It was barely human. The skin had turned gray like drowned flesh. Bruised fungal veins were pulsing beneath it, branching outward in search of space. In some parts where the dermis had been pierced through, wept thin trails of fluid that clotted under sunlight.

  Flowerings had torn the body apart. Stalks of them burst from the eye sockets, from the mouth, from the caved-in ribs, and a lower half that had melted like wax. These thick, leathery petals, surfaces smeared with soil, blood, and flesh, exuded a sour, metallic smell that seeped even through Naomi’s respirator mask. Each of them had a gaping mouth, ringed with fine, translucent teeth sharp as pins. They stirred to motion and warmth, snapping shut when touched.

  She crouched beside the remains. The stench was vile. Rotten meat and fecal matter, cut with sickly sweetness that might have come from the corpse or the fungal marrow, she couldn’t quite tell. Either way, the blooming phase had consumed it fully. Nothing left resembled a person anymore.

  The flowerings were slashed without hesitation, a lesson learned once. Now all that remained was to harvest the gem before the blooming cycle began again.

  She inspected the chest cavity. A blade was in hand, hovering over the base of the neck, right between the clavicles, its tip already angled down.

  She drew a breath, hissing through the filter, and began the incision.

  The first cut barely sank, so she drove harder, slicing the outer lining with short, forceful strokes. Then working the knife’s tip under the edge, she levered it against the bone. Once, twice, until the stone finally popped free with a wet squelch.

  After retrieving, Naomi held it high. Sunlight caught the gem and shimmered in a fiery ruby. Compared to the gore around it, it had a clear brilliance, the same sharp glint as her own red eyes.

  “Another fire red,” she muttered, “looks pretty.”

  She slipped it into her satchel hanging by her waist, wiped the blade on the dead man’s shirt, and stood.

  Seven years in the desert wasteland had made Naomi adept at scavenging, even though she was only twenty-four. Her father had taught her everything she knew. From prying gems from the dead, to how to make one ration last for a week among 13 people. Until the desert took him, and she had to step forward to assume his duties.

  Around her, her bunker family was all bent to their own recoveries. She counted them out of habit—eight. Safe.

  Then she scanned the horizon. The dunes in the distance wavered like shifting bands from the heat, but no sandstorm was in sight. No whirring of wings, nor beast stirring from beneath the sands. All she could hear was the wind howling, and her own breath rasping back through the mask. It had been four hours, and the desert was still.

  She heard boots crunch behind her and turned. Naomi saw Fran trudging toward her, broad shoulders hunched under the heat. He was a burly man, a few years older than her, with a semi-bald head, sweat gleaming on his sunburnt crown. Blue eyes fixed on her with a steady look.

  “How many?” she shouted, with a hand shading her eyes from the sun.

  Fran raised two thick fingers.

  Before he reached her side, she brushed her short brown hair, slicked with sweat, away from her forehead. She caught sight of the faint haze rising. Spores, suspended in the air like dust motes dancing in sunlight. Beautiful. She ran her hands through them and noticed they’re denser now. Tugging her mask tighter, she spoke loud enough for the others across the dig site to hear.

  “Last hour, everyone! Spores are thickening, filters won’t last!”

  The group paused at their pits, nodding, and picked up their paces with shovels and pickaxes.

  Fran reached her and stood beside, eyes on the gems bulging in her satchel. “Fire reds?”

  “Yup.” She tapped the bag. “Third one for me today.” She counted the gems mentally. “But still not enough for tomorrow.”

  “Never is,” Fran grunted, rubbing his neck where it started to ache.

  She agreed with a silent nod.

  Fran crouched at the edge of a shallow pit Naomi had made, driving his shovel into the sand to resume the dig.

  “You ever wonder,” she said, pointing at the satchel, “what these actually were? Before we started digging them up like this.” She joined the dig from a meter away. “Corpses everywhere with gems inside them. Do you think we have one as well?”

  “Don’t overthink it.” Fran shoved the tool into the grit. “Better think of them as batteries. Break open the dead, and use it for us, the living.”

  “I still like to think they were special. Like they said, magic.” She whispered the last couple of words.

  “Well, if magic existed… then we must have killed it.”

  Before Naomi could answer, another voice cut in, bright and amused.

  “Hello, friends!”

  Naomi turned to see Jonas picking his way toward them, boots thrashing up sand. He was lean where Fran was broad, his long, dark curly hair held in place by a headband and tied back in a ragged knot. Sweat streaked down his temples, glasses hanging by the neck of his shirt. A smile can be seen from behind his mask, like the desert heat was nothing.

