Saturday, 18 April, 108

  "It should only be about three minutes. Are you there yet?"

  "No. Give me five, and I’ll be," came a woman’s voice through the speaker.

  "Alright, Mom. See you soon," Wallis said, ending the call.

  She walked along the curb, humming softly to a song stuck in her head. The sky was its usual muted gray, a permanent filter over the world. Below it, the vibrant green of spring foliage fought for attention against the unseasonal, creeping blackness of transformed flora near the alleyways. The residential lane was quiet, an artery leading to the bustling heart of Loren Plaza, and the snippets of conversation she overheard were mundane.

  “They're finally making colored fighting vests? It's about time!” said a woman.

  “Yes! Now the intricacy of the suits will speak for themselves!” replied another, passing by.

  A teenager whined to his father, "Which store are we getting my phone from?"

  "Let's check a secondhand shop first," the father replied patiently. "Those are already set up and more reliable."

  Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. It was just another Saturday.

  Then, from the mouth of an alley, they appeared. Seven figures clad in sleek black armor that seemed to absorb the light. Without hesitation, they descended.

  The street held only a dozen pedestrians. Soon, there would be none.

  The attackers split up. One reached a pair of women, its arms melting into inky black tentacles that whipped out to gag them, binding their knees in the same fluid motion.

  Two more descended on a family. They watched in horror as one attacker's limbs swelled into a single, pulsating mass of flesh, while the other's warped into spiked tendrils. The fleshy one wrapped a single appendage around the two children, its slime-like body merging to seal them together, another tentacle silencing their mouths. The second attacker raised a spiked limb behind the father's neck. The man froze, his face a mask of pure terror. He knew resistance was futile.

  Every person on the street was systematically subdued and dragged toward a concealed cargo truck. Once inside the alley, they were untangled from their bonds only to be shoved violently into the truck's dark interior. The heavy door slammed shut, sealing them in a metal tomb. Every piece had fallen into place—this day, these victims. None of them were fighters. Just mundane humans, powerless against the evolved brutality of the Transformed.

  Inside, fear ruled.

  "Anyone who moves dies," one of the masked figures snarled from the front. "Simple as that."

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  The captives huddled together, a trembling mass of humanity. Beside Wallis, a man began to sob.

  "No… please… I have a family," he whimpered, collapsing to his knees. "They'll be all alone… Let me go! Are you listening to me?!" he shrieked, his voice cracking with desperation.

  Another figure clicked his tongue. “Tsk. This is why we bring extras.”

  The figure's foot sharpened into a wicked point. In one swift, brutal motion, he kicked forward. There was a sickening crunch, and the man's head was severed from his body. Hot blood sprayed across Wallis' face and clothes. She blinked, the coppery taste flooding her mouth, her breath catching in her throat.

  The woman beside her gasped, choked, horrified. She took a shaky step forward, her eyes wide with disbelief and rage. Fearing what would come next, Wallis shot out a hand and nudged the woman's arm—a subtle, desperate plea. The captives looked at the woman, their eyes full with trepidation, dreading the words that might escape her lips.

  “You should be protecting humans… You should be protecting humans and fighting the monsters! But now you’re the monsters!” shouted the woman, tears streaming down her face.

  Without a word, another captor stepped forward and slashed her throat open. She crumpled to the floor.

  Then, the slaughter ceased, leaving behind a silence so profound no one dared to move or breathe.

  After an eternity, the truck screeched to a halt. The masked figures moved with chilling efficiency, pulling smooth white bags and ropes from a box in the corner. One by one, they hooded each captive, the fabric thick and suffocating, and bound them at the waist with a single rope, creating a blind, shuffling chain of prisoners. The material of the hood was strange; it muffled sound but was unnervingly easy to breathe through.

  ‘Monster hide,’ she realized with a fresh wave of dread.

  ‘We're screwed.’

  They were pulled from the truck and separated into what felt like individual cells. Wallis' hands were tied behind her back. She knelt on the cold floor, frightened, bound, and blinded, listening to muffled murmurs from somewhere ahead.

  Suddenly, the bag was ripped from her head.

  The man before her was disheveled, maybe in his mid-forties, with shaggy gray hair sticking out in all directions like a cartoon of a mad scientist. Both of his arms were transformed black, ending in rigid, cone-shaped points the length of his forearms. He was her executioner.

  Faint, muffled screams echoed from nearby, a promise of what was to come.

  "Now, now. Don't move," he said, his voice oddly calm.

  He pulled his arms back. Wallis scrambled backward, but he was too fast. A searing pain erupted in her stomach as he stabbed her. He skinned the flesh from her shoulder, the fabric of her shirt tearing and embedding itself in the wound. He mangled her leg. He slashed her arm.

  "Just work already!" he snapped, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He turned to a table, grabbed a syringe, and stalked back toward her.

  Wallis lay sprawled on the ground, the world a swimming haze of red. She tried to scream, but no sound came out. She couldn't breathe. Her head spun. Everything hurt with an intensity that was consuming her. She choked, vomiting a thick, unfamiliar substance, her body convulsing.

  Then the pain changed. It sank deeper, a boiling heat that felt like it was dissolving her from the inside out.

  The man jabbed the syringe into her neck, injecting its contents with a sharp hiss. He was about to turn away when he paused, frowning. Tilting his head, he peered at her.

  "Why," he asked, his voice a curious murmur, "is your neck yellow?"

  ***

  Doctor Benner sighed.

  “Another experiment, that is,” he said.