September 23, 1998 – 4:30 AM, Eddie's Private Laboratory
The awakening was no dawn, but an emergence from a sea of black ice. The gas-induced sleep had been no rest. It had been a nightmare of cellular reconstruction, bones grinding, muscles tearing and reweaving into a denser, stronger pattern. The serum coursed in him, a cold fire remolding his biology from the inside. Pain had been constant, white noise beneath unconsciousness.
Sssshhh-click.
The hiss of the containment chamber depressurizing was the first sound of the real world. A wave of icy air struck his bare skin, wracking him with violent shivers. His muscles spasmed, a sharp agony dragging a hoarse groan from his throat.
Footsteps followed. Slow. Cautious. Each one a metallic echo on the floor. He forced his eyes open. Lids heavy as lead plates. Vision blurred—white light, and a dark silhouette framed against it. The silhouette held something. Metal glint. A gun.
"Cai. Report."
Annette's voice was taut, professional. Not a friend's question. A scientist's order.
Eddie tried to speak. Only a dry rasp escaped. He swallowed, throat raw. Tried again, each word torn from him. "Annette… It works."
Silence. Then footsteps nearer. The barrel of the Browning leveled at his forehead.
"Your vitals are stable," she said, eyes flicking between him and the datapad in her hand. "But your body temperature dropped two degrees. And your metabolism is astronomical."
"I'm… hungry," he managed. Not hunger. A void. A black hole ripping open in his gut, threatening to devour him from within. A primal need for fuel.
Annette hesitated. Then lowered the gun. "Wait here."
Her steps retreated, sharper now. Eddie remained on his knees, trembling, every muscle screaming for energy he didn't have. Hollowed out. Carved clean.
Minutes later she returned. Not with lab rations. With a greasy paper bag. Fast food. The smell of grilled meat and fat struck his senses like a drug. His stomach twisted in agony. She offered the bag.
His hands shook as he tore it open. Two burgers. A large serving of fries. He didn't waste time. The first burger vanished in three bites. Barely chewed. Taste didn't matter—only the flood of calories. He ripped through the second, cramming handfuls of fries between gulps, washing it all down with soda drained in one long pull.
In less than five minutes, it was gone.
Annette stared. Wide-eyed. Not disgusted. Fascinated.
"Incredible," she murmured.
Eddie slumped against the wall, breathing hard. The trembling eased. The void inside dulled, but lingered like an echo. He still felt weak, as though post-surgery. Yet beneath that weakness surged something new. A subterranean current of strength he had never known.
"I want… more," he said, voice still hoarse but firmer.
He rose unsteadily. Legs shaky, like a newborn deer's. Annette stepped forward to steady him.
"Thanks," he said, brushing her hand aside. "I'm… better." He took one step. Then another. The wobble fading, replaced by solidity. A thin smile pulled at his lips. "Thank you for the help, Annette. Now I'm going shopping."
She nodded, watching as he moved down the corridor. No sign of zombification. No obvious side effects, save for monstrous hunger. Relief touched her.
But when his figure vanished around the corner, a colder thought coiled in her mind. She was no longer worried for him. She was worried of him. And of what Spencer would do when he discovered she had helped forge something beyond his control. Something new. Something dangerous.
Her gaze fell to the pistol left on the console. Her choice was made. There was no turning back now.