Page 82 of Death Valley

“You’re not a damn zombie,” Eli says firmly as he changes the bandages. “You’re going to be fine.”

But the lies are becoming harder to believe.

Outside, the tapping at the window starts again, more insistent this time. Three quick raps, a pause, then three more. Almost like Morse code. A message trying to get through.

“I think he’s messing with us now,” Cole mutters, glancing nervously at the windows, the curtain keeping us from seeing what’s outside. “Trying to get in our heads.”

“Or trying to communicate,” I suggest, though the idea sends a chill down my spine. If Hank retained enough of himself to try to send a message, what else might he remember? What parts of his humanity might still be intact, trapped inside a monstrous shell?

If push came to shove, is there a way to reason with them?

Or would that be our final, fatal mistake?

Red’s breathing changes suddenly, growing faster, more shallow. His eyes, when they open, are unfocused, darting around the room as if tracking movement that isn’t there.

I rush over to him. “Something’s wrong,” I say, pressing my fingers to his neck to check his pulse. Racing, erratic. “His fever’s spiking.”

Before anyone can react, Red’s yelps “God save us all!” and his body goes rigid, back arching off the table in a violent seizure. His legs kick out, nearly catching Jensen in the chest. His arms flail, the wounded one striking the lantern and sending it crashing to the floor. Eli manages to catch it before the kerosene spills, but the hut is plunged into semi-darkness, the only light coming from the dying embers in the stove.

“Hold him down!” I order, grabbing for Red’s thrashing arms. “Don’t let him hurt himself!”

Jensen and Cole move quickly, pinning Red’s legs while Eli grabs his good arm. I manage to secure the wounded one, avoiding the bite area as best I can. Red’s strength is shocking, far beyond what a man in his condition should possess. It takes all four of us to keep him from convulsing right off the table.

The seizure seems to go on forever, though it’s probably only a minute or two. When it finally subsides, Red goes completely still, so abruptly, that for a moment I fear he’s died. I press my fingers to his neck again, feeling for a pulse.

There—weak but present.

“What the hell was that?” Cole demands.

“Seizure,” I say, though it didn’t look like any seizure I’ve seen before. “Probably from the fever. The wound, it’s infected and spreading.”

Eli retrieves the lantern and relights it, illuminating Red’s face in its golden glow. His skin has a waxy, gray pallor now, cheeks sunken as if he’s lost weight in the past hour. Dark veins stand out against his neck, tracing ominous patterns beneath the surface.

It’s happening fast.

Too fast.

One minute he was joking about being zombie chow and the next he looks nearly inhuman.

“Is he…” Jensen begins, then stops, as if unwilling to voice the question.

Before I can answer, Red’s eyes snap open.

I scream.

They’re blue.

Pale, searing, glacial blue.

“Everybody back!” Jensen orders, reaching for his rifle.

We’re barely clear of the table when Red moves—not the slow, pained movements of a severely injured man, but a sudden, violent lunge that takes him off the table and onto his feet in one fluid motion. The bandage on his arm begins to unravel, revealing the wound beneath.

It’s no longer bleeding. The ragged edges have begun to knit together, the blackened skin receding to reveal something smooth and pale beneath.

He’s healing.

No. Transforming.

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