7:30 a.m.

  Reese moved through the pre-dawn darkness of the tunnels with mechanical precision, his assault rifle balanced across his chest, every step calculated to avoid the loose debris that could give away their position. The hunting team had been out for three hours already, tracking reports of a large rat nest in the abandoned sections between 18th and 22nd Street. But his mind wasn't on the hunt.

  It was on Dana.

  It's been two days. Two days since she entered the medical car. Vincent had been too exhausted from healing the members of the camp and the apostles to take new cases. Two days of watching her through dirty train windows as blood seeping from her eyes in steady streams that Nathan couldn't heal no matter how many clean rags he pressed against her face.

  But that wasn't the whole truth, and Reese knew it. Dana had refused treatment. Even when Vincent made time for her, even when her name came up on the priority list for hunting team members, she'd turned it down. She insisted on waiting until everyone who'd been sick before her got healed first. The selflessness of it made Reese's chest ache with respect, even as the stupidity of it made him want to shake her until she saw sense.

  He was caught between admiration and frustration, powerless to help. And even if he'd wanted to convince her to accept treatment, he knew he was the last person she'd listen to. If anything, she'd probably become more stubborn just to defy him, let herself die out of pure spite if it meant proving him wrong one final time.

  This morning, Reese had manufactured an excuse to visit the medical car before exiting the camp. He'd told Nathan he was delivering extra water rations from the hunting team, but the truth was simpler and more desperate: he needed to see her. He needed to know if she was still fighting.

  What he'd found had stolen the breath from his lungs.

  Dana lay unconscious on a makeshift bed constructed from train seats and salvaged cushions, her skin a shade of gray, her breathing so shallow he'd had to lean close to see the rise and fall of her chest. Fever burning through her like an engine running without oil.

  "She won't last another day," Nathan had whispered, his voice carrying the weight of medical training and bitter experience. "Not at this rate. The infection is progressing slower than others but it won't change anything now."

  Reese had stood there for ten minutes, watching the woman who had called him out on every lie, every weakness, every moment of cowardice he'd displayed since the day the world ended. The woman who had been right about everything, about his failed leadership, about the danger of heading to Times Square, about the choices that had led his group into slaughter.

  And now she was dying, and he hadn't even found the courage to apologize.

  "Movement ahead," Jarret's voice cut through his thoughts like a blade, bringing him back to the present with jarring clarity. "Multiple contacts, maybe twenty rats. Standard formation."

  Reese shifted into position automatically, muscle memory from just days of intensive training guiding him through the tactics Jarret had drilled into the team. But even as his body responded to commands, his mind remained trapped in memories, reliving the moment everything had gone wrong. It always started the same way, with hope blazing in his chest like a fire that would consume everything in its path.

  "Time Square is our way out!" he had declared, and for one shining moment, Reese had felt like the leader he'd always known he was meant to be. People had looked at him with respect, their desperate faces transforming with optimism. Nathan stepped forward. Lila allowed herself to hum a song. Even Peter managed a genuine smile.

  "Finally," Nathan had said, his young face bright with relief.

  "How long do you think it'll take us to get there?" Lila had asked, her voice carrying hope for the first time since Anna's death.

  "Three hours, maybe four," Reese had replied with confidence, even if he had no idea what he was talking about. "Times Square is the heart of the system. All the main lines converge there. Once we reach it, we'll have multiple route options."

  Peter had clutched his briefcase tighter, "Thank God. I was starting to think we'd never see daylight again."

  And then they'd started walking.

  The first hour had been everything Reese had dreamed it would be. He led his group of sixty-one people through the tunnels, his confidence infectious, his certainty a beacon in the darkness. People walked close behind him, trusting in his leadership, believing in his promises. He'd felt powerful, important. He was finally the hero of his own story instead of a footnote in someone else's.

  "You know," Peter had said, falling into step beside him, "I'm glad you spoke up back there. Mike's a good guy, but sometimes you need to be willing to take risks."

