The Crimson Strain

New York City – Two Weeks After the Outbreak

The city was a graveyard.

Not just dead—ripped apart.

Cole Ryder moved through the ruins, his Glock steady in his grip, his breath slow and

measured. The air was thick with the stench of decay, charred metal, and old blood, the kind

of smell that clung to your skin, your clothes, your mind. He didn’t flinch anymore. The scent of

death had become as familiar as the weight of the gun in his hand.

The world had ended fast. Too fast.

One minute, the news was talking about a new super-virus sweeping through hospitals. The

next, the city was drowning in blood and screams. Governments collapsed. Quarantines failed.

People fled, only to die in the streets.

Or worse—they changed.

Cole had seen it happen. Too many times. Too close.

Now, only the smart survived.

He weaved through a silent battlefield of abandoned cars, glass crunching under his boots.

Storefronts were shattered; their shelves ransacked. Somewhere in the distance, a metal sign

creaked, swaying in the wind. Every sound felt too loud.

Cole adjusted the strap of his pack and kept moving. One goal. One direction.

North.

There were rumors of a safe zone in Chicago, the last place with any kind of organization left.

He didn’t believe in salvation—not anymore—but he needed a plan, a direction. And moving

meant staying alive.

Then he heard it.

A sound too soft for a monster.

A whimper.

Cole stopped.

The noise came from a narrow alleyway between a wrecked pharmacy and an overturned taxi.

He turned his head, ears sharp.

Another soft sniffle. A child.

His stomach clenched.

He moved toward the alley, careful, slow. His Glock raised, just in case.

And there she was.

A little girl—no older than seven—curled beside a dumpster. Blonde curls tangled, face

streaked with dirt and dried tears. Her pink hoodie was dark with stains, but she was alive.

Cole scanned the alley. No movement. No bodies.

How the hell had she survived alone?

His instincts told him to move on. He didn’t save people anymore.

But his gut twisted at the sight of her.

He holstered his gun and crouched. “Hey, kid.” His voice was low, careful. “It’s okay. I won’t

hurt you.”

She flinched, pulling her knees to her chest.

Cole sighed. Of course, she was scared—anyone who wasn’t a monster was either a killer or

dead.

He reached into his pack, pulling out a water bottle. He cracked the seal, so she’d know it

wasn’t poisoned and placed it on the ground, sliding it toward her.

Her small hands trembled as she grabbed it. She took a shaky sip, her wide blue eyes never

leaving him.

"You're alone?" Cole asked.

She nodded. Then, barely above a whisper, “They’re coming"

A chill raced down his spine.

"Who?"

She lifted a small, shaking finger.

Cole followed her gaze behind him—

A wet, guttural clicking.

His blood ran cold.

A shadow moved at the alley’s entrance.

It had once been a man. Now, it was a twisted thing, hunched and twitching, its limbs were

too

long, too jagged. Its veins pulsed dark crimson, like something alive was moving beneath

the skin.

Its head jerked toward him.

It could smell him.

Cole moved fast, pulling his gun—

The girl whimpered again.

And then—something cracked.

Not the monster. The girl.

Cole snapped his head back just in time to see her small fingers curling into claws, her tiny

shoulders jerking with unnatural spasms.

Her breath hitched. Her spine twisted.

Her eyes flooded red.

No.

She screamed—a sound that didn’t belong in a child’s throat. High-pitched, jagged, wrong.

Cole lunged backward as she lunged forward, tiny hands now talons, swiping at his chest.

He barely dodged, stumbling into the dumpster.

Damn it!

The monster at the alley’s entrance shrieked in response, answering the call.

More joined in.

Cole’s pulse thundered in his ears. The street was waking up.

He ran.

Bolting out of the alley, onto the open street, feet slamming against pavement.

The infected were faster than before.

Smarter.

Behind him, the girl shrieked again, her cries not just a scream—but a signal.

Shapes moved between the wreckage. Not random, not mindless—they were positioning.

Cutting him off.

Cole swore under his breath. He dodged between rusted-out cars, leaping over a shattered

windshield, scanning for an escape.

Up ahead, a pharmacy, doors shattered, shelves ransacked. It wasn’t much, but it had cover.

He ran for it.

His boots hit the tile as he crashed inside, ducking behind the counter. Breathing hard, gun

drawn.

Outside, the street fell silent.

Cole’s chest rose and fell, ears straining.

They weren’t gone.

They were waiting.

He gritted his teeth. They were hunting.

Cole checked his ammo. Six bullets left.

Not enough.

He needed an escape plan—now.

Then—a sound.

Not from outside.

Behind him.

The distinct click of a safety switch being flicked off.

Cole froze.

Someone else was in here.

He turned slow, weapon raised—

And there she was.

A woman—dark hair tied back in a loose ponytail, eyes sharp and deadly. A scientist’s coat

stained with dried blood, but the way she held that 9mm pistol said she wasn’t just a

researcher anymore.

Her gaze locked onto him, finger hovering over the trigger.

"Drop the gun, or I drop you."