Eli barely slept that night, again like all the other nights. Even inside the library, behind locked doors and dusty shelves, the sounds of the town's panic seeped through. Shouts echoed faintly from the streets, a discordant chorus of fear and confusion. Every broken window, every muffled scream, every sharp laugh from someone who was clearly losing control pressed against his nerves like a physical weight.
By dawn, he knew he had to move. He couldn't stay in one place forever. Supplies were limited—food, water, anything that could help him survive beyond the day. And more than that, he had to see the infection, document it, understand it. If it jumped to humans completely, the town was doomed.
He pulled on his jacket, slung his bag over his shoulder, and crept out the side door. The morning mist clung low to the streets, thick and gray, turning the familiar town into a place both dreamlike and threatening. The silence between screams felt almost deafening.
The first signs of human panic were evident within minutes. A man shouted at his neighbor over a fallen mailbox. The neighbor swung a fist. Both froze mid-action, twitching strangely, their movements jerky, uncoordinated. Eli's stomach churned as he observed them from a distance. Stage two aggression. Minor, but escalating.
He passed the corner market, its windows shattered, goods scattered across the pavement. A few survivors crouched behind overturned shelves, watching the street warily. Their eyes were wide, tense, darting constantly toward movement. One of them—a man in his fifties—stirred too suddenly and muttered, "It's… it's coming for us." He clutched a baseball bat and shook, unsure if the words were warning or self-reassurance.
Eli moved cautiously, keeping a low profile. He had to get closer to see what was happening, to document the progression from mild aggression to full-blown infection.
Then it happened.
From an alleyway off the main street, a scream tore through the morning air. It was short, sharp, and guttural, the kind that pierced the ears and left the stomach tightening in fear. Eli spun toward the noise, camera ready.
A man—a younger man, maybe mid-twenties—was on the ground, struggling. Another figure loomed over him, hands wrapped around his shoulders. But it wasn't a simple fight. The attacker's movements were jerky, unnatural. The victim tried to push away, but his hands were caught, his arms pinned. And then the first teeth sank in.
The bite was brutal, swift, deliberate. Flesh tore, a scream cut off halfway through as the man on the ground stiffened. His eyes went wide, pupils dilated. And then he twitched.
Eli's heart stopped. He raised his camera, hands shaking, snapping photos. The attacker—pale, gaunt, eyes bright yellow—released his victim and stepped back. He hissed softly, a sound so wrong for a human voice that Eli's stomach turned. The man on the ground writhed, jerking in spasms that were unnatural and violent. His fingers clawed at the pavement, nails scraping loudly, and his body twisted at angles that made Eli's skin crawl.
"Holy—God…" Eli muttered, stepping closer, though he kept distance. He tried to make sense of it. The victim—the bitten man—was moving differently, twitching like the birds, jerking like Marley had.
The attacker's yellow eyes caught his, sharp and predatory, and Eli froze. Not yet focused on him, but aware. Watching. Assessing.
The victim's moans were low and guttural now, more animal than human. He tried to sit up, but the body didn't obey commands. Jerks, spasms, unnatural movements. Then he fell to all fours, dragging himself toward the alley's edge, hands scraping the concrete, eyes still human but distorted with confusion and panic.
Eli's stomach twisted. The bite. That was it. Transmission. It wasn't airborne—at least, not initially. But the contact—the bite—was enough. Enough to turn one person into something else.
The attacker, the one who had bitten him, moved toward Eli now, slow, deliberate, almost like he was testing him. Yellow eyes glinted in the morning light. Eli took a careful step back, keeping his camera raised. Document. Observe. Survive.
He had to think fast. If this was the first human bite, there would be more soon. And if the bitten man transformed fully, he could attack others in turn. Panic, aggression, fear—all compounding the biological threat.
Eli scanned the surrounding streets. A few townsfolk watched from windows, eyes wide, breath caught. No one came to help. Fear had paralyzed them. And that was exactly what he needed to avoid—attention. If either the attacker or the bitten victim noticed more witnesses, chaos would erupt.
He turned back to the victim. The man's limbs jerked violently, back arching, body twisting in ways that made Eli step back in horror. A moan escaped his throat, low and guttural, and he rose partially to his knees. Then, suddenly, he lunged—jerky, uncontrolled, but fast enough to cover a few feet in seconds.
Eli ducked instinctively behind a dumpster. The man crashed into the alley wall, claws—or hands, distorted—scraping against brick. The yellow-eyed attacker followed, sniffing the air, then retreated slightly, eyes scanning.
Eli exhaled slowly, trying to calm his racing heart. He had witnessed it. The first human infection. The first bite. And the transformation, however early, was terrifying. The victim wasn't fully gone yet—still recognizably human—but the twitching, the jerky movements, the guttural noises—they were undeniable signs of mutation.
He backed away carefully, camera snapping as he moved. Each shot captured the horrific progression: the yellowing of the eyes, the unnatural spasms, the first signs of predatory awareness. This wasn't just sickness. This was corruption. The bite transmitted more than disease—it transmitted aggression, intelligence, and an instinct to hunt.
From a distance, Eli could hear the chaos escalating. Screams, shouts, and strange guttural noises rippled through the streets. The infected man lurched again, attacking a nearby trash can, ripping it open, then sniffing at the contents with an almost calculating awareness.
Eli's stomach churned. The town was slipping. What had begun as whispers, minor aggression, and superstition was now a tangible, visible threat. Humans weren't just afraid—they were becoming the threat themselves.
He ducked behind a corner, pulling the knife from his belt. His hands shook, but determination surged. He needed to survive. Document. Understand. And maybe, just maybe, find a way to stop this before it spread further.
The bitten man's moans grew louder, his jerky movements more coordinated. Something had clicked inside him—the animal instinct was overtaking human thought. And across the street, the yellow-eyed attacker watched him, unnervingly still, as if aware of Eli's presence and considering him a future target.
Eli took a deep breath. He couldn't stay here. He had to move—toward the outskirts, toward safety, toward the forest where he had first noticed the spark. He needed to study the source. He needed to survive.
As he backed away, snapping pictures along the way, he realized something terrifying: the infection didn't need to kill humans to spread. It only needed one bite, one contact, one moment of weakness. And then the cycle began again.
The first bite had been taken.
And the world would never be the same.