  "That's what I am talking about!" Reese had replied, his chest swelling with pride. "Making the hard decisions when everyone else is too scared to act."

  But the tunnels had other plans.

  The route that should have led toward Times Square instead curved back on itself, depositing them in a maintenance area they'd never seen before. Reese had stood there, flashlight beam dancing across unfamiliar walls, trying to hide his confusion behind authoritative gestures.

  "This doesn't look right," Nathan had said quietly, his earlier enthusiasm dimming. "Shouldn't we have hit the main junction by now?"

  "Just a detour," Reese had said, his voice still strong but carrying the first hint of uncertainty. "The main route must be blocked. We'll find another way around."

  But as they'd continued walking, the doubts had begun to multiply. The tunnels didn't match any of the subway maps they'd seen. The maintenance numbers on the walls were in sequences that made no sense.

  People had started asking questions. Quiet ones and respectful at first: "Are you sure this is the right way?" Then more pointed: "Maybe we should stop and figure out where we are before we go any further."

  And Peter, fucking Peter with his nervous energy and constant need for reassurance, had begun voicing doubts that poisoned the air between them.

  "I don't like this," Peter had muttered, adjusting his tie for the dozenth time. "This doesn't feel right. At least we should have found another station by now."

  "Keep your voice down," Reese had hissed. "You're scaring people."

  "Maybe people should be scared," Peter had shot back, his usual deference replaced by growing panic. "Maybe Mike was right about this being a trap."

  The group's earlier excitement had curdled into nervous whispers and sideways glances. Reese's followers had stopped looking at him like a savior and started looking at him like a man who might get them all killed. People were pointing fingers, making accusations, demanding answers that Reese didn't have.

  "Just a little further," Reese had pleaded, but his authority was crumbling in real time. "I know how it looks, but we have to trust the process. Times Square is just out there. All we have to do is simply to keep going." Reese had said, his patience wearing thin. "This is about survival. We can't afford to slow down for anyone."

  That's when Peter had finally made his move completely.

  "Trust the process?" Peter had exploded, his briefcase trembling in his white-knuckled grip. But the explosion was calculated, performative. "What process? You don't know where you're going, do you? You've been guessing this whole time!"

  He'd turned to the group then, his voice taking on the practiced cadence of a man used to giving presentations. "Everyone, I think it's time we faced facts. Reese has been leading us in circles for hours. He is just putting all our lives at risk at this rate."

  Reese glanced at Peter, his patience wearing thin. The accusation was a low blow, but Peter wasn't finished. He was going for a complete coup.

  "I propose we vote," Peter had continued, his corporate instincts taking over. "A simple democratic process. Who here thinks we should continue following Reese's... leadership?" He'd said the word like it tasted bad. "And who thinks maybe it's time for someone with actual experience to take charge?"

  A few hands had started to rise hesitantly.

  "This isn't a boardroom, you fucking bastard," Reese had snarled, stepping closer to Peter with his fists clenched.

  "Look at you," Peter had replied smoothly. "You're ready to resort to violence just because someone questioned your judgment."

  "Watch your mouth," Reese had warned, his voice dropping to a dangerous growl. "I'm trying to save all of our lives here."

  "No, you're just trying to save your little ego," Peter had shot back, his arrogance finally overriding his usual deference. "You can't stand being wrong about the message. You can't stand the idea that Mike and Dana might have been right to be cautious. So you dragged us all down here to prove a point, and now we're lost by your fault."

  The words had struck home with devastating accuracy, hitting every insecurity and fear that Reese had been trying to suppress. Because Peter was right, about everything. His leadership, his ego, his desperate need to be the hero of his own story.

  "Shut up," Reese had snarled, raising his hand in a clear threat. "Shut up right now, or I'll shut you up myself."

  "See?" Peter had said, turning to address the rest of the group. "This is what we get for following him. The moment someone questions his words, he resorts to violence. Just like he threatened Dana before. Do you want me to slap you as well?"

