Twelve days before the first recorded human case, 10:51 am. Westview, Clarkson City Center
They rose for him as soon as he stepped into the auditorium. Scientists, investors, health ministers from half a dozen nations. Their applause rolled across the wide marble floor like a tide.
Dr. Ethan Kael's name was printed in bold across the digital banner overhead:
"Houston: Ushering the End of Chemotherapy.
He should have felt triumphant. Instead, he felt hollow, like applause might echo right through him. Even as he stepped behind the podium, he couldn't stop replaying that morning's confusion in the lab. The small argument over mislabeled vials, a junior technician's pale face, the hurried assurances that it was sorted out.
He had waved it off. Too much to do, too many eyes on him. In the bright spotlight, he forced a smile.
"Today, we stand on the brink of defeating cancer forever. Not with toxic chemicals or crude surgeries… but by rewriting the very code of immunity itself."
The crowd erupted. Cameras flashed. Somewhere in the second row, an older woman wept into her hands. Kael's heart thudded unevenly. He grasped the edges of the podium until his knuckles whitened.
Later, back at the lab, the facility halls were quiet, reduced to the soft hiss of ventilation systems. Under cold fluorescence, Kael reviewed tissue samples from his latest trial. Cells under the scope that were too active, clustering in unpredictable ways. He chalked it up to immune hyperactivity. A side effect to monitor, but promising, in its aggressive way. That was the nature of breakthroughs: controlled chaos. He didn't notice the small details of an unusual lysing of neural cells in one slide, faint mineral deposits hinting at something far older than mammalian biology.
Ten days before the first recorded human case, 8:44pm. Westview Creek Sanctuary.
Outside the compound, the forest lay draped in moonlight, quiet, but not calm.
In the underbrush, small creatures twitched and flinched at sounds that weren't there. A pair of red fox kits stumbled from their den on uncertain legs, snapping at each other's ears in frenzied play that quickly turned to drawn blood. Nearby, a doe stood trembling under the pines, her breath coming in sharp bursts, eyes wide and glassy.
On the banks of a shallow creek, a raccoon pawed at the water, its movements erratic, head jerking to invisible threats. When it caught sight of its own rippling reflection, it lunged teeth clashing against cold stone, mouth frothing.
Birdsong that usually greeted the dawn instead came hours too early, sharp and discordant. A flock of starlings wheeled overhead in chaotic spirals, colliding midair, scattering feathers like ash.
Further up the ridge, a small farmhouse slept under a corrugated tin roof. Inside, a farmer lay awake in bed, listening to the restless bleating of his goats. He had spent all afternoon separating two that had turned on the herd, ramming heads so violently their horns splintered. He told himself it was just nerves. Predator scent. Early heat. Anything but sickness. Anything but something new.
The next morning dew soon came, the wind rattled the dry leaves in the orchard, carrying with it the faint smell of hay, warm soil, and the sharp tang of old wood. Chickens clucked and scratched near the coop, their sounds drifting across the yard like any ordinary day. But when the old geezer stepped out onto his porch, coffee steaming in one hand, something felt wrong. It wasn't the usual morning chorus. There was a sharper edge to the hen's calls, a restless shifting that made the air seem too thin. A lone crow perched on the fence post, head cocked, watching the coop with uncanny stillness.
The chickens were packed tight against the far fence, wings fluttering, beaks opening with shrill, anxious cries — "Bawk-bawk-BAWK! Bawk-BAWK!" — their sounds slicing through the quiet like wire.
"Easy now, girls," he muttered, trying to soothe them with a low whistle. "Ain't nothing out here to spook ya."
But they wouldn't settle. Instead, they sidled farther along the fence, eyes darting toward the middle of the pen. The old man followed their gaze. At first, he thought it was just another chicken pecking at the dirt. But then he saw the dark smear under its feet. The hen's beak darted down, came back up slick and glistening. Red dripped from it in long, stringy ropes. The farmer turned gut turned. He stepped forward, nearly tripping over a feed trough. There on the ground lay another hen, twisted awkwardly, its body a ruin of torn feathers and exposed ribs. Its head was gone, ripped clean away as if by shears. Bite marks circled the chest cavity, small, sharp punctures he recognized from countless nights chasing off raccoons. But the force it must've taken to tear the entire head off in one wrench? That didn't add up. Meanwhile, the living hen gave a rough cluck and tugged again at the carcass, swallowing a bloody strip of flesh.
