The gym smelled like Axe body spray, spilled Sprite, and teenage anxiety.
Ethan Kane slouched against the folded bleachers, one foot propped on the bottom row, arms crossed over a rented tux that felt two sizes too tight across the shoulders. He wasn't here to dance. He never danced. He was here because Lakeside High required seniors to show up to prom or lose half a credit in "school spirit," and Ethan needed every credit he could scrape together if he wanted that full-ride letter from UW to stay real.
The disco ball threw lazy diamonds across the crowd. Riley Harper was out there in the middle of it, blonde hair catching every light like it was paid to, laughing with that sharp, careless sound that made half the guys in the room straighten up instinctively. She spun once, dress flaring, and for half a second her eyes flicked toward the bleachers—toward him. The smirk that followed was small, private, and gone before Ethan could decide if he'd imagined it.
He looked down at his phone instead. Marcus had texted ten minutes ago:
*yo coach v needs help moving tables after. free pizza if u show face*
Ethan huffed through his nose. Coach Vanessa Kane—no blood relation, thank Christ—was the only adult in this building who didn't talk to him like he was one bad day away from dropping out. She'd once caught him in the weight room at 6 a.m. doing pull-ups with a backpack full of textbooks for extra resistance. Instead of writing him up, she'd added another plate to the bar and spotted him.
He thumb-typed: *Tell her I'm busy looking brooding and mysterious.*
Before he could hit send the overhead lights snapped off.
A ripple of giggles and "ooohs" rolled through the gym. Someone near the DJ booth yelled, "Yo, who tripped the breaker?" Then the red emergency strips along the floor and exits blinked to life, painting everything bloody.
Ethan's gut tightened. The air tasted like pennies.
Marcus shoved through the crowd a second later, breathing hard, eyes wide. "You hear that shit outside?"
Ethan tilted his head. Beneath the muffled bass still thumping from the speakers, there was screaming—high, ragged, not the playful kind.
The double doors at the far end of the gym exploded inward.
Mr. Delgado, the AP History teacher who always wore bow ties and smelled faintly of old books, staggered through. Blood sheeted down the front of his white shirt. His mouth worked like he was trying to say something important, but only wet choking came out. His eyes weren't right—pupils huge, whites veined black.
He lunged.
The first victim was a junior in a cheap rented tux. Delgado bore him to the floor and bit. Not a Hollywood chomp—more like a starving dog. Screams detonated.
Ethan was already moving.
He snatched a metal folding chair off the rack, swung it two-handed like a baseball bat. The flat of it caught Delgado across the temple with a sick metallic clang. The teacher reeled but didn't go down. Ethan stepped in, drove a knee into the man's ribs, then slammed the chair edge into the back of his skull. This time Delgado dropped.
Marcus appeared beside him, face pale. "What the fuck, man?"
"No clue." Ethan dropped the chair. His hands were steady. Too steady. "We need to move people."
They started herding. Riley was already on her feet, shoving her friends toward the side exit. Sophia Montgomery—student council president, always dressed like she was auditioning for a political dynasty—was trying to keep a group of freshmen from panicking into a stampede. Luna Reyes had her phone up, filming, muttering, "This better get me verified."
Coach V burst through the crowd like a linebacker, fire extinguisher in both hands. "Second floor! Chem lab! Reinforced doors, high windows, supplies!"
Ethan nodded. Chem lab made sense—second-floor choke point, access to the roof if they needed to bail, cabinets full of glassware that could be turned into weapons.
They ran.
Halfway up the stairwell Marcus tripped over a fallen backpack. An infected sophomore—Jake from wrestling—barreled down from above. Ethan caught the kid's jersey mid-leap, twisted, and threw him hard. Jake cartwheeled down the stairs, neck snapping on the landing.
Marcus scrambled up. "Thanks."
"Don't mention it."
They reached the chem lab. Coach V kicked the door shut behind the last straggler and dragged a heavy demonstration table across it. Twenty-three survivors. Maybe twenty-four if you counted the kid hiding under the teacher's desk.
Riley paced near the fume hood, arms wrapped around herself. "My dad's in Bellevue. Phones are dead. Nothing's loading."
Sophia leaned against a lab bench, knuckles white. "I heard something on the news this morning. Some biotech firm in Redmond—leak, containment breach. They were calling it a 'vaccine trial gone sideways.'"
Luna lowered her phone. "Twitter's gone. Like, completely gone."
Coach V clapped once, sharp. "Focus. We're here tonight. We've got vending-machine snacks, bottled water from the teacher lounge raid earlier, and enough desks to barricade every window. Tomorrow we assess the city."