  Nathan had stepped forward then, his young face pale with concern. "Guys, come on. Fighting isn't going to help anyone. We need to work together here."

  That's when Reese finally snapped. He has been sincerely trying hard to save all of their lives, and all they could do is complain and second-guess every decision he makes. All the frustration, the fear and the desperate need to be right had crystallized into pure rage, and he grabbed Peter by the shirt and slammed him against the tunnel wall.

  "Reese, stop!" Nathan had shouted, moving to intervene. "This isn't helping anyone!"

  But Reese had been beyond reason, beyond logic, beyond anything except the burning need to restore his authority through force. His fist had been drawn back, ready to settle the argument the only way he knew how, when the sound had echoed through the tunnels like thunder.

  Gunfire.

  The effect on the group had been immediate and devastating. Peter had gone limp in Reese's grip, his eyes wide with terror. Nathan had frozen mid-step, his young face draining of color.

  Reese had felt the full weight of his responsibility crushing down on him like the concrete ceiling above. He had led these people here. He had ignored the warnings, dismissed the doubts, convinced them to follow him into whatever hell was waiting ahead. And now that hell had found them.

  "Run," Reese had shouted, his voice barely audible over the growing sound of gunfire. "Oh God, we need to run."

  He'd run then, not with any plan for regrouping or fighting back. He'd simply run, panic overriding every instinct except the desperate need to hide. His athletic training had meant nothing, his physical strength had been useless. He'd been reduced to the most basic human response to overwhelming terror: flight.

  'This is all your fault.'

  He stumbled upon a ventilation grate, broken, partially concealed and just wide enough for his body if he squeezed himself small enough. The universe seemed determined to teach him exactly how much of a coward he really was as he'd crawled inside like a terrified animal, pressing his face into the darkness and trying to disappear entirely.

  Through it all, one thought had echoed in Reese's mind with crystal clarity: 'This is all my fault.'

  The screaming surrounding him had been the worst part.

  They had carried names, pleas and curses of the people who had trusted him, who had followed him because he'd promised them salvation. He heard even more gunshot and even more shouts but his mind was already drowning under his own culpability.

  Until all the voices had been silenced forever.

  He'd stayed hidden for what felt like an eternity after the silence fell. He'd remained curled in that vent like a broken child, crying silently and hating himself with an intensity that felt like it might burn him alive from the inside.

  When the sound of footsteps had returned, Reese had been certain they belonged to the gunmen coming back to finish the job. His body had gone rigid with terror, his breath catching in his throat as he'd prepared to die the coward's death he deserved.

  Instead, a calm voice had spoken from the darkness, tinged with genuine concern.

  "Hey, it's okay. You're safe now."

  Reese had emerged from his hiding place like a newborn creature, red crying eyes blinking in the harsh glare of tactical flashlights. The man standing before him had looked like something from a military recruitment poster. Perfectly equipped, supremely confident, radiating the kind of competent authority that Reese had only pretended to possess.

  Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  "I'm Jarret," the man had said, removing his helmet to reveal a weathered face marked by genuine compassion. "You're going to be all right."

  And somehow, despite everything, despite the bloodied guilt on his hand eating him alive and the knowledge that he'd failed in every way that mattered, Reese had believed him.

  "Hey Reese, you all right?" Jarret asked, settling beside him with a canteen of water.

  Reese opened his eyes, blinking away the memory. Around him, his teammates were taking their rest break with the easy camaraderie he'd learned to appreciate over their few days together. Stevens cleaned his weapon with practiced precision. Rodriguez shared stories about her previous life. Thompson offered quiet observations about their tactical situation.

  "Just thinking," Reese replied, accepting the water gratefully.

  "About her?" Jarret asked, and Reese didn't need to ask who he meant.

  "Among other things." Reese took a sip of water, tasting the metallic tang of their recycled supply system. "She was right." The admission came easier now, after days of practice. "I was never meant to lead people."

