Oliver's Descent

Oliver’s breathing was shallow, a ragged whisper against the sterile quiet of the makeshift infirmary. His skin, once flushed with the shock of whatever had befallen him and Zach, now held a pallor that was almost translucent, as if the very light of the room was being leached from him. Zach, still weak but undeniably recovering, watched from his cot, his eyes wide with a fear that had nothing to do with the lingering threat of the first wave. This was different. This was *wrong*.

Lena knelt beside Oliver, her brow furrowed in concentration. She’d cleaned his wounds, administered what little medicine they had, but his decline was a steady, inexorable slide. It wasn’t the feverish delirium of infection, nor the exhaustion of trauma. It was a slow draining, a gradual fading that sent a chill deeper than any physical cold. She placed a hand on his forehead; it felt clammy, but also strangely cool, as if his body’s internal furnace had been extinguished.

“He’s getting worse, Zach,” Lena said, her voice low, her gaze fixed on Oliver’s slack face. “It’s like… like something is feeding on him.”