RE:ANAGENESIS — THE ZOMBIE TALES

Ugly-hearted

The third subdivision was quiet at this hour, illuminated only by the faint, pulsing glow of overhead emergency strips. I was making my way back down the central catwalk when a small figure stepped out from behind a concrete pillar. It was Misa. Her dark hair was pulled back into a practical ponytail, and her eyes immediately dropped down to my right hand.

"Eric," she whispered, stepping closer and reaching out to touch my fingers. "I saw what happened on the sand stage today. Your knuckles were split completely open. How is your hand?"

I uncurled my palm and held it up under the dim lights. The deep gashes that should have taken weeks to close were already fading into thin, faint pink lines. The raw flesh had knit itself back together with unnatural speed, leaving behind only the ghost of an injury.

Misa gasped softly, her eyes widening as she gently traced her thumb near the scabbed skin.

"That's... that's impossible, Eric. How are they already healing like this?"

I pulled my hand back casually, keeping my face completely neutral. "The medics in bay four gave me some kind of high-grade experimental injection when they brought me in for the physical evaluation. Military medical tech this year is ridiculous."

She let out a breath of relief, completely believing the lie. "That makes sense. General Victor's medical wing has access to resources we can't even imagine." She paused, her eyes brightening with a sudden sense of purpose. "I actually wanted to tell you something. I signed up for the first line helper program today."

I raised an eyebrow, taking in her determination. "The helper program?"

"Yes," Misa nodded firmly. "I'll be trained to assist in medical triage and supply distribution during regular rescue missions and aerial drop downs outside the dome. I can't just sit on the observation deck while everyone else fights. I want to be useful out there."

A genuine wave of pride washed over me. The quiet girl who used to hide behind her father's lab equipment had grown a spine of steel. "I'm proud of you, Misa. You're going to save a lot of lives." I glanced down the corridor, feeling the heavy exhaustion settling back into my bones. "Look, I need to get back to my quarters. I'm sorry our conversation has to be cut short, but my body is completely spent."

"Don't apologize," she said gently, stepping back to give me space. "Get some rest, Eric."

I made my way down to the fourth subterranean level, unlocked my heavy blast door, and stepped inside my cramped bunker. Sitting right in the center of my small fold-out table was a unadorned metal container. Beside it lay a crisp white index card written in sharp, precise cursive.

Replenish.

I didn't need a signature to know it was from Rhea Stone. Inside the parcel was a thick portion of bland, unseasoned protein paste and dense grain cakes, packed with pure calories. I sat down and forced every single bite down my throat, not caring about the lack of flavor. My body needed the fuel. The moment the container was empty, I collapsed onto my cot and let the darkness claim me.

When I woke up at precisely three in the morning, my eyes snapped open to total darkness.

My shirt was soaked through with ice-cold sweat, and my chest felt uncomfortably heavy, as if a sack of radium was resting on my ribs. My limbs felt weak and sluggish. I sat up slowly, wiping the cold dampness from my forehead, completely unsure of why my body was reacting this way.

A faint memory drifted into my mind from years ago. I briefly remembered my dad chuckling at the kitchen table while my mother insisted that three in the morning was the spectral hour, the hour of ghosts and lingering spirits. Back then, my mother used to make up stories about her horrifying dreams, claiming she could feel invisible presences shifting in the air before bad things happened.

My father, being a cold man of hard science and empirical data, never believed in invisible energies or the subtle influences of the astral world. But sitting here in the pitch-black silence of the underground, I could confirm my mother wasn't lying at all. Some things went far beyond physical biology.

Unable to shake the suffocating feeling trapped inside my bunker, I stood up, pulled on a dark shirt, and walked out into the corridor. Instead of staying trapped in the lower subdivisions, I took the side access stairs all the way up to the balcony on the fourth upper division of the dome.

Up here, the air felt entirely different. It was cool, crisp, and fresh, lacking the heavy, recycled chemical tang that lingered in the subterranean levels below. The artificial moon mounted near the glass ceiling cast a soft, silver light across the open platform, making the whole sky look almost natural.

As I stepped toward the edge of the open-air balcony, my heightened senses picked up a soft, rhythmic sniffing sound coming from the shadows near the railing.

I took another step forward, but before my boots could touch the stone edge, two heavily armored guards emerged from the dark. They had been standing so still beside the structural pillars that I hadn't even noticed them. They crossed their heavy rifles in front of my chest, blocking my path.

"Halt," one of the guards said coldly. "Upper balcony access is restricted. You aren't authorized to enter this sector during off-duty hours."

A spike of irritation flared in my chest. I opened my mouth to argue, fully prepared to test my healing knuckles against their helmets, when a low, smooth voice called out from the dark ledge further down the platform.

"Let him in."

The guards instantly lowered their weapons, stepping back into the shadows without another word.

I stepped past them and walked toward the railing where Rhea Stone was leaning against the steel barrier. She was out of her heavy tactical coat, wearing just a dark tank top that exposed her strong shoulders. In her right hand, she held a short glass filled with amber liquid and a single melting ice cube.

She turned her head, looking at me with a lazy, unreadable expression as I stopped beside her.

"You ever tasted alcohol, kid?" Rhea asked, tapping her glass against the metal railing.

I looked out over the sprawling, glowing ecosystem of the inner dome below us. "No. The day I turned 18 was the exact day humanity knew its doom."

Rhea stared at me for a long moment, her dark eyes softening with a rare, pitiful warmth that caught me off guard. She didn't offer a sarcastic remark. She simply held out her glass, offering it to me.

I reached out and took the glass from her fingers. I brought it to my lips and took a solid sip of the cold whiskey.

The amber liquid burned like liquid fire down my throat, hitting my empty stomach like a physical punch. Almost instantly, a heavy, warm dizziness rushed straight to my head, making my balance sway just a fraction against the railing.

Rhea let out a sudden, husky laugh, watching my eyes widen as I tried to steady myself. "Look at you. One sip and your legs are turning to jelly."

"How old are you even?" she asked, leaning her elbow on the bar and looking at me with genuine amusement.

I rubbed my forehead, letting out a heavy breath as my voice slurred just a tiny bit. "I'll be 19 in three months... maaaaam..."

My drunk self dragged out the last word on purpose, making her laugh again. It was a sound I hadn't heard from her before, real and completely stripped of her commander persona.

Her amusement slowly faded, replaced by that cold, serious edge she carried on the battlefield. She turned her body to face the artificial moonlight, looking out at the vast glass dome.

"General Victor came to my office an hour ago," Rhea said softly. "He's officially pairing us together for the upcoming surface missions. They're expediting your field clearance."

I leaned my back against the steel rail, letting the cool night air clear the fog in my brain. "So that means I'm going to be briefed on the real stats? The real numbers out there?"

"Yeah," she murmured, taking the glass back from my hand and taking a small drink. "And I can tell you right now, Eric, the numbers aren't looking good at all. The infected aren't just decaying out there. They're multiplying, organizing, and evolving faster than our defense walls can adapt."

I sobered up quickly, the warmth of the whiskey settling into a cold realization in my gut. I looked at her sharp profile, my brows furrowing. "If the situation is really that desperate... why not tell the public everything they've discovered about the zombies? Why keep the survivors in the dark thinking the walls will protect them forever?"

Rhea gave a small, bitter side smile, her eyes reflecting the dim silver light of the artificial moon.

"Because we humans are immature, ugly-hearted, and weak."