  Jarret nodded thoughtfully. "Leadership isn't about being the loudest voice or the most confident presence. It's about making people better, safer, more capable than they were before."

  Reese looked around at his teammates again, These people had accepted him despite knowing exactly what kind of man he was. They'd seen him at his lowest point, broken and terrified. And somehow they still found him worthy of their trust.

  But as the banter continued around them, Reese noticed something that made his blood run cold, a thin line of red trickling from the corner of Jarret's left eye, barely visible in the harsh beam of their flashlights.

  "Jarret," Reese said urgently, pointing to his eye. "You're bleeding."

  Jarret wiped the back of his hand across his face, looking at the crimson smear with casual indifference. "It's nothing."

  "Nothing?" Reese's voice cracked with concern. "You need to get back to camp immediately, get treated by Vincent—"

  "Vincent's busy with other people," Jarret cut him off, already turning back to the rats. "I'll get seen when there's time."

  The casual dismissal sent a spike of panic through Reese's chest. Jarret wasn't just his team leader, he was the closest thing to a mentor Reese had found in this underground hell.

  "But you're bleeding from your eyes," Reese pressed, unable to keep the desperation from his voice. "Vincent needs to prioritize—"

  "Vincent prioritizes the apostles," Stevens said with a slight smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Which works out fine for Jarret, so you don’t have to worry."

  The words hung in the tunnel air, and Reese stared at his leader with growing confusion. Around them, the rest of the team was exchanging small grins, weapons momentarily forgotten.

  "What does he mean?" Reese asked, looking at Jarret.

  Jarret's expression grew almost embarrassed, as if he'd revealed something he'd preferred to keep quiet. "He means I'm one of Vincent's apostles."

  Reese actually took a step backward, his eyes wide with shock.

  "You're an apostle?" he whispered, his voice filled with awe and confusion. "But you never... you don't act like..."

  "Like a giant asshole?" Jarret finished with a bitter laugh. "All that spiritual elevation bullshit? Yeah, that's not really my style."

  He shouldered his rifle again, clearly wanting to end the conversation and get back to the hunt. But Reese wasn't finished.

  "I don't understand," he said. "If you're an apostle, why are you out here hunting rats with us? Why aren't you back at camp with the other inner circle members?"

  Jarret's expression softened slightly, and for a moment, he looked older than his years, tired and worn down by responsibilities Reese couldn't imagine.

  "Because this is where I belong," he said simply. "I was with Vincent from the very beginning, back at Times Square, when everything first started falling apart. The group of survivors around Vincent naturally started calling themself apostles when we saw the miracles he could do, and somehow the name stuck. But unlike the others, I never bought into the messiah complex."

  He gestured around the tunnel, at the darkness that surrounded them, at the endless hunt for survival.

  "Vincent can heal people, and I am the first to have benefited from his gift. But whether that makes him divine or just... different? I don't know, and I don't particularly care. What I care about is keeping people alive, and making sure the work gets done."

  Reese felt his concern spike even higher. "You mean you've already been healed before?"

  "Five times already," Jarret admitted with a shrug that was clearly meant to appear casual but carried undertones of exhaustion. "The infection keeps coming back. Vincent heals me, I'm fine for a day or two, then the symptoms start again. It's becoming a pattern." He said half jokingly.

  The revelation hit Reese like a punch to the gut. His mentor, the man who had saved him from complete despair, was caught in a cycle of infection and healing that seemed to be getting worse with each iteration.

  "Five times?" Reese repeated, his voice hoarse with worry. "That's not normal, is it? What about the other apostles?"

  "Nothing about this place is normal. So far the others have been healed two or three times at most. Sarah has never been sick so far. She thinks that the closer you stay from Vincent and the less risk of getting infected you get. Which makes sense since I am always outside the camp. Too bad I don't believe in any of it." Jarret replied, but there was warmth in his voice as he looked at Reese's concerned expression. "I appreciate the worry though. It's good to know you care about me."

