under the definition of manslaughter."

I didn't want to be a murderer, but my antagonist had just stopped breathing. I'd never heard someone die in my presence before, and it was going to haunt me for many years to come, presuming I lived that long.

Nina didn't seem to know how to reply. Her gaze drifted between me and the men who'd just realized their comrade had stopped breathing. Tears glistened in her eyes as she finally understood how grave his injuries had been.

Apparently my words were enough for a different man, who said, "Take him to the lab and keep him there. Gregory, Ashton, go with them. Make sure nothing else happens. I'll report this to those in charge and send some soldiers to keep an eye on him. Don't forget that zombies are dangerous."

He looked between me and her with a frown. I wasn't about to argue. I fully agreed with him. I'd lost my temper for a split second with rather horrific results. Perhaps I truly was a Terror, albeit due to the destruction I left in my wake rather than a title to denote the type of zombie I was.

Nina nodded, and when the weapons lowered, we continued walking with two silent shadows trailing us. Nina was quiet for quite some time while I internally wrestled with the first death I was responsible for. Nothing in my security guard training had prepared me for this.

She finally broke the silence to quietly ask, "Was it the shove or the insult?"

"The combination." I was certain that if it had been either one, I would have caught myself in time.

She considered that. "I can circulate a zombie tips sheet and mention that they should avoid physical contact and verbally baiting a zombie."

"That might work as a temporary fix, but that's not a permanent solution." My training had covered this sort of thing. "Self-control around insults and rude behavior is clearly my current weakness, so I think I need to work on that in a controlled environment. Do you think someone is brave enough to help me with that?"

"I'm sure we can find someone." Nina made some notes.

It wasn't going to be easy, but I was determined to dedicate countless hours to getting a better handle on my temper. There was no way to make up for the loss of life, but perhaps I could help others against the feral hordes of zombies that had appeared across most of the states and were bound to show up here sooner or later.

Perhaps I could save lives instead of taking them.