The world outside Troy's bedroom window was a dull, rain-soaked gray. Inside, it was a furnace.
Sweat soaked through his sheets, making them cling to his skin like a second, filthy layer. The pain in his shoulder was a distant, throbbing memory, a candle flame compared to the inferno now raging in his veins. His skin was hot to the touch, flushed an angry, mottled red. But the fever was nothing compared to the hunger.
It wasn't a desire for food. It was a deep, cellular craving, a void in the pit of his stomach that screamed for something raw, something vital, something that pulsed with life. The thought of the soup his girlfriend, Lacey, had left on his nightstand hours ago made his gorge rise. It was dead, cooked, inert. He needed... more.
A soft knock. "Troy? Honey? You need to eat something." Lacey's voice was muffled through the door, tight with worry.
"Go 'way," he grunted, his voice a sandpaper rasp that didn't sound like his own.
The door cracked open. Lacey peeked in, her pretty face pinched with concern. She saw the untouched soup, the sweat-drenched sheets, the way he was curled into a tight ball of misery. Her compassion overrode her fear.
"Troy, you're burning up," she said, stepping inside. She moved to the bed, her hand reaching out to feel his forehead.
The scent of her hit him first. Not her perfume, but the smell underneath. The scent of her skin, her blood just beneath the surface. It was the most intoxicating, maddening thing he had ever smelled. His hunger roared.
He didn't mean to shove her. It was a spasm, a violent recoil from the overwhelming stimulus. His arm, corded with a new, unfamiliar strength, lashed out.
"I said GO AWAY!"
The shove sent Lacey stumbling backward. She crashed into the dresser, a small cry of pain and shock escaping her lips. She stared at him, her eyes wide with hurt and fear. Troy's own hand was clenched, his ragged, nervous fingernails—chewed raw from hours of agony—had left four deep, parallel scratches down her forearm. Beads of blood welled up instantly, bright red against her pale skin.
The coppery scent of it filled the room. Troy's yellow-tinged eyes locked onto the wound. A low, guttural sound rattled in his chest.
That sound, more than the shove, terrified her. It was the sound a dog makes over a bone. Not human.
"Okay... okay, Troy," she whispered, backing out of the room slowly, not turning her back on him. "I'm going."
She closed the door. From the other side, she heard a thud and a frustrated, animalistic snarl as he presumably threw something against the wall. She looked down at her arm. The scratches burned. A strange, cold heat was already spreading from them up into her bicep. She grabbed a tissue, dabbed at the blood, and went to find the antiseptic, her heart hammering a frantic rhythm against her ribs. It was just a scratch. He was sick. He didn't mean it.
The next morning, Lacey woke feeling like she'd been run over by a truck. Her head pounded, and a deep, aching fatigue was settled in her bones. The scratches on her arm were angry and inflamed, the skin around them a nasty, purplish-red, threaded with dark veins that hadn't been there last night. They pulsed with a low, persistent heat.
It's just infected, she told herself, swallowing two aspirin. I'll get it looked at after my shift.
She worked at The Fall Creek Diner, a classic greasy spoon with sticky vinyl booths and the perpetual smell of frying bacon and coffee. It was the town's central nervous system, and today, she was a node of disease.
She was flushed, her apron feeling too tight, her hair clinging to her damp neck. Her grip was weak.
"Order up, Lace!" Dave, the cook, slid a plate of eggs and hash browns onto the pass-through. Her fingers fumbled, and the plate slipped, shattering on the linoleum floor. Yellow yolk splattered like a vile accusation.
"Jeez, Lacey, you okay?" Dave asked, his brow furrowed.
"Fine, Dave. Just clumsy," she mumbled, her voice thick. She grabbed a rag to wipe the sweat from her brow, then, without thinking, used the same damp cloth to wipe down the counter where a family with two young children had just left.
She served food. Her fingers brushed against the rim of a coffee cup she handed to an elderly regular. She touched the cook's hand when he passed her the next order. She felt dizzy and leaned against the cooler for a moment, her hot forehead against the cold metal.
Her friend Janine, the other waitress, came over. "You look like hell, Lace. You're not catching what Troy's got, are you?"
"Think so," Lacey croaked. "My head is killing me."
"Aw, honey," Janine said, pulling her into a quick, sympathetic hug. Lacey's hot face pressed against Janine's neck. She could feel the steady, beautiful pulse there. For a terrifying second, she had an impulse to press her lips to it, to bite down and—
She pulled away, shuddering. "I'm gonna go grab some air in the back," she said, fleeing to the storeroom.
In a booth by the window, a man in a weathered jacket scrolled impatiently on his phone. He had a long-haul delivery to make to Portland and was already behind schedule. He'd barely touched his coffee.
"Check, please!" he called out, his voice sharp with hurry.
Janine, now feeling a faint, prickling headache of her own, brought him the bill. He slapped a twenty down on the table, not waiting for change. He grabbed the to-go cup of coffee Lacey had poured for him five minutes ago, his fingers wrapping around the exact spot where her sweaty palm had been. He was out the door and back in his truck in under a minute, taking a long swig of the bitter coffee as he pulled onto the highway, unknowingly washing the pathogen down his throat. He was out of Fall Creek before his fever even began to spike.
Back in the storeroom, the world tilted. The shelves of canned tomatoes and industrial-sized pickles swam in Lacey's vision. A violent, full-body shiver wracked her frame, so intense her teeth chattered. She collapsed against a stack of flour sacks, sending a fine white cloud into the air.
The door opened. "Lacey? You in here? I'm getting worried—" It was Janine.
She saw her friend on the floor, shivering uncontrollably, her skin pale and waxy. "Oh my god, Lacey!"
Janine rushed to her, dropping to her knees. She grabbed Lacey's shoulders, trying to hold her still. "Okay, okay, it's okay. I've got you. Let's get you up."
She leaned in close, her face inches from Lacey's, trying to get a better look at her glazed, unseeing eyes.
Lacey's body convulsed. A wet, hacking cough erupted from her lungs, a spray of spittle and vapour bursting directly into Janine's open, concerned mouth.
For a second, they were frozen in the intimate, horrific tableau. Janine recoiled, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, a grimace of disgust on her face.
The sound of the diner seemed to fade away, replaced by the ragged sound of Lacey's breathing and the frantic beating of Janine's own heart. The first seed of fear, cold and sharp, finally took root in her stomach. This wasn't the flu.
Something was very, very wrong in Fall Creek.