  "Of course I care," Reese said fiercely.

  Jarret's smile became genuine then, transforming his weathered features.

  "But what if Sarah is right?" Reese pressed. "What if the infection becomes too strong because you are too far from Vincent—"

  "Then I die," Jarret said matter-of-factly, checking his rifle one final time. "Same as everyone else down here. I am getting fed up with this supposed priority privilege, while everyone else is dying everyday. You do understand that I already exchanged five lives for mine, right?"

  A chill ran through Reese's body.

  "But until that happens," Jarret continued with a smile. "I'm going to keep doing my job. Keep my team alive. Keep hunting the bastards who trapped us down here."

  He looked directly at Reese, his expression serious but not unkind.

  "Besides, I'll be fine for another day. It's not ideal, but it's manageable."

  The casual acceptance of his situation, the matter-of-fact way he discussed his own potential death, only made Reese more determined to keep his mentor alive.

  11:15 a.m.

  The walk back to camp was subdued, each team member lost in their own thoughts. Reese found himself studying Jarret's style with new appreciation, the way he gave clear orders without being authoritarian, how he listened to input from his team members, the careful balance between decisive action and thoughtful planning.

  Jarret protected his team both in the field and in camp politics, advocating for their needs without drawing unnecessary attention to himself. Something Reese had learned to recognize over their time working together.

  As they approached the camp's outer perimeter, Reese noticed another thin line of blood trickling from Jarret's nose.

  "Jarret," he said quietly, "it's getting worse."

  "I know, "Jarret said, wiping the blood away. "But Vincent should be awake by now. Rebecca said he was just resting to restore his energy after healing people during the night."

  The casual acceptance still bothered Reese, but he also understood there was nothing more to be done until they reached camp.

  As they entered the station, Reese could hear raised voices echoing off the platform walls. But it wasn't Rebecca's voice or Vincent's that cut through the general bustle of daily life, it was Jake's. Sharp with desperation and growing anger.

  "She's been waiting four days!" Jake was shouting, his usual calm completely shattered. "You said everyone ahead of her would be treated within three days, and it's been four!"

  Reese felt his stomach clench with dread. They were talking about Dana.

  Sarah stepped forward, her clipboard held like a shield. "Jake, I understand your frustration, but the situation is more complicated than—"

  "She's dying!" Jake interrupted, his voice cracking with desperation. "And I know she didn’t accept treatment until everyone before her was healed. But you've healed them all now, haven't you? So why is she still waiting?"

  Sarah's expression softened with genuine sympathy, but her voice remained firm. "Jake, Dana's determination is admirable. You're right that we've healed everyone who was in line before her. but the priority system isn't just based on arrival time. We have to consider severity of symptoms and importance to camp operations."

  "Importance?" Jake's voice rose dangerously. "What does that even mean?"

  "It means," Rebecca interjected quietly, "that three members and two apostles developed symptoms worse than Dana's. They needed immediate attention."

  "So apostles get priority over everyone else?" Jake's hands clenched into fists. "Dana risks her life and you're telling me she has to wait because some apostle got sick?"

  "Jake," Sarah said firmly, "Vincent has been exhausted from healing. He needs rest between treatments to restore his energy. The apostles aren't just getting priority because of their status. Two of them can barely stand. Jonhatan hasn't been conscious for six hours. We're doing the best we can with limited resources."

  "Fuck your apostles!" Jake exploded, "Make her your priority right now!”

  Reese saw Jarret tense beside him, the team leader's protective instincts activating. When one of his people was in trouble, Jarret became a force of nature, calm, determined, and utterly relentless in pursuing solutions.

  "Sarah," Jarret said, his voice cutting through the argument with quiet authority. "I need Vincent to see Dana immediately. As an apostle, I'm requesting priority healing for her."

  Sarah's expression shifted, clearly caught off guard by Jarret's sudden claim of apostle status.