  “So, how many?” Naomi asked.

  He flashed a crooked grin and held up two fingers. “But wait.” He reached for his pocket and took out storm blues and scoffed. “Which, as you know, are worth more than those precious fire reds.”

  Naomi groaned and tossed a handful of sand his way. “I only got three fire.”

  Fran raised his hand. “One fire and a sunset yellow.”

  “And I’ve got two blues for three counts each,” Jonas said, crouching beside Fran to join the dig with his gloved hands. “Which sums up to 11 just from the three of us. Sounds good to me, considering we haven’t gotten much the past week.”

  “But tomorrow’s rationing,” Fran grunted.

  “We’ll make the usual rations work. Don’t worry.” Naomi gave a smile before she shoveled into the sand with a heavy thunk, grains cascading down. They all closed their eyes and waited for it to settle before digging again.

  Minutes dragged by as they dug, heavy breaths in rhythm with the scraping of tools. Sweat dripped down from everyone, darkening their tops from the collar down, but nothing surfaced again. Not a shine of a gem.

  Naomi leaned on her shovel, scanning the pit they were making, when she heard a soft hum. She frowned. “Please, don’t you guys even try to sing. You’ll call the rain.”

  The two ignored her. Fran kept working, jaw tight, shovel piercing deeper with each stroke. Jonas switched back to using his hands, muttering curses when the grit slipped through his gloves.

  Naomi listened again for a second, and there was nothing. She scoffed. “That’s right.”

  The silence stretched.

  Only the clink of metal and the soft rustle of shifting sands broke the stillness. Words were scarce across the dig site. An hour left of the filters rendered everyone focused despite of the heat.

  Another hum, and Naomi perked.

  It was barely a sound. A tremble, more than anything. Low and thin, as if the breeze that howled shivered. She paused, one hand steadying her shovel. The two beside her didn’t seem to hum a song.

  She listened more intently. Maybe it was her filter whistling, or maybe just the wind.

  But it persisted.

  “Do you guys hear that hum?”

  Jonas shook his head while Fran listened.

  The vibration deepened. Not louder, but steadier.

  Naomi stood, eyes scanning around. She saw it first.

  The first shovel stopped. Then another. The scrape of tools died out one by one until silence rippled through the site.

  They turned toward the horizon.

  A dark mass churned along the edge of the sky.

  Naomi’s first thought was a sandstorm, one of those brutal clouds of grit that flayed the skin like broken glass. If it was, they had to finish up quickly.

  Then it grew louder. The lands didn’t shake, the dunes held still, and yet a shadow continued to swell across the red lands.

  The pitch shifted—higher now. A sharper note that made her teeth ache and the hairs at the back of her neck rise.

  Not a sandstorm.

  Worse.

  “ROVER!” Naomi shouted. “NOW!”

  Panic erupted. Bodies scrambled. Boots slipped. Ochre sand kicked up as they bolted.

  Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author.

  The shadow broke apart—revealing thousands of iridescent wings whirring in unison, turning the sky into a smear of color and noise.

  It was not the kind that devoured crops. These were fist-sized, mandibles clicking, eyes glinting in the sun like polished stone. They fed on meat.

  Locusts.

  Naomi turned and ran, counting heads as they passed her. They hauled themselves onto the dune rover, boots thudding against the hull, as they vanished through the open door.

  “That’s seven.”

  She spun—someone was missing.

  A scream.

  Luke. The lanky teen, still out there, hacking at a gem lodged in bone like it was the only thing that could save him.

  Her father’s warning flickered in her head: The desert takes before it feeds.

  “Luke! Drop the shiny!”

  “I almost got it!” He wrenched the gem free and stumbled, tripping over limbs, the swarm closing in.

  “Oh, for—” Naomi ripped off her mask and tools, snatching a rusted sheet of metal from inside the rover. “Fran!”

  “Got it.” He hurled one of the fire extinguishers over to her.

  Seconds. That’s all they had.

  Naomi closed the rover door shut, launched herself toward Luke, tackled him, and curled her arms around his head. They hit the sand hard, meters from the vehicle. She held the metal sheet between them and the swarm, as the first locusts struck.

  The metal sheet took the brunt of it, clanging like bells. She twisted, trying to angle it toward the worst of them.

  Too slow.

  One got through. Mandibles had snipped at her exposed skin.

  Grunting held back her scream as blood ran down her shoulder. The sting spread, grip slickened, vision narrowed, but she held it firmer.

