Eli didn't sleep that night. Not really. Even after collapsing into his bed, he lay rigid, staring at the ceiling, listening. Every creak of the floorboards sounded sharper than usual, every wind gust outside the window felt like a footstep approaching. Marley's absence haunted him. The dog—his dog—was no longer his dog. That alone made sleep impossible.
He tried to rationalize it. "Maybe it's isolated," he whispered to himself. "Maybe it's just birds… maybe Marley was just a one-off." But rationalization felt hollow. The twitching sparrows, the yellow eyes, Marley's intelligence—it wasn't normal. Not even close.
By dawn, he couldn't stay inside any longer. The streets were too quiet. The mist clung to the town like a damp blanket, softening edges and shadows, making familiar houses look strange, unfamiliar. Eli kept his camera bag slung over his shoulder, the knife strapped to his belt, and walked slowly toward the town center.
Something felt… off.
He passed the corner bakery, and the smell of fresh bread normally wafted out onto the street. Today, nothing. No aroma, no sign of life. A few doors down, Mrs. Keller, the retired schoolteacher, sat on her porch. She was muttering under her breath, her movements jerky and irregular. Her hands clutched a cup of tea, but it sloshed over the rim with every tremor.
"Mrs. Keller?" Eli called cautiously, approaching.
She looked up, eyes wide, the usual warmth replaced with a strange intensity. "You shouldn't be here," she said. Her voice quivered, almost trembling, but there was a sharp edge beneath it—a snap of hostility he hadn't heard before.
"Is everything okay?" he asked.
She flinched at the question, then lunged at him, hands flailing. Eli jumped back, startled. "Mrs. Keller! Wait—"
She froze mid-motion, eyes darting around as though seeing something he couldn't. Then she muttered a single word, almost like a hiss, and stumbled inside her house, slamming the door.
Eli's heart pounded. That wasn't just odd behavior—it was aggression, sudden and unprovoked. He scribbled notes in his mental journal. He had read about the early stages of rabies, about delirium and irritability. But this felt different. This wasn't just sickness—it was something else, something infectious.
He moved on, stepping carefully over broken flowerpots and stray newspapers. A few blocks away, he saw more signs. Mr. Hanley, the butcher, was leaning against his shop window, pale and sweating. His hands shook violently as he fumbled with a knife, not carving meat, but stabbing at the air in repeated, frantic motions.
"Mr. Hanley, are you—" Eli began.
The butcher snapped his head up, eyes wide and glassy. He grunted, then swung the knife toward Eli. The movement was awkward, jerky, but forceful enough to make Eli leap back. Mr. Hanley froze, then slumped to the ground, muttering incoherently, his chest heaving.
Eli's stomach turned. This wasn't just one person. Something was spreading. Something that started small, subtle, and could escalate at any moment.
He ducked into an alley to regroup, leaning against a brick wall and catching his breath. His mind raced. The birds, Marley, now townsfolk. It was following a pattern. First, minor aggression, then full-on predatory behavior. And if it could reach humans as easily as animals… there was no stopping it.
He needed information. Evidence. He couldn't just guess what was happening—he had to see it firsthand. And if this spread, the town wouldn't stand a chance.
As he rounded the corner toward the small park near the river, he saw a group of children playing. At first glance, it seemed normal. But then, one of the boys tripped another, not playfully, but with deliberate force, laughing as the other cried out in pain. The girl standing nearby kicked sand at her friend, her movements twitchy, almost exaggerated.
Eli's stomach churned. Even the children weren't immune.
He approached cautiously, trying not to alarm them. "Hey—hey, are you guys hurt?"
They turned toward him simultaneously, eyes wide, teeth clenched. Their laughter cut off instantly, replaced with something eerie. The boy who had tripped the other clenched his fists, knuckles white. "Stay away," he hissed, voice sharp and unmodulated.
Eli stepped back. This was minor aggression—small, early-stage—but coordinated enough to terrify. He scribbled notes mentally: irritability, sudden hostility, erratic movements. Could it be contagious in air, or only through contact? He didn't know. And the fear of the unknown clawed at him.
He left the children, moving toward the riverbank, hoping to find signs of the infection spreading in wildlife again. The river was usually alive with ducks and geese at this hour. Today, it was eerily still. Not a single bird floated on the water's surface. Fish leapt out in random, jerky motions, thrashing before sinking lifelessly beneath the surface.
Eli knelt beside the river, running his fingers over the water, and his heart skipped a beat. A small otter floated past, limbs twisted at odd angles, eyes wide and unblinking. He stumbled back, gagging slightly. First birds, now dogs, now people, now river creatures. Whatever this was, it didn't care about species.
He needed to warn someone. But who? The police? They'd never believe him. Local authorities dismissed wildlife deaths as natural occurrences, or parasites, or pollution. And if he went to the media… well, without hard evidence, it sounded insane.
He took out his camera, snapping pictures of the otter, the children, Mr. Hanley's house as he passed. Every image felt heavier than the last. The world was changing, slowly, invisibly, and the signs were there for anyone perceptive enough to notice.
As he walked back toward the main street, Eli noticed a small crowd gathered near the town square. Curiosity pushed him forward. There, he saw Mrs. Thompson, the baker, shouting at a man who had tripped in front of her shop. The argument escalated quickly; the man shoved her, then recoiled as her hand shot out like a striking animal, leaving a welt on his chest. Both of them were breathing hard, faces flushed with rage. Eli's stomach dropped.
Minor aggression, yes—but growing. Multiplying. He realized the infection didn't need to kill immediately. It only needed to change behavior, incite violence, erode civility, and the chaos would spread faster than any virus.
He pulled his coat tighter around him. He had to move. He had to see more, document more, survive.
But then a sharp cry made him freeze. It was Mrs. Keller again. She had stepped into the street, shaking, and suddenly lunged at a stray cat. Not playfully—her hands snapped at it, claws grazing fur, teeth bared in a grimace. The cat hissed and bolted, and she fell to her knees, muttering incoherently.
Eli's heart sank. What had started as subtle changes—twitching, irritability, minor hostility—was escalating. It didn't just affect those predisposed to violence; it reached the innocent, the kind, the familiar.
He backed away slowly, trying not to startle anyone else, and stumbled into an empty alley. He pressed his back to the wall, breathing hard. His mind raced. Birds, Marley, the river, the townsfolk…
He wasn't imagining it. This wasn't isolated.
And worst of all, it wasn't stopping.
He needed a plan. He needed to understand. He needed to survive.
Because the spark he had seen in the forest—the twitching, the yellow eyes, the predatory awareness—had now ignited in humans.
And if the infection continued to spread… the town, and everyone in it, would be gone before anyone even realized what was happening.
Eli's hands shook as he checked his camera again. Every photo he took now felt like evidence of a coming apocalypse, a visual record of humanity unraveling. He knew, in that moment, that nothing would ever be the same again.
The fever had begun.