The three days that followed the alligator incident were a study in suffocating tension. Inside the Lowell household, the windows remained shuttered and the doors bolted.
Malisa's "sickness" had entered a new, more terrifying phase. She no longer spoke in the melodic tones they remembered; her voice was a low, resonant hum that seemed to vibrate in the listener's chest.
She spent nearly twenty-four hours a day confined to her bed, rising only briefly to head to the bathroom. She felt like her body was too weak to want to move.
Ryan could swear he saw a faint, golden luminescence pulsing through her veins, a bioluminescent roadmap of her transformation.
Drake hadn't called back since that first conversation. The silence from the military isolation ward was a weight they all carried.
Every time the phone remained silent, the boys assumed the worst—that the government had tightened the gag order.
To cope, Daymon and Ryan retreated into the digital world. They spent their days in a mindless, flickering loop of video games, the rhythmic tapping of controllers.
It was getting close to midnight on the third day, the house dark save for the blue glow of the television, when the uneventful streak finally shattered.
"Aye, I'm 'bout to make me something to eat. Play a match without me," Ryan muttered, pulling his headset down around his neck.
His eyes were dry and stinging from hours of looking at the screen.
Ryan descended the stairs into the kitchen, the floorboards creaking under his feet.
The house felt unnaturally quiet. He clicked on the small stovetop light and began preparing a pot of noodles, the steam rising in the kitchen.
As the water began to boil, he looked toward the corner of the room where Midnight's food dispenser sat.
Midnight. Their dog, a pitch-black Labrador-Mastiff mix, had been with them for six years. He was a 100-pound shadow of loyalty, but over the last few days, he had been spending more and more time in the backyard, seemingly preferring the muggy air over the air-conditioned interior.
"Midnight? You hungry, boy?" Ryan called out softly.
There was no sound from the back door.
Ryan filled the dispenser with a fresh bag of kibble, the dry pellets rattling like hail.
On a whim, he grabbed a large, bone-shaped treat from the pantry. It had been a while since he'd played with the dog, and a wave of guilt washed over him.
"Midnight! Midnight, come here, boy!" Ryan called again, walking toward the back door.
The silence was absolute. Ryan frowned, assuming the dog was asleep in his dog house or something. He pushed open the heavy wooden door.
The backyard was fenced in, a small patch of grass that now felt more like a jungle. The palms were taller, their fronds sharp as razors.
"Midnight, you want a treat?" Ryan yelled, stepping out onto the concrete patio.
He spotted the dog house at the far end of the yard. Midnight's thick, rope-like tail was hanging out of the entrance, twitching rhythmically against the wood.
"Midnight?" Ryan yelled again, walking closer.
As he reached the center of the lawn, the moonlight shifted, illuminating the ground near the dog house. Ryan froze. The grass wasn't just dark; it was stained with deep, wet patches of crimson.
Dark, viscous blood was smeared across the entrance of the dog house, and a copper tang hit Ryan's nose, sharp enough to make his eyes water.
"Midnight... are you okay?" Ryan's voice was a whisper now. He stopped ten feet away, his heart pounding.
The tail stopped twitching. A low, wet sound came from inside the dog house—the sound of something heavy dragging itself through gore.
The entire wooden structure shook, the boards groaning as if a massive weight were being shifted within, bumping every wall. Then, the head emerged.
It wasn't Midnight. Not really.
The dog's face had expanded, the muzzle broader and more lupine. The fur was a matted, oily black, slick with fresh blood that stained his fur. His teeth had elongated, turning into jagged, ivory daggers that pushed his lips back into a permanent, skeletal snarl.
But it was the eyes that broke Ryan's spirit—they weren't brown and warm anymore. They were wide, glowing amber orbs that burned with a predatory, cold light.
Midnight had already been a massive dog, tipping the scales at over a hundred pounds. Now, as he squeezed his bulk out of the dog house, he looked double that size. His muscles were corded like steel cables under his skin, and his shoulders were humped with raw power.
Ryan didn't scream. He couldn't. He backed away slowly, his eyes locked on the monster that used to be his best friend.
Midnight made eye contact. He didn't wag his tail. He didn't whimper. He let out a sound that wasn't a bark—it was a deep, guttural vibration that sounded like two slabs of stone grinding together.
Ryan turned and bolted.
The dog didn't hesitate. With a terrifyingly powerful lunge, Midnight gave chase. The sound of his heavy paws hitting the turf was like the beat of a drum. Ryan scrambled for the back door, his lungs burning. He reached the patio, yanked the screen door open, and dived inside, slamming his shoulder against the heavy oak door to shut it.
BOOM!!!
The sound of glass shattering echoed through the kitchen. A heavy, bone-jarring impact hit the other side of the door just as it was inches from the frame.
Ryan screamed as the door was kicked back open by a few inches, the force nearly throwing him off his feet.
