The infection.
The grass was said to be sweeter here.
Generations of buffalo had grazed these plains, carving their paths through mist and mud, leaving only deep prints and deeper legends. This land fed them, sheltered them, defined them. It was their home. Their sanctuary.
But no place stays sacred forever.
The world had changed.
It had grown darker. Colder. Hungrier.
The wild no longer whispered in balance — it screamed. Chaos had taken root in the soil, and corruption had begun to fester like rot beneath a hide. In this world, survival wasn’t just nature's way.
It was war.
And war changes everything.
The buffalo had changed, too. No longer just prey. No longer just beasts of burden. They had grown larger, stronger, more brutal. Their hides were thicker, their horns more jagged. They were creatures of muscle and instinct, bred in storms and sharpened by loss. Rage simmered beneath their skin like wildfire, always ready to ignite.
They fought not just to survive…
But to dominate.
The Plains, Mid-Rain
Rain poured from a heavy sky, soaking the land in a dull silver mist. Puddles dotted the ground. The earth had softened, turning hoofprints into craters. Yet still, the herd moved.
Hundreds of buffalo — a tidal mass of muscle and steam — trudged through the downpour. Their heads bowed, their breaths fogging in the damp air.
In the center of the herd, tension crackled like the coming of a storm.
Two bulls stood locked in a silent standoff. Their breath heaved. Their eyes narrowed.
It was always the same: a challenge for dominance… and for a cow.
Then, without warning, they charged.
The clash was thunderous. Horns met with a bone-jarring crack. Mud sprayed as they locked and twisted, each pushing the other backward with sheer force. It was a test of pride — of power. No words. No mercy.
All around them, the herd watched.
The air was thick with steam and silence.
Then it happened.
One bull slipped. His rear hoof skidded in the soaked earth. As he staggered, the other struck with a savage turn of his head — driving him back onto a jagged, half-buried piece of bone.
A broken rib, old and rotting — a remnant of a long-forgotten corpse.
The fallen bull collapsed, skewered and breathless, his body half-sunken in the mud.
He did not rise.
And the cow… the one he fought for… didn’t even look back.
She walked past him like he was nothing more than a shadow.
She approached the victor, leaned into him, nuzzled his soaked chest. A quiet declaration:
Power always wins.
He lay there, breathing shallow.
Rainwater mixed with the blood at his side. The herd moved on. Some glanced back. Others did not. No one helped.
His betrothed was gone.
His pride… shattered.
The storm passed.
But he did not move.
He blinked at the sky, now soft and blue in the distance. A dull ringing filled his ears.
His stomach turned.
He reached out lazily, dragging his tongue across the grass — the sweet grass of legend.
He tried to chew.
But gagged.
He retched violently.
Green froth poured from his mouth into the mud. His head swayed. His vision pulsed and warped. Something inside him was shifting — twisting.
His breath grew ragged. His eyes dulled. Dark circles began to bloom beneath them, spreading like bruises from the inside out.
Flies began to swarm.
They came not just for the blood…
But for the rot.
He walked again. But something was different.
He kept his distance from the others.
Sometimes he lagged behind the herd, his limp barely noticeable in the thick grass. Other times he led them, though no one followed willingly. Always alone. Always silent.
He was still one of them. Yet somehow no longer.
The mothers shielded their calves when he came near. The bulls once loyal to him looked away.
And when the herd crossed dangerous terrain in the night — they placed him at the front.
Bait.
He knew.
They knew.
But none of them spoke the truth.
His name faded, like wind through the trees. No one called it out anymore. It became a memory, then a ghost.
One night, under a pale and trembling moon, the hyenas came.
A pack of them — eyes gleaming, teeth flashing in the dark.
The herd exploded into motion, panic driving their stampede.
But he did not run.
He turned to face the threat.
With a roar that startled even the stars, he charged. His hooves were meteors, his horns, blades. He gored the first hyena, lifting it into the air. Crushed another beneath his bulk. Blood coated his face.
The herd stopped, watching from the shadows.
He dragged the bodies into the thickets.
“They’ll attract scavengers,” he told them flatly. “I’ll dump them further out.”
They believed him.
They thanked him.
They did not follow.
But in the dark…
He feasted.
He tore into the flesh, warm and wet.
He cracked bone in his teeth. His jaws shook with every bite. His pupils dilated, locked on nothing.
This was not hunger.
It was something else.
Each night he returned to the bushes.
Each day, he grew more hollow — and more dangerous.
The sun burned his eyes. His body ached. His limp grew worse. But his strength… it grew. Twisted. Monstrous.
One dawn, a calf wandered too far.
Into the thicket.
And saw him.
Red-faced. Fangs slick. Eyes blank.
Tearing at a carcass like a demon in a buffalo’s skin.
The calf screamed.
The herd came rushing in.
They found him there — bathed in blood.
The silence was sharp.
He looked at them. Calm.
“You were never there for me,” he said.
Then he lowered his head and charged.
Hooves pounded. Screams rang out.
Chaos erupted.
Blood spilled. Calves scattered. Mothers fell. Some were trampled. Some vanished.
And he…
He was reborn.
No longer buffalo.
No longer prey.
But something darker.
A carnivore in a grazer’s body.
Infected. Twisted. Hateful.
The first of his kind.
And in that moment…
a monster was born.
