The alarm blared through the underground facility, shrill and unrelenting, bouncing off metal walls like the desperate cries of a dying machine. A group of scientists in lab coats sprinted down the grated stairwell, their footsteps echoing in frantic rhythm. The glow of overhead emergency lights bathed them in flashes of red and white, making their expressions flicker between shadow and panic.
Their voices overlapped in a frantic exchange, sharp and rapid in Spanish, their words tangled by the rush of their descent.
"¡Dios mío, está cambiando otra vez!"
"No puede ser posible… ¡Se está moviendo!"
"¡Las puertas de contención! ¿Por qué no responden?"
Behind them, the hazmat team was already securing their gear, tightening the seals on their oxygen masks, checking the integrity of their suits. Their presence was meant to reassure—but nothing could erase the mounting dread creeping into the sterile air. They weren't here for protocol. They were here because something had gone wrong.
The lowest level of the facility—the containment sector—was shrouded in thick steam, rolling out from vents like breath from a wounded beast. Glass panels lined the walls, each tank filled with the **unknown substance**—a shifting, **purple, goo-like material**, suspended in containment chambers. But one tank—Sector 9—was different.
It was empty
The lead scientist, Dr. Alvarez, gripped the railing as he reached the final steps, staring at the flickering monitors displaying **what should have been inside the chamber**. Instead of readings, the screen glowed with scrambled, erratic symbols, shifting between data and something unreadable—something alive.
A single drop of violet liquid pulsed at the center of the floor beneath the chamber, sluggish, like it was waiting—like it was **breathing**. It wasn't supposed to exist outside containment.
Then it moved
Not like a spill. Not like a drip running downhill. It pulled toward them, a slow, deliberate stretch toward Alvarez's boot.
One of the hazmat soldiers stepped forward, raising his firearm instinctively. "Doctor, move back."
Alvarez didn't respond. He wasn't looking at the floor anymore. His gaze had locked onto the glass of the empty tank—because inside it, something shifted against the reflection.
The shape of a human face.
But there was no one inside.
And when Alvarez blinked, it was looking back at him.
The rupture came with a sound that didn't belong to this world. A screeching crack followed by the violent shatter of containment glass, sending shards spinning through the air like airborne blades. The explosion of force threw bodies backward—scientists slammed against metal consoles, hazmat soldiers staggered, shielding their faces as **glass swords sliced through the air** like invisible assassins.
The goo was changing.
In the blink of an eye, the thick purple liquid had lifted from the ground, twisting, writhing, curling upward like a serpent awakening. Its form shuddered, flesh-like and unnatural, before it did something no one expected—it burned into smoke.
The violet mist rolled across the room like a creeping storm cloud, swallowing the emergency lights in a thick, choking fog. For a breath, there was only the deep hum of security alarms and the faint, sticky crunch of glass beneath shaking boots.
Then the screaming started.
Dr. Alvarez let out a cry as the smoke clung to his skin, seeping into the fibers of his lab coat, into his pores, into his lungs. It didn't just choke—it burrowed.
His back arched as a sharp, electric pain surged through his body, every nerve screaming at once. He felt something crawl beneath his skin, something not his own, forcing his breath into jagged gasps. He wasn't alone in his agony—the soldiers, the researchers, anyone trapped inside the expanding mist were all convulsing, grasping at their arms, their faces, their throats.
Whatever this thing was, it had never been a virus.
It was something more.
A security officer tried to run toward the blast doors, his boots skidding against the blood-slicked floor. "¡Tenemos que salir!" The moment his hands slammed against the emergency controls, the mist swarmed him—his eyes went wide as he inhaled too deeply, his body jerking violently before he dropped, convulsing.
The others turned toward him in horror—only to watch as his body twitched unnaturally, his fingers curling, his spine bending at a grotesque angle.
Then, his eyes opened.
What stared back at them wasn't human anymore.
The pupils had vanished, swallowed by the sickly violet ooze, leaking outward like a freshly tapped oil well. A smell thick and suffocating filled the air—something industrial, something burning, like raw fuel coating the lungs.
Alvarez stumbled backward, his breath raw, the last fragments of his mind clinging to rational thought.
"Dios… no están muertos…" His voice cracked as he turned toward the hazmat soldiers, his words barely a whisper. "Están despiertos."
Then the lights cut out.
The facility plunged into darkness, the hum of machinery fading into a suffocating silence. The soldiers gripped their weapons tighter, scanning the pitch-black corridors, their breathing heavy inside the sealed hazmat masks. Somewhere in the distance, dripping liquid echoed—slow, rhythmic, deliberate.
Then, movement.
A sudden, wet shuffle against the glass shards littering the floor.
The first scream ripped through the silence as a scientist near the entrance collapsed, his body convulsing. His fingers clawed against the metal flooring, his legs jerking uncontrollably. A soldier turned his flashlight toward him—and immediately stepped back.
The man's veins were turning black.
Not bruised. Not sick. Black, as if something was pushing through his bloodstream, forcing his body to carry something it wasn't meant to hold. His breathing hitched, his throat tightening, the stench of fuel rising around him. His eyes rolled back, revealing deep purple sockets where his pupils should have been.
Then, with a sharp inhale, his head snapped forward.
He looked at them.
Only it wasn't him anymore.
The infection had taken hold.
The soldiers opened fire, rounds tearing through flesh, but the bodies kept moving. The creatures staggered, twitching, reforming. The goo was inside them now. It was part of them.
The lead officer shouted for retreat, his voice cracking under the chaos. Some soldiers turned toward the blast doors, scrambling for escape, while others hesitated, staring at the infected rising from the ground.
Their expressions were eerily blank, no sign of pain or fear. No recognition of the bullets lodged deep in their bodies.
Alvarez staggered back, his breath caught in his throat as the infected scientist twitched violently, his arms spasming, fingers curling against the broken glass beneath him. The veins crawling up his skin had gone completely black, his body stiffening before his muscles suddenly **jerked forward**, like something inside him had taken control.
Then he lunged.
Teeth bared, his jaw snapping forward in a grotesque, unnatural chomp, missing Alvarez's throat by mere inches. The scientist stumbled back, crashing against an overturned console, his pulse hammering against his skull. The infected moved with sickening speed, eyes dripping dark violet fluid, mouth twisted in something not human.
Then the others began moving too
The security officer who had been gunned down twitched, his body convulsing against the metal floor. His arms jerked upward, then his legs, like a puppet being pulled upright on invisible strings. His eyes—those fuel-stenched, violet-soaked eyes—locked onto the nearest researcher.
Then, with a single, primal lunge, he bit down.
The scream that tore through the facility was sharp and raw, followed by the crunch of flesh tearing. The others watched in horror, frozen in place as the victim jerked violently, his body stiffening.
Then, almost instantly, his veins darkened.
A scientist near the broken containment chamber trembled, clutching a fallen lab partner, whispering prayers under his breath. But as the infected moved closer, their bodies twitching, jaws clenching, the prayers didn't matter anymore.
There was no stopping this.