  "Jarret, I... ," she stammered, her bureaucratic confidence wavering. "Do you fully understand what it entails?"

  "I do," Jarret said firmly, wiping another trickle of blood from his nose.

  Sarah nodded quickly, clearly relieved to have a legitimate reason to escalate the situation. "I'll speak with Vincent immediately and explain the circumstances."

  Looking at Jarret's increasingly pale complexion, at the blood that kept appearing despite his efforts to hide it, Reese felt a chill of premonition.

  01:00 p.m.

  The medical car hit Reese in his guts the moment he stepped inside.

  The smell was the first assault, unwashed rotten bodies, that spoke of infection and decay. The sound was worse: labored breathing, quiet moans of pain, the whispered prayers of people who knew they were dying. And the sight... the sight was hell disguised as mercy.

  More than thirty people filled the converted train car, lying on makeshift beds constructed from torn seats and salvaged cushions. Some were conscious but barely responsive, their eyes clouded with fever and pain. Others lay motionless except for the shallow rise and fall of their chests. A few sat propped against the walls, too weak to lie down but too sick to stand.

  Children with the telltale bleeding eyes. Elderly people whose bodies couldn't fight the infection. Adults who'd been strong and healthy just days before, now reduced to waiting for a healing that might never come.

  Reese felt a surge of gratitude mixed with guilt, gratitude that he'd been spared this suffering, guilt that his good health felt like an undeserved privilege in a place where so many were dying.

  "Reese?" Nathan's voice was surprised, concerned. "What are you doing here?"

  "I wanted to check on Dana," Reese replied, his voice hoarse from the smell and emotion.

  Nathan's expression grew grim. "She's... not good. She has been burning all morning. I'm doing what I can, but..."

  He trailed off, the gesture of his hands encompassing all the inadequacy of their situation.

  Nathan led him deeper into the car, past rows of suffering humanity, to where Dana lay near the center of the space. And when Reese saw her, his breath caught in his throat.

  She looked like a stranger wearing Dana's face. The fever had carved years into her features, turning her skin gray and waxy. Dark circles ringed her eyes, and dried blood crusted around her nose and mouth. Her breathing was so shallow Reese had to watch for several seconds to confirm she was still alive.

  But even unconscious, even dying, she looked fierce. Her jaw was set with the same determination he'd seen when she'd challenged him, when she'd called him out on his lies and delusions. When she'd tried to save people from his arrogance.

  "Can she hear me?" Reese asked quietly.

  "Maybe. The fever's been making her delirious, but sometimes..." Nathan shrugged helplessly. "Sometimes it seems like she's listening."

  Reese knelt beside Dana's makeshift bed, studying her face in the dim light filtering through the grimy windows. He'd come here to apologize, to unburden himself of the guilt that had been eating him alive. But seeing her like this, so vulnerable and powerless… Something else rose up in his chest.

  Anger.

  Not at Dana, but at the unfairness of it all. At the infection that was killing her while he remained healthy. At the system that prioritized apostles over other human beings. At his own cowardice in waiting so long to face her.

  At himself, for being the kind of person who needed to apologize in the first place.

  "Dana," he said quietly, his voice barely audible over the sounds of suffering around them. Then something shifted in his mind, a memory of her strength, her defiance, the way she'd never backed down from a fight even when she was clearly outmatched.

  She wasn't the type to give up. She was the type to fight back, to channel anger into action, to turn rage into strength. And if that was what she needed to hear right now…

  "Is this really how you are going to end? Look at you! You're pathetic!" Reese said, not realising the pain in his voice.

  Nathan stepped closer, concern evident in his voice. "Reese, maybe you should—"

  "I know you hate me, I recognise the way you look at me, " Reese said, his voice growing stronger, more intense. "I know you can probably hear me, even now, and you're probably thinking about all the ways I fucked up, all the people who died because I was too proud to listen to you or your precious Mike."

  Her breathing didn't change, her eyes remained closed, but something in her posture seemed to shift slightly.