  Luke sobbed onto her chest, clutching the gem like a charm.

  Her fingers fumbled for the extinguisher. She found it quick, thumbed the trigger, and sprayed.

  A burst of chemical fog hissed.

  The swarm recoiled, wings crisping, sending the front ones falling dead or shrieking backward.

  Naomi dragged Luke toward the vehicle in two swoops. Fran pulled them up and slammed the steel door shut. A few seconds later, the locusts clattered against it like knives.

  Then… silence.

  Naomi gasped. Her lungs burned from holding her breath for almost three minutes. For a moment, she felt light, the pulse in her ears pounding. Her body weakened, sliding down the wall until she dropped on the floor.

  Fran kneeled beside her and noticed something had taken root.

  “Nao. There are black veins…” Fran frowned as he wiped her arm, stopping the bleeding.

  “Is it that bad?” Looking at Fran’s frowning face, she knew it was. “Burn it,” she added.

  Fran hesitated for a moment before asking for a blowtorch.

  He traced the veins with the fire, each tiny thread coiling and dissipating like burnt hair. The smell hit first—charred skin and rot. Naomi gritted her teeth, grunting, sweat beading on her forehead, as the searing raced along her left bicep. Wherever the flame passed, the roots shriveled, curling away from the fire.

  Fran hastily bandaged the wound. “This is temporary, disinfect it again at home.”

  Naomi nodded, her gaze falling on Luke. She stared at him. Pitying what she saw.

  That look. The same one she wore years ago. A greedy fool.

  The boy watched the scene take place with wide eyes, colors drained from his face.

  Fran locked eyes with him. “Next time, when Nao says rover,” he pushed Luke’s shoulder with a finger, “you get into the fucking rover.”

  Luke flinched, fingers tightening around the gem.

  “It was a storm blue!” he shouted. “Are you forgetting what this could buy us? We miss the fourth week of ration every time!”

  Jonas’ voice cut through from the driver’s seat. “That was still not worth it, Luke. Did you forget what happened to Dan? You nearly got yourself and Nao killed.”

  Luke could not say anything. His lips trembled, his hands shook, as a few drops of tears fell, still clutching at the precious gem.

  The engine started, and Naomi leaned back. She recalled past events when they had gone home injured or worse. Maybe the desert had been quiet for long. She had almost forgotten that it was the same wasteland, the same Sea of Decay that took her parents. Almost.

  ***

  A middle-aged woman strode down an empty corridor, stilettoes clacking in even bursts. The polished, sectioned walls refracted numerous figures of this immaculate woman. Her blonde, bob-cut hair was cropped to a millimeter, a royal blue peplum blouse and skirt creased without flaw, and a velvety red lip. Although vibrant, her colors were flattened into the same clinical palette as the pale, sterile lights overhead.

  As she rounded the corner, a bald man in a lab coat approached with a tablet in hand.

  “Dr. Colt,” she greeted, tucking her hair behind her ear. “How is it?”

  “Madam Winslet,” he said, handing the tablet over. “Rogan is doing—”

  Her expression hardened, heels scraped to a sudden stop.

  Colt flinched, nodding quickly. “S-specimen Zero. It’s been… a difficult twenty-four hours, Madam.”

  They resumed the walk.

  “It’s showing accelerated adaptation despite being asleep. These filaments—neuron-like, if you want to call them that—they’re… copying. Objects it’s never touched, only seen. A kettle. A knife. Even something small, like a brooch.”

  Winslet did not reply, only let out a hum.

  “We can communicate with,” Colt cleared his throat, “the specimen. It responds through these filaments. We can expect the host to wake up within a day or two.”

  The woman simply quickened her pace. When they reached the end of the corridor, a steel door loomed ahead, protected by biometric scanners and layered magnetic locks. After just a flick of a wrist and a retinal scan, the system hissed open.

  The lab welcomed them, circular and tiered, with machines humming. Transparent displays floated mid-air, with streaming codes of cell patterns, fluctuating vitals, shifting in real time.

  A glass cylinder chamber stood at the center of the room, a seamless capsule from an elevated floor to a lowered ceiling, with thick wires running from the bottom of it to the computers.

  Inside, a man in a lab coat sat hunched on the illuminated floor, barefoot. His eyes were open, but he was motionless. His skin was pallid, with veins pulsing beneath it visibly. From his back, fine threads of white and gray crept along the floor and walls, as if curious. It tested every curve, recoiling slightly at contact, before wandering again.

