Outside the sealed lab, the building groaned.
Not metaphorically. Not dramatically.
Structurally.
Something heavy slammed into reinforced glass—once, twice—then slid down with a slow, dragging sound that left a smear behind. The impact reverberated through steel beams and concrete flooring, a dull concussion that traveled up through Ellis's boots and settled in his spine.
Somewhere above them, a scream tore through a ventilation shaft—high, panicked, unmistakably human—before cutting off mid-note.
Inside the lab, no one reacted.
Because reacting meant acknowledging it.
And acknowledging it meant stopping.
They kept working.
Gloved hands moved with mechanical precision. Samples were sealed. Data was logged. Instruments were recalibrated when the power dipped and surged again. The hum of generators became a kind of heartbeat—irregular, strained, but still alive.
Ellis stood at the central console, eyes moving between monitors with ruthless focus.
A voice crackled over the radio clipped to his vest.
"Command to Research One. Status."
Ellis didn't answer immediately.
He waited until the sound of another impact faded—until the building stopped shuddering.
Then he keyed the mic.
"Research One secure," he said. "Internal breach contained. External pressure increasing."
A pause. Static hissed.
Then the voice returned—calm, authoritative, clipped.
"Colonel Hayes here."
Ellis closed his eyes briefly.
Colonel Margaret Hayes. Base Operations Commander. Two tours overseas. Zero tolerance for bullshit.
She stepped into view moments later, flanked by two armed MPs. Her uniform was immaculate despite the chaos—no blood, no dust, hair pulled back tight. Her face was hard in the way only people who had buried others learned to be.
Behind her, one of the MPs sealed the blast door.
"Doctor," Hayes said, surveying the lab with a single sharp glance. "You're busy."
Ellis nodded. "So are you."
Hayes didn't smile. "You have no idea."
She moved to the bank of security monitors lining the wall. Live feeds flickered—hallways choked with smoke, stairwells smeared with blood, bodies slumped against doors that had held just long enough to matter.
One screen showed the outer gate.
It was gone.
Not breached.
Gone.
Hayes exhaled slowly. "We lost the motor pool. Armory's compromised. Barracks Alpha is dark."
Ellis felt the words land like weights.
"How many?" he asked.
"Unknown," Hayes said. "Too many."
A soldier approached Ellis hesitantly, visor streaked with blood that wasn't his.
"Sir… we found more scratches."
Ellis didn't look away from the monitors. "How many?"
"Three. One tech. Two guards."
"Any bites?"
"No."
Ellis exhaled through his nose. "Quarantine them. Separate room. Full observation."
The soldier hesitated.
"And if they turn?"
Ellis finally turned to face him.
Not with anger.
Not with cruelty.
With the terrible calm of someone who already knew the answer.
"Then we learn," Ellis said. "And we survive longer next time."
The soldier swallowed hard, nodded once, and left.
Hayes watched the exchange, unreadable.
"You're comfortable with that answer," she said.
Ellis didn't bristle. "I'm realistic."
Mike stepped closer, lowering his voice. "He's not wrong."
Hayes's gaze flicked to the steel table behind them—what was left of the officer laid out beneath surgical lights. Exposed. Cataloged. No longer recognizable as a man who had saluted that morning.
"You cutting soldiers now?" she asked.
Ellis met her eyes. "We're cutting answers."
Hayes studied him for a long moment, then nodded once. "Then make it worth the cost."
They returned to the work.
Blood samples. Cerebrospinal fluid. Neural tissue preserved in solution that glowed faintly under lab lights. Every vial labeled with time stamps down to the second.
The data began to coalesce into something that made Ellis's stomach twist.
"This pathogen adapts fast," he said, voice low as he scanned a scrolling display. "Not just mutating—selecting."
"Selecting for what?" Mike asked.
Ellis didn't answer right away.
He looked at another screen—thermal imaging of infected movement captured earlier on base.
Patterns emerged.
"For aggression," Ellis said finally. "For mobility. For response to sound."
Mike swore under his breath. "It's weaponizing instinct."
Ellis nodded. "And stripping everything else away."
Hayes folded her arms. "Can you stop it?"
Ellis shook his head. "Not yet."
"Slow it?"
"Maybe."
"Understand it?"
Ellis hesitated.
"Yes," he said. "Eventually."
Another tech rushed over. "Sir—we're losing power in Sector C."
Ellis didn't hesitate. "Shut it down. Seal it off."
"But there are people—"
"They're dead already," Ellis said flatly. "Or they will be if we open this place up."
The tech froze.
Then nodded.
Hayes watched closely. "You're making triage calls like a field commander."
Ellis didn't look at her. "Someone has to."
The moaning outside grew louder.
Not frantic.
Persistent.
Hands slapped against reinforced glass again—dozens this time. Shadows pressed close enough to distort the light.
One of the cameras flickered, then went dark.
Hayes keyed her radio. "All units, fall back to inner sectors. Seal what you can. Abandon the rest."
Static answered her.
Then screaming.
Then nothing.
She lowered the radio slowly.
Ellis glanced at her. "They won't hold."
"No," Hayes said quietly. "They won't."
She turned to face him fully.
"You're our last controlled environment," she said. "If this building falls, so does the base."
Ellis met her stare. "Then we hold."
Hayes nodded once. "Then you have command authority in this sector."
The weight of that settled like a physical thing.
Ellis looked around the lab—at Mike, at the techs, at the soldiers standing watch with blood on their boots and fear behind their eyes.
This was leadership now.
Not speeches.
Not hope.
Containment.
Sacrifice.
Choosing who might live long enough to matter.
Ellis turned back to the body on the table.
"Continue sampling," he said. "Document everything."
The lab obeyed.
Outside, the building shuddered again.
And inside, Ellis Leesburg accepted the truth that would follow him for the rest of his life:
Saving the world wouldn't be clean.
And it wouldn't be kind.
It would cost them everything they were—and then demand more.