“Go to the campus. It’s safe there,” Tariq said to the frightened man and his family as he stomped down on the head of yet another disfigured human.

  “T-that was our neighbor’s kid…” the man’s wife muttered, staring at the corpse in horror.

  “Yeah, well… that wasn’t him anymore,” Tariq replied flatly, waving them away. “Go. The area past this house is clear. You should be able to get to campus without any problems.”

  The moment he turned his back, the family scrambled away.

  “I’m not an enemy…” Tariq muttered to himself as his stomach growled.

  He didn’t know how much time had passed since he’d left the campus. All he knew was that he’d killed hundreds of these things—and saved as many as he could, though that number was far smaller.

  In that time, he’d learned a few things.

  First: everyone had gotten something. Some kind of ability.

  Second: of the people who got abilities, roughly seventy to eighty percent were disfigured in some way. Twisted limbs, bloated chests, missing eyes. It came with changes in mood too—aggression, confusion, violence.

  His stomach growled again.

  And the third thing…

  He couldn’t eat normal food anymore.

  The world tilted slightly. Tariq reached out to steady himself against the wall of the house beside him and pinched the bridge of his nose. The plaster decayed almost instantly beneath his fingers, crumbling away, and he stumbled to his knees.

  Okay… okay… think.

  I need fuel.

  Let’s assume my body’s been turned into some kind of living nuclear reactor—for whatever the hell is giving off this radiation.

  Tariq pushed himself back to his feet and shook his head.

  So what do reactors need? Fuel. But what kind?

  His mind raced through everything he knew about physics, radiation, decay—but nothing clicked.

  “Zora would figure this out…” he muttered, stepping out of the ruined house.

  But Zora wasn’t here.

  He was on his own.

  Tariq emerged into the open air and slowed, taking in his surroundings. He was on the outskirts of the city now. The houses were sparse, the properties larger, the roads quieter.

  Boy, we need fuel.

  The deep, gruff voice boomed inside his head.

  Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

  Tariq jumped. “Great. Now you want to talk,” he muttered.

  You are not worth speaking to unless something is wrong, the voice replied irritably. And right now, we need fuel—which you have yet to acquire.

  Tariq rolled his eyes. “Yeah, no kidding. Would be real helpful if someone told me what kind.”

  We control the beginnings of the universe, the voice said. We require an adequate power source to sustain it.

  “Oh, that narrows it down,” Tariq groaned. “Anything else you want to share?”

  Silence.

  Frustration flared. Tariq veered toward a large tree lining the road, raised his fist, and drove it straight through the trunk. The tree cracked and toppled onto its side with a thunderous crash.

  He exhaled slowly, forcing his thoughts back into order.

  Beginnings of the universe…

  A few things came to mind.

  Antimatter—no, that wasn’t it. Antimatter didn’t produce Cherenkov radiation.

  Then there was the weak nuclear force.

  That one fit.

  When the weak nuclear force caused beta decay, Cherenkov radiation was a visible byproduct. It was the only nuclear process humans could see with the naked eye.

  But something didn’t add up.

  There was no medium. Charged particles needed something to travel through to create Cherenkov radiation.

  Tariq froze.

  Wait…

  He looked down at his glowing hands. “Hey,” he said cautiously, “we don’t control the weak nuclear force… do we?”

  The voice gave a low grunt in response.

  Tariq’s eyes widened. “No… no way.”

  If that was true, then—

  That made him something of an alchemist.

  The greatest physicists in the world would kill just to observe this, let alone wield it.

  His stomach growled sharply, snapping him back to reality.

  Focus. Food.

  Tariq knelt beside the fallen tree and placed a hand against the bark. The wood began to decay rapidly beneath his palm, breaking down at an unnatural rate. The radiation was getting stronger with time—but that wasn’t what caught his attention.

  Nuclear decay occurred when unstable isotopes released beta energy.

  Energy that could be absorbed.

  The gnawing hunger eased slightly.

  Tariq sucked in a breath, stunned. He couldn’t see it happening, but he could feel it—energy flowing directly into him.

  He touched more of the tree. The hunger lessened again, but only marginally.

  Standing back up, Tariq frowned.

  If an entire tree barely helped, then this wasn’t sustainable. He needed a steady source. A constant flow.

  And there was only one place nearby that could provide that.

  Washington State.

  Before moving, Tariq listened. He picked up four heartbeats in the distance. He didn’t know where he was headed, and anything he touched decayed—but that didn’t mean he couldn’t find someone else to do the work.

  He followed the heartbeats and soon found himself at an RV park.

  It was nothing like the city.

  Bodies littered the ground. Campers were torn apart, windows shattered, blood pooled between tire tracks. Tariq walked past it all without slowing, stopping only when he reached a large, luxury RV.

  Inside, he heard wheezing—two of the heartbeats. The other two were steady and quiet.

  He yanked the door open and stepped inside.

  “Yee-haw, one’s come!” a man shouted.

  A blast of wind slammed into Tariq, throwing him backward. He skidded across the ground as two figures stumbled out after him.

  “Oh, Cletus!” a woman shouted.

  Tariq rose slowly.

  They looked like the others—bloated chests, protruding bones, distorted features.

  “It’s gonna be an eas—” Cletus began.

  Tariq vanished.

  A right uppercut obliterated the man’s jaw, removing his head completely. Spinning, Tariq drove his leg straight through the woman’s chest.

  They were dead in less than a second.

  Tariq stepped back into the RV, following the remaining heartbeats to a small hatch in the rear.

  He knelt and knocked.

  “Hey. I know you’re in there. Come on out.”

  The heartbeats spiked, but there was no response.

  Sighing, Tariq forced his fingers into the hatch. The radiation ate through the fake wood instantly. He ripped it open.

  Two small screams echoed through the RV.

  Inside the crawlspace, two children—a boy and a girl, no older than eight—were huddled together, shaking.

  “Hey, hey,” Tariq said quickly, raising his hands. “Relax. I’m not going to hurt you.”

  He took a step back.

  “It’s okay,” he said offering them a smile. “Come out when you’re ready.”