Ethan stayed near the back, leaning against a supply cabinet. His left forearm burned. During the stairwell throw, Jake's nails had raked him—four ugly furrows, already swelling. He tugged his sleeve down before anyone saw the black threads starting to crawl under the skin.
Riley noticed anyway. She drifted over, voice low. "You're bleeding."
"It's nothing."
"Bullshit." She grabbed his wrist, turned it over. The wound looked worse in the red emergency light—edges darkened, veins spidering outward like ink in water. "Ethan."
He met her eyes. For once the smirk was gone. She looked… scared. For him.
"I'm fine," he lied again.
She didn't buy it. "You're sweating through your shirt."
Before he could answer, pain lanced up his arm into his chest. His knees buckled. He caught himself on the cabinet, breath hissing between his teeth.
Riley grabbed his elbow. "Hey—"
The world tilted. Blue light detonated behind his eyes.
[Vitality Bond System – Initialization Complete]
[User: Ethan Kane]
[Condition: Infected – Strain-Z (Progressive)]
[Infection Meter: 100.0 %]
[Estimated Time to Systemic Failure: 29 days, 14 hours, 22 minutes]
[Alert: Life-force degradation in progress. Countermeasure required.]
Ethan blinked hard. The words floated in his vision like augmented reality, crisp and impossible.
[Core Protocol: Vitality Transfer]
[Method: Full physical union culminating in mutual orgasm with genetically compatible female subjects]
[Effect: Reduction of Infection Meter per successful transfer; establishment of permanent Bond link; mutual stat enhancement]
[First Compatible Located – Riley Harper | Compatibility Rating: 92% | Proximity: 4 ft]
The screen vanished.
Ethan sucked in a breath. The fever that had been creeping up his spine eased—just a fraction, like someone had cracked a window in a burning room.
Riley was still holding his arm, staring at him. "Ethan. Talk to me."
He looked at her—really looked. The blue glow had left afterimages, but her face was clear: worried, angry, beautiful in a way that made his chest hurt worse than the infection.
"I think…" His voice came out rough. "I think I just got a really fucked-up way to stay alive."
Riley's brows knit. "What are you talking about?"
He glanced around. No one else seemed to see the light. Just him.
He leaned closer, voice dropping to a whisper. "Not here. Supply closet. Two minutes."
She searched his face for a long second.
Then she nodded once—sharp, decisive.
"Okay. But if this is some weird prom prank, Kane, I'm breaking your nose."
Ethan almost smiled. Almost.
They slipped away while Coach V was organizing watch rotations.
The supply closet door clicked shut behind them.
Darkness. Shelves of glassware and rubber stoppers. The faint chemical bite of formaldehyde.
Riley crossed her arms. "Alright. Spill it."
Ethan leaned back against the door. The fever was climbing again. "I got scratched. Down in the stairwell. It's not turning me into… them. But it's killing me. Slow. And then—" He tapped his temple. "Something popped up in my head. Like a video-game HUD. It's calling itself a system. Says the only way to slow this thing down is… transfers. With girls who have the right genes. You're first on the list."
Riley stared.
Then she laughed—short, incredulous. "You're telling me the zombie apocalypse gave you a magic fuck-to-survive app and I'm the starter pack?"
Ethan didn't laugh back. "Pretty much." he said while scratching his head.
She stepped closer. Close enough that he could smell her shampoo—something coconut and expensive. "Show me the arm again."
He rolled up the sleeve. The black veins had crept higher, almost to the elbow.
Riley sucked in a breath. Her fingers hovered over the wound, not quite touching. "That looks like it hurts like hell."
"It does."
She met his eyes. No smirk this time. Just raw honesty. "And if we… do what it says… you get better?"
"According to the blue screen from hell? Yeah. And you might get something out of it too. Strength. Speed. Whatever."
Riley was quiet for a long beat.
Then she reached up, fingers brushing his jaw. "You're shaking."
"I know."
She exhaled. "If we're doing this, we're doing it because we want to. Not because some glitchy ghost in your head told us to. Got it?"
Ethan swallowed. "Wait a sec, you believe me?!!".
Riley shot a stare at Ethan. He replied "I mean...Got it."
Riley studied him another second.
Then she grabbed his tie and pulled him down.
Her mouth met his—hot, urgent, tasting faintly of cherry lip gloss and adrenaline.
Ethan kissed her back like a man drowning.
The fever roared, but this time it felt different. Hungry,instinct-driven and live.
Outside the door, something heavy slammed against the chem lab entrance.
Riley broke the kiss just long enough to whisper against his lips:
"Guess we better make it count, Kane."
Ethan's hands found her waist.
The world outside could wait five more minutes.