Alon remembered that he did not remember. The rest was drifting away from him, vanishing into the sea of agony rising high within his chest. He looked around, groggy and uncertain.

He didn’t know where he was, only that it was not where he had been.

He tried to move, but he couldn’t. Looking down, he found himself covered by a pale gown, with restraints binding his limbs. He was upright, mostly, strapped to a flat, steeply angled surface. Bright lights flared in the ceiling, making him wince.

He coughed, and his cough was fire in his chest. It felt like his ribs had been sliced through. He blinked his eyes to adjust to the light. There was something on top of his head. Something lightweight and curved. Shaking his head, he tried to fling it off, but he couldn’t. Something was holding his head in place, keeping him facing forward.

And not just him.

Alon wasn’t alone. Far from it. The room was filled with people, and nearly all of them were bound, just like him. Many metal tables were laid out on the floor, their wheeled feet bound in place. Gowned people were strapped onto the tables, which had been tilted until they were nearly vertical, and then rolled up to the wall, one next to another, forming a forest of pain.

People coughed, moaned, cried, screamed. Alon saw faces and limbs ravaged by ulcers and sores. Black lightning spidered beneath their skin.

There were dome-like devices on their heads, studded with… with…

Wires?

Was that the word?

Whatever they were, they were plugged into machines at the tables’ sides.

Off to the side, there was a transparent wall with a door in it, separating a part of the room from the rest, though it was difficult to see, because it was at the corner of his vision.

Suddenly, Alon remembered he could scream.

Screaming felt like the right thing to do here, so Alon did, only for a man in dark armor to walk up and stuff something slick and smooth in his mouth. It made him unable to close his jaws. He had to breathe through his nose.

And the same thing was happening to the others.

Alon raged, kicking and screaming—or, at least, he tried to, but it came out muffled and impotent.

A few of the metal tables had been left out in the middle of the room. Various devices were loaded on top of most of them, and on the counters along the walls.

One of the tables had a young woman strapped onto it. A girl, really. Her hair was done strangely, strung up with sea-blue beads.

Something in Alon told him that that wasn’t what a girl’s hair ought to look like. Something else told him that he ought to care for her, because she was like… someone important.

Someone he knew.

The girl’s table was level to the ground, and, unlike all the other captives, she didn’t seem to be conscious. Like the others, she was in restraints, only hers were metal chains.

“What are you going to do with the girl?”

The voice came from one of the figures standing near the middle of the room. The speaker was tall and imposing, and decked in black armor. He was addressing a middle-aged man in a strange yellow body-suit. Both had see-through helmets on their heads.

“Honestly,” the man in yellow said, “I have no idea.” He turned to the girl, and then looked up at the man in black. “Those powers she displayed, that’s… they’re not supposed to be physically possible. She boiled that soldier alive. She boiled the blood in his veins. At this point, I wouldn’t be surprised if she could shoot lightning out of her hands.”

“You think I don’t know that?” the man in black replied. “That’s what folks like you are for. We can’t deal with it if we don’t understand it.”

“There aren’t any tests for this kind of thing, sir. The best we can do is hook her up to the electroencephalogram and the neuroimager and see what happens.”

The man in black crossed his arms. “Is there a chance she’s turning into one of those creatures, like Private Sylar?”

The man in yellow shook his head. “No, sir. She has a Type One infection. Type One and Type Two appear to be mutually exclusive. You get one or the other, not both.”

The man in black nodded. “Well… maybe Sylar can help you unravel this mystery.”

The man in yellow looked down at his feet for a moment, and then looked the man in black in the eyes.

“Permission to speak freely, sir?”

The man in black nodded. “Permission granted.”

The man in yellow pointed at the far side of the room. “If you’re willing to trust these demons, you’ve lost your marbles.”

“Some people might say I’ve already passed that line by experimenting on people like this,” the man in black said. “Say what you will, Dr. Ironshard, at least Private Sylar volunteered. He wants to serve his country. Or what’s left of it.”

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Country? Alon thought, not remembering.

It hurt, not being able to remember.

“General Marteneiss, Sir,” the man in yellow said, “with all due respect, Private Curtis Sylar is dead.” He pointed. “That thing is a Norm in human clothing!”