  "But you know what?" Reese continued, his voice rising with sudden passion. "I am the one standing up while you're giving up on life."

  He reached out, his hand hovering over her arm, not quite touching but close enough to feel the heat radiating from her fevered skin.

  "The Dana I know doesn't quit. She stands up. She fights." His voice was getting louder now, drawing concerned glances from other patients and volunteers. "She doesn't lay down and let some stupide infection take her without a word."

  He leaned closer to her ear, his voice dropping to an intense whisper. "I know how much you want to tell me how wrong I was," Reese continued, his voice growing more animated. "So get up and give it to me! Fight back against this and get back at me, Dana!"

  For a moment, nothing happened. Dana's breathing remained shallow, her face pale and drawn. But then, so subtly Reese almost missed it, her eyelids fluttered.

  "That's it," Reese said, excitement creeping into his voice. "Come on, Dana. You've got more fight in you than this."

  He raised his voice again, pouring all his frustration and guilt and desperate hope into his words. "Don't you dare die like a loser! Come up and tell me what a fucking failure I am. Stand back up and come punch me again! Show me what a real fighter looks like!"

  Dana's breathing seemed to quicken slightly, her head moving almost imperceptibly on the makeshift pillow.

  Around them, other patients were beginning to stir, drawn by the commotion. Nathan was looking increasingly concerned, clearly torn between stopping Reese and hoping his unconventional approach might actually work.

  And Dana's body began to respond.

  Her breathing deepened, and became more regular. Her hands, which had been lying limply at her sides, began to clench into fists. Color started to return to her cheeks, just the faintest hint of pink replacing the gray pallor of terminal illness.

  "Yes!" Reese exclaimed, his voice carrying across the medical car. "That's it! That's the Dana I know!"

  For several seconds, it seemed like a miracle was happening. Like his words had somehow reached through the fever and infection to kindle the fighting spirit that had always defined her. Like the sheer force of his guilt and desperation had been enough to pull her back from the brink.

  Dana's eyes fluttered open, just for a moment, and Reese could swear he saw recognition there. As if she'd heard every word and was gathering strength and rage to respond.

  Her lips moved, forming words too quiet to hear. Reese leaned closer, straining to catch whatever she was trying to say.

  And then she convulsed.

  Her entire body went rigid, back arching off the makeshift bed, hands clawing at the air. Her breathing became rapid and shallow, then deeper and more labored, as if she were fighting some internal battle that was tearing her apart from the inside.

  "Nathan!" Reese called out, panic replacing his earlier excitement. "Do something!"

  Nathan was already moving, dropping to his knees beside Dana's bed. "Reese, I need you to hold her! Keep her on the bed before she hurts herself!"

  Reese didn't hesitate. He climbed onto the makeshift bed, positioning himself over Dana, his hands gripping her shoulders firmly but carefully. She thrashed beneath him, her body convulsing with terrifying strength, and he had to lean his weight forward to keep her from throwing herself off the bed entirely.

  "Hold her arms," Nathan directed, his voice steady despite the urgency. "Don't fight the convulsions, just keep her safe."

  Reese shifted, his hands moving to Dana's upper arms, feeling the violent tremors running through her body. Her face was inches from his, twisted in pain and struggle, blood still seeping from her eyes and nose. Up close, he could see every detail of her suffering, feel every spasm that wracked through her frame.

  "Come on, Dana," he shouted, his voice raw. "Come on. Fight through this."

  Her breathing became more erratic, each gasp sounding like it might be her last. Reese could feel her pulse hammering beneath his grip, could feel the fever radiating from her skin like she was burning from the inside out.

  Dana's convulsions intensified for several more seconds, her body fighting against both the infection and Reese's hold. He held on, refusing to let go, anchoring her to the bed through sheer determination.

  And then, as suddenly as they'd begun, the seizures stopped.

  Her body went completely still and she stopped breathing entirely.