The Resort Medical Clinic was a small, sterile building tucked behind the main admin block, painted a calming white with blue trim.
Dr. Julian Aris sat on the examination table, clutching a clipboard. He wasn't examining a patient; he was examining his own hands. They were shaking so badly he couldn't hold a pen.
The door opened. Thomas Hayes stepped in.
"Doctor," Thomas said, closing the door behind him and locking it. "I saw the girl at the desk. I saw the black fluid. I've seen biological warfare drills in the Gulf. This isn't a 'local fever.' And I know about the Apex Project."
Aris looked up. He didn't ask how Thomas knew. He just looked defeated. "It was supposed to be a miracle, Colonel. We were trying to unlock the brain's hidden capacity for repair. The protein folding was perfect. But it... it jumped. It didn't just repair the neurons. It overclocked them."
"And what did you create?" Thomas asked, his hand resting on the heavy mag-lite he'd brought from the room.
"A predator," Aris whispered. "It targets the prefrontal cortex first—the empathy center. Then it hits the limbic system—the rage center. It strips away the humanity. It leaves the part that hunts. The part that survives."
"How long do we have?"
"The incubation is hours," Aris said, checking his watch. "The sweat. The tremors. Then the black nasal discharge—that's the cerebral spinal fluid breaking down. Once they hit the 'Frenzy,' they aren't your neighbors anymore. They are biological machines programmed for one thing: resource acquisition."
"Resource acquisition?" Thomas growled. "You mean eating us."
"I mean calories," Aris corrected. "Protein. Meat. They don't hate us, Colonel. That's the worst part. They don't feel hate. They just feel hunger."