The Last Evolution

A sharp throb in his left arm and the smell of stale dust hit Max Vale the moment his eyelids fluttered open.

"Cough—! Damn it..."

Max pushed his stiff back off the cold concrete floor. His left arm ached as if it had been run through a garbage disposal, and his head felt like lead.

Wait a second. Didn't I get turned into zombie bait at the convenience store across the street yesterday afternoon? Why am I still around to have a headache?

He scanned the cramped back room of the grocery store. Rusted iron shelves and piles of rotting cardboard boxes hemmed him in on all sides.

With a heavy breath, he wiped the cold sweat from his temple. Since the outbreak began, he had seen dozens of people get bitten, and not a single one had survived until morning.

By rights, he should have already turned into a mindless, drooling monster bashing its own head against the wall.

His empty stomach twisted in pain. A bitter memory from three days ago surfaced and burned in his chest.

Back then, he still had a safe room and a week's worth of food—until he lost it all for helping Chloe, the woman he had feelings for, when she was shivering with a fever.

"Max, please open the door for a second," Chloe had whispered that night, her pale face looking fragile. "There's another survivor outside with medicine. I just need food. Help me one more time, and I swear I'll never forget what you did for me."

The moment he slid the bolt back, it wasn't medicine that came through the door. The barrel of a black pistol slammed straight into his cheekbone.

Derek, Chloe's hulking boyfriend, barged inside with a nasty grin and kicked Max square in the chest. Max hit the floor hard.

"Good job, babe. You were right—this idiot really was sitting on a full backpack of canned food," Derek laughed as he snatched Max's supply pack off the table. "Get up, loser! Starting tonight, this room and all your food belong to me!"

"Chloe... you set me up?" Max had asked while pressing a hand to the blood seeping from the corner of his mouth. "I shared my rations with you when you had a fever yesterday! Without my medicine, you'd be dead!"

"That's what you get for being so naive, Max," Chloe replied coldly as she stepped behind Derek and looked down at him with disdain. "In a ruined world like this, a softhearted charity case like you won't last long. All this food is much better off in the hands of a strong man like Derek."

"You heard her, didn't you? Now get your ass out of here before I put a bullet through your skull!" Derek barked before kicking Max out the door.

"Filthy pair of bastards," Max hissed in the dark back room. His jaw clenched as he returned to the present.

Because they had stolen his pack, he had been forced to starve for three whole days until his stomach cramped up.

Yesterday afternoon, that suffocating hunger had driven him to sneak into the convenience store across the street for two cans of sardines—only to get ambushed by four walking corpses from behind the checkout counter and take a nasty bite to his arm.

He reached out with his right hand to touch the makeshift bandage torn from his shirt sleeve, then pressed the back of his hand against his forehead. Strangely enough, his temperature felt normal.

Max frowned. There was no high fever, no muscle spasms. His mind was clear, his pulse was steady, and his vision even felt sharper than usual in the dark.

Don't tell me the virus in that zombie's mouth was expired?

With careful fingers, he untied the dirty cloth wrapped around his left arm.

His brows drew together the moment he saw the skin beneath the dim light filtering through the air vent.

What kind of joke is this?

Max ran his fingers over the smooth skin of his forearm. Yesterday afternoon, the flesh had been torn deep enough to gush blood, yet now the wound had closed up like an old scratch.

The crust of black blood peeled away cleanly and left behind a faint, bluish pattern across his skin.

When he prodded the mark—which looked like a cheap tattoo—with the tip of his index finger, it didn't even sting.

"What the hell happened to—"

Bang!

A heavy slam from outside the building cut him off.

Grrrhhh—!

A hoarse, foul-smelling growl rasped right from behind the rotting wooden door in front of him.

Max let out a cold snort and got to his feet. He had barely dodged death from the virus, and now a new reaper was already knocking at the door.

His gaze swept the floor in a flash, and he snatched up a thick iron pipe resting beside the cardboard boxes.

Right as his fingers closed around the cold metal, the hinges on the wooden door gave way with a splintering crash.

A burly male zombie barreled into the room with its jaw unhinged, dripping thick black fluid as it lunged straight at him.

Max's shoulders tensed as he dropped into a low stance. Damn it, why does my first morning visitor have to be built like a gorilla?

Yesterday, it had taken him over a dozen swings and nearly all the breath in his lungs just to put down one scrawny zombie. If a hulk like this pinned him in such a tight space, he was done for.

The massive monster let out a savage roar and swiped its claws straight at Max's throat.

"Screw it! Die!"

Max planted his feet against the concrete floor to pivot aside, then swung the iron pipe with everything he had at the monster's temple.

Wham!

The loud crunch of shattering bone echoed through the room as the giant body flew sideways and crashed into an iron shelf, bringing it down in a clattering heap.

"Huh?" Max blinked twice at the iron pipe in his hand, which now had a noticeable bend in it. Wait... since when did I swing like a bulldozer?

Unwilling to give the downed monster a chance to get back up, he stepped forward and raised his weapon high again.

Two brutal blows caved in the creature's skull until it twitched once and stopped moving for the second time.

Max wasn't even winded as he felt the muscles in his arm, which were far denser and stronger than before. Yesterday's bite had drastically altered his physiology.

With calm movements, he pulled down his sleeve and buttoned it tight over the bluish pattern on his skin. His gaze turned icy as he looked down at the corpse at his feet.

From this moment on, the naive Max Vale who liked helping people had died right along with Chloe's betrayal.

"Not a single survivor can find out about my body," he whispered in a low, cold voice.

If word of his immunity and newfound strength ever got out, the greedy vultures out there would strap him to an operating table and dissect him alive like a lab rat.

Knowing the racket just now would draw more trouble, he pulled a clean cloth off the shelf to wipe the black bloodstains from his shirt. He needed to get out of this dump before something else showed up.

Grrrhhh!

His hand froze mid-wipe when a much fiercer, high-pitched shriek echoed from the dark hallway outside the room.

Thud! Thud! Thud!

Footsteps pounded against the floor in a frantic, rapid rhythm—something was sprinting straight toward him at an unnatural speed.