A dog stood about fifteen feet away in what appeared to be a recreation room, positioned near overturned furniture and scattered debris. It was staring directly at us with an intensity that was immediately recognizable as strange focus rather than normal canine curiosity.
Not a fucking dog again…
And it was clearly infected—the signs were obvious once you knew what to look for. Eyes that had gone milky-white with viral corruption, patches of fur missing to reveal grey-mottled skin beneath, posture that was wrong in subtle ways that made it look more like a hunting predator than a domesticated animal.
My last memory involving an infected dog wasn't remotely pleasant—they were fast, agile, and possessed pack-hunting instincts that made them exponentially more dangerous than their size suggested. An infected dog could easily tear out someone's throat or hamstring them before they could react, unlike shambling infected humans whose attacks were relatively slow and predictable.
