The truck bounced along the dirt road, the rumble of the engine a constant thump against Kyle's knuckle-curling grip on the steering wheel. His eyes flicked in the rearview mirror, his eyes drinking in the strip of open road that he was leaving behind, although his thoughts were elsewhere.
His brain continued to revert back to the story he'd listened to on the radio. Growing virus crisis wasn't something Kyle wasn't yet prepared to learn about—at least not in his head at the moment. That it was being reported that mutation, confirmed deaths. it was more malevolent than they'd had up to that point.
"Still mobile," the report had stated, the meaning obscure. What did it signify, then? Individuals weren't just dying of the virus—they were going crazy, attacking people, wandering off, suffering from neurological overload. and all out of nowhere.
He glanced at the clock on the dashboard. The time was close. Gravel crunched under the wheels of the truck, the crunch hard and sustained. Fairview Containment was close now.
Patient 734. The first thing that had occurred to Kyle was the file that he'd read before he left. The patient was in quarantine, kept completely secret—no visitors, no outside stimulus. It was a risk case, one that they'd had on the down low. And it was becoming more urgent by the minute.
Kyle couldn't think of this one. He couldn't describe if it was the heavy transmission coming on ahead of time or something within, something tangible. But however, the wrench in his belly informed him that something was not right. And not with the virus. With everything.
The road went on and on as the truck had shaken over the road, the view shattering in a blur of dead trees and empty fields. The air grew cold, the fog blowing in heavy and low like a strangling blanket.
The radio crackled, shaking Kyle out of his trance. The radio voice was low, tight, close to strained.
.latest Fairview report. Escalation procedure in full effect. Patients are presenting with extreme neurological presentations—acute aggression, maximum confusion. A few have completely become unresponsive but remain physically active. Observing extreme viral mutations—this's no infection only anymore.
Kyle gripped the wheel. Alive, but unresponsive. A description that hurt him to say, though he couldn't force himself to acknowledge it. It brought back memories of the patients he'd treated early in the outbreak—men and women alive, but no longer human. He didn't want to consider it. Not yet. Not until he learned more.
His phone buzzed in his pocket. He didn't need to look to know who it was—his supervisor. He pressed the Bluetooth button on the truck's console.
"Yeah?"
"Kyle, listen up. You're heading to Fairview, right?"
"Yeah. Just about there."
"Good. We've got another situation developing. Escalation in the field is reaching critical levels. We're seeing the first confirmed deaths from this new strain. Some of them are still mobile, but they're showing. strange neurological activity. We're seeing erratic, unpredictable movements. Higher levels of aggression. This is no longer just about survival—this is something else. Something new."
"Great." Kyle's voice was dull, the weight of the news weighing him down. He wasn't surprised, but he didn't appreciate how fast things were happening. The virus had never been stable, but this? This was different.
"Beware," warned his chief. "Patient 734 is critical. We'd like you to check if the upgrade is the new strain. Put your people on full alert. We don't know what's happening, but things are way out of hand.".
Kyle took a tough breath, tapping fingers against the steering wheel. He had not been on the first response team for Patient 734, but as the danger grew from the new strain, he couldn't just stand around and do nothing. He had to know Fairview's containment measures were in place.
He glanced at the radio, which was still crackling with distant static. Another transmission came through, garbled at first, but then clear enough to catch:
"—Increased aggression reported. High risk of contamination. Patient 1D-734 exhibiting erratic movement, but still—still mobile. Prepare for additional containment measures on site. We're escalating the quarantine perimeter. No outside access—repeat, no access."
The words sent Kyle's spine crawling cold. This wasn't normal anymore. This was all getting more tenuous by the second. He could sense it in the air, the tension that nipped at the back of his neck. Whatever this new tension was, it was something they could no longer manage like they once did. This was terra nova.
The truck had rounded a bend, and he could see in the distance the outline of the huge Fairview Containment building. Guard towers and fencing rose up dark against the dying sky, their shadows extending out across meeting dirt roads. It was secluded, as if by design. Security was there, and admission required rituals more stringent than ever.
Kyle's heart pounded more swiftly. He needed to focus. He could not allow this doubt to creep into him and his choice. He had work to do.
He drove up to the gate, and the guard waved him through after a swift glance at his ID. The truck bounced through gates, and the plant stretched out before them in all its size—a massive complex of metal and concrete, fenced and guarded by gun-carrying men. Kyle had glimpsed the high-grade containments along the road earlier, each one reinforced and heavily guarded.
His stomach twisted into a knot of anticipation and fear. Whatever they were doing in there, Kyle had to know. He had no clue how much time they had before this virus—whatever was being worked on—killed more effectively than it already did.
He pulled the truck into a parking lot and got out, the chill smacking him in the face. A medic ran up to him, clipboard held aloft.
"Doctor Kyle," she said brusquely. "We're expecting you. We've raised the quarantine, but we still don't actually know how this mutation is going. The symptoms are unrecognizable to anything we've encountered."
Kyle's face was like stone, but he nodded. "Take me there."