  Winslet stepped closer, her reflection warping across the curved glass.

  “He’s awake,” Dr. Colt murmured behind her.

  The figure in the chamber stood up and lifted his head in a slow, fluid motion. His eyes were clouded. Empty.

  The tendrils froze, recoiled, and unraveled once again.

  “Beautiful…” Winslet muttered, as if in awe. Her expression remained flat, yet her fingers tightened around the edge of the tablet.

  Dr. Colt swallowed behind her.

  She spoke without turning. “When did the symbiote start showing mimicry?”

  “A-around ten hours ago,” Colt replied.

  Inside the chamber, the man tilted his head, as if mirroring Colt’s movements. Then his eyes, unblinking, locked onto Winslet.

  A long stare was in between them, then from inside came a smirk. Winslet could feel the mocking in its silence.

  She looked away, and a high-pitched tone blared, blinking red across the lab. A warning flashed across the displays:

  COGNITIVE RESONANCE DETECTED

  Specimen ID: 000

  Stimulus Origin: Undefined / External Vector

  THRESHOLD FOR SELF-AWARENESS: 98.8%

  Projected Breach: Delayed – Feedback Loop Stabilized

  For a second, no one moved.

  “Hold state. Freeze everything. Now.” Winslet’s voice cut through.

  The room erupted into motion. Researchers scrambled. Displays blinked out. The lab shifted to emergency lighting, casting the room in a sterile yellow glow.

  Inside the chamber, it blinked once. A tremor started from his toes upward, its body convulsing. It couldn’t contain the tremble, causing it to fall on its knees.

  Winslet’s gaze steadied on him.

  As the trembling stopped, another warning displayed on the screen:

  THRESHOLD FOR SELF-AWARENESS: 100% [ COMPLETE ]

  She closed her eyes and inhaled slowly, letting the silence stretch, and exhaled in relief.

  “Finally.” She chuckled low. “We’re past the plateau.”

  “Y-you’re not concerned, Madam?”

  “I was worried it wouldn’t make the leap,” she said, calm as glass. Her fingers loosened from the tablet edge. “But look at it. It’s waking up. That’s not a threat, Doctor. It’s different from the ones before.”

  Winslet stared at the capsule, studying the inside like a work of art. The man’s head slumped, kneeling still.

  Then the body jerked. His stomach convulsed, bile surged up, splashed onto the glass, and dripped down. A wet, choking retch followed, strings of fluid clinging to his lips as he coughed and heaved. His shoulders quaked, every inhale ragged. Drool mixed with vomit slid from his mouth to his chin, spilling to the floor.

  The man continued to heave, trying to focus his vision on the woman in front.

  A few seconds later, through the thick barrier, a sound crackled over the intercom feed. A voice. Dry, hoarse, but unmistakably human.

  “Winslet…” He knew, even in his smearing vision.

  “Zero.” There was a small tug at the edge of her lips. “You can speak.”

  “You always hated calling me by name…” He muttered a laugh. “And now Zero.”

  Instead of replying, she checked his vitals on the tablet she held. Winslet tilted her head slightly back at the man, like she was studying a specimen in a jar.

  “I was a series of numbers once.” The man scoffed. “But now…”

  “Well, that means you are the beginning,” she replied dismissively.

  “The beginning of what? Your madness?” He frowned. “You reduced me to nothing, filed, reclassified, everything I’ve worked for, buried under protocol!” He struck the capsule wall with his fist. The tendrils reacted instantly, splaying out before curling again.

  Colt stepped back, thinking distance could make him safe.

  “You were never buried,” Winslet replied evenly. “You were transformed. All our work will finally be used for something… evolutionary!”

  He scoffed. “Evolutionary… your control project?”

  She took a slow step closer. “You think this is about control? Control was two iterations ago.” She pointed at him. “This is progress. Aren’t you glad that you are a part of it?”

  “You’re mad.” A long breath escaped him. “You’re just branding it as science. This is madness, Winslet.”

  Winslet let out a low laugh. “You’re wrong.” She replied, almost kindly.

  Turning away from the capsule, she gave the tablet to Colt. “Run the profiles.”

  Colt blinked. “P-profiles, Madam? Of whom?”

  “All the adults in every bunker,” she said, already moving for the door.

  “W-what exactly are we—”

  “We’ll need more.” Winslet didn’t slow. “If they can do this unpredictably…” She let the thought hang.

  “...imagine what they could do with intent.”

  I'm also doing very slow updates for now, until the start of April, it'll be 1 chapter a week. :>