The farmer's hands shook as he punched in the number, phone nearly slipping from his grip. The chickens behind him still clucked and fluttered, unsettled by the scent of blood, or maybe by something deeper, an instinct that told them all was wrong in the world. He paced along the coop fence, trying not to look again at the carcass or at the hen with gore still slick on its beak. However, Dr. Nividia didn't answered her phone as the farmer resorted to a voice message.
Ten days before the first recorded human case, 9:21pm. Westview, at Clarkson's Big bull's Pub
Clink.
Two bottles tapped together, sending a soft ring through the dim, wood-walled pub. Dr. Nividia Rios let out a quiet, satisfied hum as she set hers back on the counter, savoring the lingering taste of dark ale.
"Mm," she breathed, lips curling into a small grin. "Still better than any celebratory banquet. I swear, those biotech galas all taste like stale crackers and nerves."
Beside her, Ethan Kael gave a breathy laugh. He toyed with the label on his beer, shoulders finally loose for the first time in weeks. The bar was their old refuge, dark wood, brass lamps, the low rumble of a jukebox somewhere in the back. Just the two of them, no cameras, no glaring headlines, no trembling patients clutching at hope.
Kael let out a slow breath, swirling the last inch of his beer. His eyes were distant, focused somewhere behind the racks of bottles.
"It's just… it's been years, Niv. Years of failed sequences, dead ends, entire cultures crashing overnight. There were days I thought the immune models were never going to stabilize. That I'd be stuck rewriting viral codes until my hair fell out."
He gave a small, humorless chuckle. His thumb traced the condensation ring on the counter.
For a heartbeat, he almost mentioned the incident few days ago. The frantic fifteen minutes of checking labels and fridge logs after the tech reported a tray of samples misplaced. But the error had seemed resolved, and the last thing he wanted was to spill new doubts tonight.
Nividia tipped her head back, snorting.
"Oh please. Listen to yourself — you sound like some fainting artist fretting over brush strokes. You're a doctor, Ethan. A scientist. Being cautious is in the contract, but this?"
She nudged his shoulder playfully, nearly making him tip his bottle.
"Stop being so damned timid. Or nervous. You already cracked something no one else could even get close to. Honestly, you should be wearing a cape and spouting monologues by now."
Kael managed a thin smile.
"That's exactly why I like hiding out here with you. You'd throttle me long before I ever got a chance to start monologuing."
"Damn right," she grinned, lifting her glass. "To Ethan Kael — the biggest, smartest worrywart I know. May he one day figure out how to celebrate without three panic attacks."
They drank, the old jukebox crackling through a slow country ballad in the corner. For a little while, the world outside — the labs, the investors, the endless fragile hopes — all felt comfortably far away.
Eventually, their laughter faded. The bartender dimmed the lights another notch, and outside, the streetlamps bathed the narrow lane in pools of orange. Nividia pushed back from the counter with a soft groan, rubbing the back of her neck.
"Alright, hero. I've got to haul myself back east before my goats stage a coup. Or my assistant tries to do necropsies with a butter knife again."
Kael huffed a laugh. He swirled the last dregs of his beer.
"Drive safe. Try not to contract any mysterious barn plagues."
Nividia rolled her eyes dramatically, then extended her hand in a stiff little mock salute.
"Dr. Ethan Kael, Slayer of Malignancies — it's been a privilege to share alcohol with your overwrought immune system. Should you perish of celebration overload, I promise to give a stirring eulogy about your inability to dance."
He smirked, bumping her hand with his own.
"Touching. Truly. If I drop dead, at least I know my reputation's in your sarcastic hands."
