The truck rumbled to Edward's house down a ghost town of wide streets and dead lawns. Porch lights still lit some houses—timers, maybe—but the sidewalks were deserted. No one was in sight, no noises except the steady hum of the truck engine.
Kyle kept staring at the dashboard screen. Internal CDC traffic was rising, but encrypted. Noise inside firewalls. Alerts, but no answers.
When he pulled up in front of Edward's house, he noticed the same things he noticed every day—but today, they scraped. The boards nailed against the windows weren't new. The trash cans hadn't been disturbed in days. And there was the faint, overwhelming aroma of industrial-strength disinfectant, mixed with the acrid remainder of metal. Blood, maybe. Or charred-out copper wire from a dead outlet.
Edward answered the door looking like he hadn't slept. Pale, sunken-eyed, too thin across the jaw.
"You sure you're up for this?" Kyle asked as he stepped in.
Edward shrugged. "Might as well."
The interior was surgical. Kitchen scrubbed to matte dullness, floor bleach-stained, no sign of dust. The only clutter was the tightly wound bandage across Edward's left shoulder—a tensioned wrap, tied with practice, not clumsiness.
Kyle set the portable diagnostic unit on the dining table and opened it with a soft click. It was a Mark IV Compact BioScan—CDC issue, rugged case, real-time analysis of blood, saliva, sweat, and dermal conductivity. Not perfect, but the best they had out here.
"I'm going to run a full panel," Kyle said, keeping his tone casual. "Viral load, cytokine markers, EEG response. It'll take about fifteen minutes. Just sit still, and don't talk until the neuro loop's done."
Edward nodded.
Kyle began with a standard buccal swab, inserting the slender probe into Edward's mouth, sweeping the interior of the cheek carefully. He closed it to the test cartridge, fed it into the scanner bottom, and waited for the system to come online.
Then he attached the cognitive headband—a mesh of sensors molded into an arc meant to catch surface EEG patterns, looking for desynchronization, impulse distortion, or slowed theta-wave burn of early neurological infections.
The unit beeped.
"Clean baseline," Kyle said. "But let's double-check."
He poked Edward's finger—just a pin-drop—and smeared it on a microfilm. That went into the hematological panel, which flared blue as it scanned.
The monitor cycled through:
Viral RNA: Negative
IL-6 spike: Stable
Nerve conductivity: Normal variance
Blood glucose: Low-normal
Limbic feedback latency: Within tolerance
All of it pristine. Far too sterilized. No barely perceptible uptick in the white cell counts. No stress hormones released. No body-level inflammation.
"Positive you haven't taken any inhibitors?" Kyle asked.
Edward's forehead curled. "What would I take?"
"Fair." Kyle hadn't pushed. But something in the results bothered him. The body always left a signature. Even in suppressed carriers, there were immune markers, antigen scars, residual anomalies in cytokine ratios. But here? Nothing. As if Edward's body wasn't just unaffected—it had been untouched.
Kyle repeated the saliva antigen panel.
Still negative.
"I don't like this," Kyle complained, scrubbing a palm against the side of his head. "You were exposed. You should have something."
Edward did not move, his shoulder shaking slightly under the bandage. "So I'm fine."
"No. You're too fine," Kyle snapped, his gaze hardening. "This isn't a clean bill of health. This is a blank report card."
The BioScan beeped once more—this time from the EEG headband. Final results.
Prefrontal asymmetry: Nominal
Alpha wave activity: Within normal limits
Amygdala resonance: Trace anomaly – irrelevant
Notes: No deviation from healthy cognitive norm.
Kyle sat there reading the note.
Trace anomaly.
He prodded the entry. Slowing-spiking anomaly. Deep limbic—emotive patterning—barely within range of awareness. He'd known this kind of warping once. With Sam. Before she turned.
But Edward was on his feet. Wide-eyed. Verbally responsive.
The machine was reading a specter, and Kyle knew that.
He started to disassemble the equipment slowly.
"If anything occurs," he said, "I want you to call me. Even if it's a dream. A headache. Anything."
Edward nodded once, but Kyle noticed the glance toward the hallway—brief, involuntary. The kind of thing you did when something was hiding in the shadows.
Kyle moved away without shoving. The wind had picked up a bit outside. Warm air in waves, dust along the empty road.
He climbed into the truck. The moment he turned the key, the radio came on—one of the CDC emergency channels, scrambled but readable:
"—status downgrade at Fairview Containment. Patient ID 734.
Flatlined at 07:41.
Non-responsive. EEG negative.
Reanimated motion at 08:03.
Pupils fixed.
Limb movement autonomic.
Brain stem not engaged.
Still mobile."
Kyle's hand frozen on the dial.
"Body temp below threshold. No verbal output. Attempted physical restraint unsuccessful.".
Risk of transmission not determined. Incident elevated to Biohazard Level 2. Standing by.
Kyle peered out into the windshield.
The highway in front of them remained the same.
But he felt something turning beneath it. As if the air was waiting. As if the data were deceiving.
No fever.
No viral load.
But something within Edward was concealing itself—and it wasn't done.
Would you rather follow along from Edward's point of view next—perhaps watch how the test impacts him or his relationship with the virus' shape—or follow Kyle as he begins to track these strange reanimation cases?
