Chapter 2: The First Contact

Derrick’s charge was fast, his arms swinging wild. Marcus saw the glazed fury in those eyes and knew there was no talking through it. He dropped his shoulder, braced for impact.

They collided hard. Marcus’s breath left in a grunt as Derrick’s momentum drove him backward. He wrapped his arms around Derrick’s torso, trying to pin his arms. Derrick thrashed, growling, spittle flying. His head snapped forward and cracked against Marcus’s cheekbone.

Pain exploded behind Marcus’s eye. He staggered but didn’t let go. “Derrick! It’s me!” He felt Derrick’s heart hammering through his ribs, a wild, frantic beat.

Derrick’s fists pounded Marcus’s back. Each blow was heavy, uncoordinated, but they hurt. Marcus tasted blood. He squeezed tighter, hoping restraint would break through the fog.

“Marcus!” Maya’s voice cut through the chaos. She was running toward them, her sketchbook clutched to her chest. “Marcus, look out!”

Marcus turned his head. A man in a torn shirt was shambling down the street toward them, his hands curled into claws. Behind him, a woman was crawling over a broken car hood, her nails scraping metal.

The attacks were spreading.

Derrick wrenched free, stumbling backward. His chest heaved, but the wildness in his eyes flickered. “Marcus…” he whispered, his voice cracked. Then his face twisted again, and he turned and sprinted down the side street toward the old industrial district.

Marcus wanted to chase him, but his legs wouldn’t move. He stood there, gasping, wiping blood from his lip. Maya reached him, her hand shaking as she touched his arm.

“You’re bleeding.”

“I’m fine.” He wasn’t. His whole body ached. But Derrick was gone, and the street was unraveling. A car screeched to a halt a block away, the driver stumbling out with the same dead eyes. Another woman was screaming from a second-story window, begging for help.

“We need to get off the street,” Maya said, pulling his sleeve. “This is everywhere. We need to find shelter.”

Marcus nodded. His phone buzzed. He pulled it out—his mom, calling for the third time. He couldn’t answer now. He couldn’t tell her what was happening. He shoved it back in his pocket.

A door opened across the street. Not a frantic slam, but a steady click, like someone expecting visitors. A man stepped out onto the porch of a two-story brick house, the kind that looked like it had been there for a century. He was in his late thirties maybe, with wire-rimmed glasses and a lab coat that seemed out of place for a Saturday afternoon. His hair was disheveled, his face pale. He looked at the chaos on Maple Street not with shock, but with grim recognition.

He locked eyes with Marcus.

“You’re immune,” he said. It wasn’t a question.

Marcus froze. “What?”

“The drug. It’s in the air now, in powder form. But you’re not affected.” The man stepped down from the porch, hands in his pockets. “I’ve been watching. You tackled him, you got hit. You should be on the ground, clawing at your own skin. But you’re standing.”

Maya stepped in front of Marcus. “Who are you?”

“Dr. Aris Thorne.” He stopped a few feet away, keeping his hands visible. “I used to work at a research facility outside St. Louis. I know this drug. I helped create it.”

The words hit Marcus like a punch. “You made Bliss?”

“Not the street version.” Thorne’s voice was tight. “This was supposed to be a medical compound. A neural inhibitor for trauma patients. Someone stole the formula, tweaked it, weaponized it. I’ve been tracking this for months. I came here because I traced it to a manufacturing site near your town.”

Marcus’s mind raced. “So you know what’s in it? You know a cure?”

Thorne nodded slowly. “I have an idea. But I need samples. Blood, tissue, the pure compound. I’ve been working in a makeshift lab in my basement. But I can’t do it alone.”

Another scream tore through the air, closer this time. A group of three people stumbled around the corner, their eyes vacant, their steps jerky. They turned toward the three of them.

“Inside,” Thorne said, not waiting for an answer. He turned and jogged back to the house. “Now.”

Marcus looked at Maya. She was pale, her knuckles white around her sketchbook. But she nodded.

They ran up the porch steps. Thorne held the door open, scanning the street. The group was advancing, but it was slow, unorganized. They slipped inside, and Thorne locked the door.

The house was dim, cluttered with books and papers. A faint chemical smell hung in the air. Thorne led them to the basement, where a long table was covered in vials and notebooks. A laptop glowed with complicated schematics.

“This is my lab,” Thorne said. “I’ve been tracking the outbreak’s spread. It’s not random. Someone is releasing it in waves, targeting public spaces. The town square, the high school, the diner. They’re trying to overwhelm the emergency services.”

Marcus looked at the map on the laptop. Red dots clustered around the town’s center. “Who?”

“I don’t know the name. But they have connections. They knew how to synthesize the compound quickly. And they knew where to hit.” Thorne hesitated. “I also think they’re watching. Someone knows I’m here.”

The basement felt smaller suddenly. Outside, a distant crash—glass breaking, metal twisting. The chaos was spreading.

“We need to find Derrick,” Marcus said. “He was my friend. He took the drug. If there’s a way to reverse it, we need to try.”

Thorne’s jaw tightened. “There’s a chance. But I need you to help me first. There’s a storage facility on the edge of town where I stashed some equipment. If I can get it, I can refine the counteragent. But it’s dangerous. The people behind this know about that site.”

Maya stepped forward. “We’ll go with you. Marcus and I.”

Marcus met her eyes. Fear there, but also something else—determination. He reached out and squeezed her hand.

“Then let’s move,” Thorne said. He grabbed a bag and began packing vials. “We have maybe three hours before the drug reaches full saturation in the town’s air supply. After that, no one will be left unaffected.”

Marcus’s blood went cold. “Everyone?”

“Everyone who breathes. Except you, apparently. And me—I’ve been immunized with an early prototype.” Thorne zipped the bag. “But this isn’t just about a cure anymore. It’s about finding whoever did this and stopping them before they release the next phase.”

He handed Marcus a flashlight. “Stay close. And if you see anyone with bloodshot eyes, don’t hesitate. They won’t know who you are.”

The doorbell rang.

They all froze. The sound was clear, deliberate—not a frantic pounding, but a polite one.

Thorne’s face went pale. “They found me.”

Marcus gripped the flashlight, his heart pounding. “Who?”

But Thorne didn’t answer. He was already moving toward the stairs, a strange calm settling over him. “Stay here. No matter what you hear.”

He climbed the stairs. The doorbell rang again, insistent.

Marcus looked at Maya. She shook her head, eyes wide. But he couldn’t just stay. He followed, keeping to the shadows at the top of the stairs.

Thorne reached the front door, peered through the peephole, then unlocked it and pulled it open.

Standing on the porch was Derrick.

But he wasn’t violent anymore. His eyes were clear. He was breathing hard, covered in sweat and dirt, and he was holding a white envelope in his hands.

“I’m sorry,” Derrick said, his voice breaking. “I didn’t know what I was doing. But I know who’s behind it now. And I can help.”