Chapter 8 - Decisions

  *** Randolf's POV***

  Randolf gripped the edge of the metal table, staring down at the map of the continent spread out before him. His fingers dug into the surface, his knuckles white. He had barely escaped the human sector before it fell—before the infection spread like wildfire, consuming everything in its path.

  This wasn’t how things were supposed to go.

  The virus had been designed to wipe out the supernatural abominations—werewolves, vampires, fae. The creatures that had plagued humanity for centuries, lurking in the shadows, taking what they wanted. The scientists had promised him a controlled extermination, a clean solution.

  Instead, they had created something worse.

  Randolf squeezed his eyes shut. The images from the last 48 hours were burned into his mind—humans turning feral, their bodies twisting into grotesque, mindless creatures. The infection spread like wildfire, consuming entire cities within days. The once-powerful human strongholds were reduced to chaos.

  Now, as he stood in the underground command center, deep beneath the last functioning military compound, he couldn’t silence the gnawing guilt clawing at his insides. He had ordered the release of the virus. He had trusted the scientists, had believed in their mission.

  And now, humanity was paying the price.

  He surveyed the men gathered before him. Each one was a high-ranking officer, a leader of what remained of the once-mighty human military. Their faces were etched with tension, shadows of uncertainty flickering in their eyes.

  Randolf took a deep breath, steadying himself. “We don’t have much time. The outbreak has spread beyond containment. The cities are lost. We need to move to the secure base immediately.”

  One of the men, Colonel Abrams, leaned forward. “Are we certain the base is still operational?”

  “Yes.” Randolf nodded. “It was designed for this kind of catastrophe. We have enough supplies to last years and the capacity to house at least a hundred thousand survivors—if we can find them.”

  Silence settled over the room, broken only by the distant hum of generators. Then, General Whitaker, the man Randolf had known far too long to trust, spoke up. His voice was calm, calculated. “And what do we do with the survivors we extract? We can’t afford chaos inside the walls.”

  Randolf exhaled slowly. “We separate them. The useful ones—engineers, doctors, scientists—will be prioritized. The others... we’ll determine their role as we go.”

  Whitaker’s lips curled slightly. “And the women?”

  Randolf stiffened. “What about them?”

  Whitaker folded his hands on the table. “Fertile women, Randolf. If we want to survive long-term, we need to rebuild our numbers. We’ve already lost too many, and with the way this infection is spreading, we’ll be lucky if we have a few thousand left by the time we reach the base. That’s not enough to sustain a population.”

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  A cold chill ran down Randolf’s spine. He had known Whitaker for years, had fought beside him, but there was always something unsettling about his approach. The man had darker desires—practical, but ruthless.

  Randolf hesitated. “You’re suggesting we round them up?”

  Whitaker nodded. “Any single woman. Any widow. Anyone who has lost their husband to the infection. We take them to the backup facility and ensure they fulfill their purpose. Otherwise, humanity dies out within a generation.”

  A murmur of agreement rippled through the room, though some of the officers shifted uncomfortably. Randolf clenched his jaw.

  It made sense. He hated that it made sense.

  His silence stretched long enough that Whitaker leaned in, his voice barely above a whisper. “If we don’t do this, we lose. Not just to the infection, but to the supernaturals. The wolves, the vampires, the fae—they’ll figure out what happened soon enough. And when they do, they’ll come for us.”

  Randolf exhaled sharply. “Fine,” he said, his voice cold. “We do what we must.”

  Whitaker smiled.

  ***

  Kiera had just taken her brother Sebastian to her bedroom to lie down and rest, after she quickly hurried back over to the pack hospital to see if there had been any changes with Hank's condition. As soon as she entered the room she stood near the back of the crowd, her heart pounding as the pack doctor, a grizzled werewolf named Dr. Elias, inspected Hank’s infected arm.

  The bite looked worse than before—angry, swollen, and oozing a strange green sludge that dripped sluggishly onto the white sheets beneath him. The black veins creeping outward from the wound pulsed beneath his skin, darkening by the second.

  Dr. Elias’ brow furrowed as he ran his fingers along the inflamed skin. “I’ve never seen anything like this before,” he muttered, his voice laced with concern. “Werewolves heal. Always. No exceptions.”

  Hank groaned, shifting slightly on the bed. Sweat slicked his forehead, and his breathing had turned ragged, shallow.

  “Doc,” he slurred, his words barely understandable. “I—”

  Kiera stepped forward, gripping the side of the bed. “Hank, what is it?”

  His head lolled to the side, unfocused eyes darting toward her. “Feel... sick,” he managed, his voice thick, his tongue slow. “Gonna... vomit.”

  Dr. Elias quickly grabbed a trash can and shoved it into Hank’s hands just in time for him to lurch forward and heave. A thick, blackish-green sludge poured from his mouth, splattering into the bin with a sickening squelch. The acidic stench of rot and decay filled the room.

  Kiera clapped a hand over her mouth as her stomach twisted. James swore under his breath.

  Then Hank went limp.

  The doctor lunged forward, pressing two fingers to his neck. A grim look crossed his face. “His pulse is weak. Temperature’s through the roof.” He turned to Leo. “I don’t know what’s happening, but if this doesn’t stop—”

  Hank’s body jerked violently. His limbs twitched, then stiffened. A guttural, wet gurgle escaped his throat.

  Kiera froze, watching in horror as his fingers flexed unnaturally, his chest expanding with a rattling inhale.

  Then, his eyes snapped open.

  Milky white.

  Wrong.

  Hank moved faster than he should have, bolting upright and lunging toward Dr. Elias with a guttural snarl.

  Leo and James reacted instantly, yanking the doctor out of harm’s way as Hank’s clawed hand swiped through the air where his throat had been just seconds ago.

  Kiera stumbled back, bumping into the counter behind her. “No,” she whispered. “No, no, no.”

  Hank screeched, his voice distorted, guttural. His body twitched, his movements jerky and unnatural. He slammed his fists against the metal bed of the exam room, claws scraping against it in long, grating strokes.

  He wasn’t Hank anymore.

  Leo shoved the doctor behind him and grabbed Kiera’s arm, pulling her toward the exit. “We need to contain him. Now.”

  James was already moving, forcing the door shut and locking it. Hank slammed against it from the other side, howling like a wild animal.

  The pack hospital fell into stunned silence, save for the relentless scratching of claws against metal.

  Kiera swallowed hard, the reality settling in.