"Always," she grinned.
Out by her truck, she leaned against the door for a moment, savoring the cool night air. Only then did she pull out her phone. The missed voicemail blinked at her.
She pressed it to her ear and the farmer's strained, uneasy voice spilled into the quiet.
"Doc — need you to come by soon as you can. It's the chickens. One got torn up, sure it's a raccoon, but the way it's tore… it ain't right. And now one of my other hens is peckin' at it, eatin' the poor thing. The flock's acting all wrong. Please. I'd feel better with you takin' a look."
Nividia let out a long, exasperated sigh, rubbing her forehead.
"Oh hell. Anthrax again? After just three damn years? Fantastic."
She slid her phone away, climbed into the cab, and started the engine — entirely unaware that by dawn, she'd be looking at something no antibiotic or vaccine could hope to touch.
Nine days before the first recorded human case, 6:33 am. Westview Creek Sanctuary.
The sun was just beginning to burn through the low morning haze when Invidia's old truck rolled up the gravel drive, tires popping small stones against the undercarriage. She parked beside a rusted feed cart, engine clicking as it settled into silence. She honked her truck a few times, signaling her arrival to the farmer standing nearby the farm's fence.
Jeb Tucker was already there, leaning against a fence post with his hat in hand, shoulders hunched like a schoolboy waiting to be scolded.
Nividia cranked down her window and squinted at him, her voice warm but edged with playful reprimand as she checked upon her bearings, fixing her brazed brown hair from the long drive.
"Lord above, Jeb, you look like you've been up all-night fretting over chickens again. You know stress wrinkles age you twice as fast, right? I won't be responsible when the goats start mistaking you for a salt lick."
Jeb managed a weak huff of a laugh.
"Yeah, yeah, Doc. Come look at this before I change my mind and sell the whole flock to the devil himself."
She stepped out of the truck, stretching her back with a soft groan, the morning air sharp in her lungs. The smell of hay and something sour — old blood maybe — drifted over from the coop.
Nividia grabbed her kit from the passenger seat and shut the door with a muffled "thunk."
"Alright. Show me your horror show. And if it's just another fox-mauled bird, I'm making you buy me breakfast for dragging me out here at dawn."
The farmer led her across the yard, boots squelching slightly in dew-wet grass. He scratched the back of his neck as they neared a small side pen made of chicken wire hastily stapled to fence posts.
"I, uh, thought best to keep her off from the rest. Didn't want the other birds catchin'… well, whatever the hell this is."
Nividia's eyes narrowed, her breath forming small ghosts in the crisp morning air.
"That's actually smart of you, Jeb. I'm almost impressed. Where's our little cannibal?"
He didn't answered, just pointed.
Inside the rough enclosure, the hen lay crumpled on her side. At first glance she simply looked asleep, feathers puffed slightly from the chill. But as Nividia stepped closer, the stench hit her thick and sour, like meat left too long in a broken fridge mixed with the earthy tang of wet compost. She crouched down, hand covering her nose, and gently turned the bird's head. The eyes were open, cloudy with death but from the corners, thin rivulets of dark, dried blood ran down into the feathers.
"Jesus," she breathed. "That's… that's not normal. Even for hemorrhagic infections."
She glanced back at Jeb, who was worrying his hat brim nearly into shreds.
"How long ago did this one die?"
"Couple hours, best I can tell. She was still peckin' at that carcass after sunrise. When I came back from the house to check on her, she was like this. Just… dropped."
Nividia felt a cold coil in her stomach. It was too fresh for that kind of rot. Too quick. The eyes especially. She'd seen birds die in all manner of rough ways, but blood weeping from the ducts was something else entirely.
She pulled on a pair of nitrile gloves from her kit and leaned in for a closer look, dread seeping slow and heavy through her chest.
"Alright, Jeb. I'm gonna take some samples, see what exactly brewing here. Keep the rest of your flock away, and for god's sake, don't let your kids near this pen. Or your dogs."
The farmer nodded mutely and watches the doctor left in quick haste.