GTAG Chapter 64: Zombie Beasts
"Hey, Hank… that's already your sixth meal today."
The man's face was dark as he stared at Hank.
In times like this, when food was scarce, every ration had to be counted carefully.
Ordinary people in the base barely got one meal a day.
Only the scavenger squads who risked their lives outside were allowed three meals to maintain combat strength.
But to eat six people's worth in a single sitting—no one had seen that before.
Some even began to suspect Hank might have brought back some strange virus from their last supply run.
Not only strangers thought this—his teammates did too.
In this cursed apocalypse, anything unusual had to be treated as a threat. Strange behavior could mean the difference between life and death.
After swallowing the last bite, Hank left the cafeteria without a word.
His squadmates exchanged uneasy looks and followed after him.
"You guys shouldn't be tailing me," Hank said coldly.
As the one whose body was changing in ways he didn't understand, Hank was the most nervous of all.
His appetite had never been different from anyone else's.
Now, suddenly eating six meals' worth, he was terrified.
And worse—he was still hungry.
If not for fear of attracting too much attention, he would have kept eating.
But people were already watching.
"Come on, boss, you're really pushing us away like this?"
"I'm leaving," Hank snapped. "Until I figure out what's happening to me, I won't be back."
He drove his squad off, returned home, armed himself to the teeth, and rode off on a motorcycle without looking back.
Instead of heading for the town along the highway, Hank turned down a mountain trail.
Few came here anymore.
There had once been hunting trips in these woods, until they found infected animals.
After that, everyone avoided the place.
Because no one could be sure whether the animal they killed carried the virus.
Bring the wrong prey back to base, and the whole settlement could be lost.
But Hank was too hungry to care.
His stomach felt like acid was eating through it. If he didn't eat soon, he was sure his gut would burn right through.
Not long after entering the woods, Hank spotted a deer.
He didn't hesitate. He raised his gun and fired.
Bang.
The crack of the rifle echoed through the forest, startling birds into the air.
Nearby animals fled in terror—yet a few strange creatures rushed toward the sound instead.
Hank checked the deer's body. Warm. Normal. He let out a breath of relief.
Quickly, he built a fire and began skinning and roasting it.
But the smell of meat was too much.
Before it was done cooking, hunger drove him to sink his teeth into raw flesh.
One bite, then another—like a switch had flipped. He devoured the meat in a frenzy until nothing was left.
When his belly was finally full, reason crept back, and Hank's body trembled.
"No… no way… did I really turn into a zombie?"
The image of himself tearing raw meat with his teeth was too close to the creatures he fought every day.
For the first time, despair set in.
He even drew his pistol, pressing it to his temple.
But in that moment, he didn't notice—something was already stalking him.
A sudden stench of rot. A weight slammed him to the ground.
He rolled over and pain shot through his back as he scraped against a jagged rock.
Instinct honed from endless battles with the undead made him shield his neck with his arm.
Then came the crushing bite on his forearm.
Hank stared in shock. A rotten animal's head was gnawing at him.
The rumors were true.
There really were zombie beasts in these mountains.
Roaring in rage, Hank drew his pistol with his free hand and blew the creature's skull apart.
But when he shoved the body off, more shadows leapt from the trees, surrounding him.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
Gunfire cracked through the forest.
Minutes later, Hank leaned against a tree, drenched in foul black blood.
His armguards and greaves, made of hammered iron plates, were bent and warped. He didn't know if the fangs had pierced through.
Armored bracers could save you from zombies, but animals were different.
Their teeth were sharper. Their bites, deadlier.
Realization struck him. Hank bolted to the nearby stream and washed off the gore.
He tore off his armor and saw it—cuts on his skin.
Not bites. Scrapes from his own bent armor.
Normally, that might have been a relief.
But his body was covered in zombie beast blood. It had already seeped into the wounds.
Too late.
Hank's last bit of hope crumbled.
Before, he could tell himself maybe he wasn't infected. Maybe it was just hunger.
But now, with open wounds drenched in contagion, there was no denying it.
Four hours at most, he thought grimly. Four hours before he turned.
Maybe less. He had probably been infected earlier too.
Quietly, Hank raised his pistol once more to his head and pulled the trigger.
Click.
Empty.
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