He threw his entire weight against it, but it wouldn't budge. He looked down, his heart sinking.
The glass from the screen door had shattered during the impact, and a pile of thick, jagged shards had wedged themselves into the doorframe at the floor level. The door couldn't close all the way.
BOOM!!!
The door flew open six inches, revealing a glimpse of a bloody, black snout and those glowing amber eyes before Ryan slammed it shut again.
"DAYMON! DAYMON, HELP ME!"
Daymon was already halfway down the stairs, propelled by the sound of the glass breaking and his brother's panicked screams.
He saw Ryan pinned against the door, his feet sliding on the floor as he fought to keep the monster out.
Daymon dived toward the door, slamming his back against the wood next to his brother.
"What is that!?"
"It's Midnight!" Ryan gasped, his face slick with sweat. "He evolved! He's gone crazy!"
Boom!!!
This time, the dog didn't just jump. He used his head as a battering ram.
The door groaned, and the gap widened just enough for Midnight's head to force its way through. The dog snarled, his hot, metallic-smelling breath washing over Daymon's face. Midnight snapped his jaws, his teeth clicking inches from Daymon.
"GO GET THE KNIFE! THE BIG ONE!"
Daymon screamed, his muscles straining as he tried to pin the dog's neck against the frame.
Ryan scrambled toward the kitchen counter, grabbing the long, serrated carving knife they'd used for the Sunday roast. He ran back and thrust it into Daymon's hand.
Just as Daymon gripped the handle, Midnight surged forward with a burst of unnatural strength. The dog's shoulders forced their way through the gap.
Daymon realized he was in striking range about to be bitten.
Instinct took over; he let go of the door and rolled backward, scrambling away as the oak door swung wide with a deafening crash.
"Run, Ryan! Get to the stairs!" Daymon yelled, stepping between his brother and the beast.
Midnight didn't waste time. He lunged at Daymon.
Daymon swung the knife in a wide arc, aiming for the dog's face, but the creature was too fast. It dodged the blade with a quick head reflex, cat-like grace, its amber eyes tracking every movement.
Before Daymon could reset, Midnight closed the distance.
Catching Daymon unprepared and was forced to put his forearm in the line of attack.
Midnight clamped his massive jaws onto Daymon's forearm. Daymon let out a strangled cry of agony as he felt the teeth pierce through his muscle and graze the bone.
The dog began to pull, his weight dragging Daymon toward the floor.
"Get off him!" Ryan screamed. He grabbed a heavy, wrought-iron floor lamp from the corner, holding it like a spear.
He thrust the base of the lamp into the dog's ribs.
It worked, momentarily. Midnight let go of Daymon's arm, turning his predatory gaze toward Ryan.
Ryan panicked, throwing the lamp at the dog and backing away toward the kitchen.
Daymon, his arm a mask of red, saw his opening. He still had the knife in his good hand. He lunged forward and drove the blade deep into Midnight's side.
The dog let out a sharp yelp, backing up and snapping at the wound. For a second, Daymon thought they could win. But the dog's eyes only glowed brighter. The pain seemed to add to his aggression.
Midnight lunged again, this time aiming for the hand holding the knife.
Daymon try to swing at it again and failed the same way he did the first time. The dog flex was just to much better.
Midnight caught Daymon's wrist in a crushing grip. Daymon cried out as his fingers went numb, the carving knife clattering to the floor.
Midnight didn't stop. He dragged Daymon down and lunged for his throat. Daymon threw his shoulder up in a desperate move, and the dog's teeth sank deep into the meat of his shoulder instead of his windpipe.
Daymon felt the world beginning to blur.
The dog was preparing to let go and reset for the final bite. He looked up at the ceiling, waiting for the end.
Suddenly, midnight felt weight hit his back than a sharp pain in his eye briefly.
Midnight let out a choked sound as he was caught off guard. Daymon blinked, trying to clear his vision.
His mom was there.
She still look sick but with a fierce light burningin her eyes.
She was perched on the dog's back, her left hand gripping his neck while the other had a carving knife Daymon had dropped.
Before the dog could buck her off, she drove the knife downward, plunging the long steel blade directly into the dog's left eye with a strength that shouldn't have been possible for her slight frame.
Midnight's body gave one violent, massive convulsion. A spray of dark blood hit the wall. Then, the 200-pound beast went limp, his massive head hitting the linoleum with a final, heavy thud.
Malisa remained on the dog's back for a moment, her chest heaving.
She looked down at the dead creature—their pet, their friend—and her expression softened into a look of deep pity.
"Mom?" Ryan whispered from the kitchen doorway.
Malisa turned her head. She looked at Daymon's shredded arm and his bleeding shoulder.
"We need to get you to the hospital," she said, her voice a low, urgent hum that brooked no argument. "Now."