You said:
abandon the line of reanimation procedure and just put "still mobile" before the report concludes in a hurry, followed by follow up calls - escalation of on site containment of patient 1d 734
Of course — below is the revised chapter with the adjustments you specified. The mention of "reanimation" has been removed, and the radio broadcast simply fades away after announcing that the subject is still on the move, followed by incoming follow-up calls and containment operations getting amped up.
CHAPTER [X]: Residuals
Kyle
The way to Edward's house wound through a ghost town of wide streets and withered grass. There were porch lights still aglow—timers, maybe—but no one strolled along the sidewalks. No other noises beyond the constant hum of the truck engine.
Kyle was regularly scanning the dashboard display. Internal CDC traffic was high, but encrypted. Chatter behind firewalls. Alarms, not intel.
When he pulled up to Edward's house, he noticed the same sights he noticed every day—but today, they were scratching. The boards on the windows weren't new. The garbage cans hadn't been touched in days. And that subtle, heavy smell of industrial-strength disinfectant, mixed with the bitter taste of metal. Blood, maybe. Or copper wiring burning from an old outlet.
Edward opened the door looking like he hadn't slept. Pale, hollow-eyed, too thin down the jaw.
"You okay with this?" Kyle asked, entering.
Edward shrugged. "Might as well."
The interior was sterile. Kitchen cleaned to dull matte, floor bleached, no hint of dust. The only mess was the tightly wrapped bandage on Edward's left shoulder—a tight wrap, wrapped with care, not clumsiness.
Kyle set the portable diagnosis unit on the dining table and opened it quietly. It was a Mark IV Compact BioScan—CDC issue, ruggedized design, real-time blood, saliva, sweat, and dermal conductivity analysis. Not the best, but the best they had out here.
"I'm going to run a full panel," Kyle said, keeping his tone casual. "Viral load, cytokine markers, EEG response. It'll take about fifteen minutes. Just sit still, and don't talk until the neuro loop's done."
Edward nodded.
Kyle began with a standard buccal swab, inserting the slender probe into Edward's mouth, gently sweeping against the inside of the cheek. He snapped it shut on the test cartridge, shoved it into the bottom of the scanner, and waited for the machine to power up.
Then he fastened on the cognitive headband—a mesh band of sensors designed to pick up surface EEG patterns, looking for desynchronization, impulse distortion, or the slowed theta-wave burn characteristic of initial neurological infections.
The unit beeped.
"Baseline is clean," Kyle reported. "But let's double-check."
He pricked Edward's finger—just a pin-drop—and smushed it onto a microfilm. That was inserted into the hematological panel, which glowed blue as it scanned.
The monitor cycled through
Viral RNA: Negative
IL-6 spike: Stable
Nerve conductivity: Normal variance
Blood glucose: Low-normal
Limbic feedback latency: Within tolerance
It was all spotless. Too spotless. Not even a whisper above white cell count. No stress hormones. No systemic inflammation.
"You positive you haven't taken any inhibitors?" Kyle asked.
Edward raised an eyebrow. "What would I even take?"
"Fair." Kyle didn't force. But something in the tests annoyed him. The body always left a trace. Even on carriers whose immune systems were subdued, there were markers, antigen scars, residual differences in cytokine ratios. But here? Nothing. As if Edward's body wasn't just not affected—it had been untouched.
Kyle re-ran the saliva antigen panel.
Still negative.
"I don't like this," Kyle complained, running a palm over the side of his head. "You were exposed. You should have something."
Edward sat quietly, his shoulder shaking a little under the bandage. "So I'm fine."
"No. You're too fine," Kyle told him, his eyes narrowing. "This isn't a clean bill of health. This is a blank report card."
The BioScan beeped again—this time from the EEG headband. Final results.
Prefrontal asymmetry: Nominal
Alpha wave activity: Normal
Amygdala resonance: Trace anomaly – not significant
Notes: No deviation from healthy cognitive baseline.
Kyle looked at the note.
Trace anomaly.
He tapped the entry. A slow-spiking irregularity. Deep limbic—emotive patterning—barely detectable. He'd encountered this kind of distortion before. In Sam. Just before she turned.
But Edward was sitting up. Clear-eyed. Verbally coherent.
The machine was reading a ghost, and Kyle knew it.
He started to pack the equipment away, slowly.
If anything occurs," he said to her, "I want you to call me. Even if it's a dream. A headache. Anything."
Edward nodded, his eyes drifting toward the darkened hallway behind him, for only a moment.
Kyle remained silent. He just went out into the cooling twilight, the smell of ozone and rot lingering lightly on the breeze.
He climbed into the truck and turned the key.
The dashboard lit up.
Then the radio interrupted, still on CDC emergency bandwidth. Voice alone. Grueling, staccato. The close of a high-priority transmission.
"Fairview Containment — escalation continuing. Patient ID 734.
Flatlined at 07:41. No cortical response.
Still mobile."
Pause.
Then static—interrupted in the middle of the transmission.
Kyle's eyes opened violently, lips splitting.
Before he could reach for the dial, his phone vibrated—twice. Two separate alarms.
CDC REDLINE:
"Containment breach in Zone 4. Patient 734 contained.
EEG confirmed zero cortical activity.
Motor function continuing.".
Site raised to Biohazard Protocol B.
Wait for further instruction.
He stared at the words.
No EEG.
No brain activity.
Still moving.
And no one knew why.