Alon tried his best to look at what the man in yellow—Ironshard—was pointing at. Trembling with effort, Alon was just barely able to make out a man—in a gown, much like his own—standing on the far side of the room. This Private Sylar had short hair and a kind, but nervous face, and of all the people in the room wearing that gown, he was the only one who wasn’t restrained.

The man in black glanced at the Private warily, as if he was someone to be feared. And then, Sylar turned, and Alon understood why.

One of his eyes was not human. It was a featureless eyeball, glistening and golden. And he had a… a thing trailing behind him, through a hole in his gown.

It was… unnatural.

“I thought you were a man of science, Albert,” the man in black—General Marteneiss—said.

Alon focused back on their conversation.

“I am, Sir,” Dr. Ironshard replied. “But… this goes beyond science.”

“What do you mean?” the General asked.

“If you ask me,” Ironshard said, “we need chaplains, not laboratories. And maybe a couple of templars, too. We’re dealing with the supernatural, and only a fool would think you could find rhyme or reason behind the supernatural. If you could, it wouldn’t be supernatural. That’s the whole fucking point!”

“Ironshard,” the General said, “your job is to try to find a rational explanation. You might be right, there might not be a rational explanation for all this, but we can’t know for sure unless we look and try to find out.”

“I’m telling you,” Ironshard said, “this is a fool’s errand.”

“Noted,” the General said. “Anything else?”

“What are you going to do when he stops being human?” Ironshard asked. “All our reports indicate that these ‘transformees’ eat people. The more they eat, the more they change.”

“Your point?” the General asked. “Those same reports also indicate the transformees maintain their sense of self.”

“Sir, that’s exactly what the demons want us to think. Of course the monsters would claim they were the same people they used to be. They want to catch us off guard.”

“Lieutenant,” the General replied, “with Gant dead and the Diet overrun, Upper Command is all that remains of the Trenton government. And, Angel’s breath, they all think just like you. Fredericks, even Coldhope—they all think the answer lies in scripture.”

“Because it does!” Ironshard snapped. He pointed at the girl in the metal chains. “For all we know, this girl might be one of the fucking Blessèd! There have been reports of them popping up all over the place. These go back weeks. And then there’s the UFOs. The one over Polovia. The one down the coast, months ago. These are the Last Days, General Marteneiss, it’s all coming together.”

“The Blessèd are supposed to fight Hell,” the General said, “not get infected by it! Be rational about this, Ironshard. We’re putting all our eggs in one basket if we all try the same tactics against this thing, and Angel help us if turns out we picked the wrong fucking basket! No one else is trying to work with the transformees.

The scientist scoffed. “Before they’re even halfway changed—sometimes even sooner—the transformees start breathing out clouds of spores. The clouds melt our tech, and everything else. In mere minutes, a Norm can make the surrounding air incompatible with life as we know it.Y ou’ll fall into a coma within a minute, maybe less. It’ll kill our own test subjects, assuming ‘Private Sylar’ doesn’t eat them, first.”

“I’d need to put a lot of ketchup on you before I even thought of eating you,” Private Sylar said.

“Private, don’t back-sass the Lieutenant,” General Marteneiss said. “He’s still your superior.”

“Understood, sir.”

“See? He’s coöperative,” the General said, turning to face Ironshard. “Why can’t you be like that?”

“Because what happens to my soul is a hell of a lot more important than what happens to my body,” the scientist replied.

“It’s our job to save lives, Lieutenant, not souls,” Marteneiss replied. “We fight for people, not ideas.” The General sighed, briefly fogging up the inside of his visor. “As for your concerns,” he added, “I won’t deny them, but… we’ll cross that bridge when we get to it. Now, is there anything else, or are you ready to carry out your orders?”

The scientist thought for a moment, and then nodded. “Actually, yes,” he said. “I’d like to go on the record as saying I disagree with the course of action you have chosen. I think it’s a fool’s errand, and it’s going to end badly.”

“If I go down,” the General said, “let me go down in flames—preferably worthy ones. Until then, I owe it to my country and to my brothers and sisters in arms to do what I can while I can. Now, get to work.” He turned to the transformee. “You have your orders, Private.”

“Yes, sir,” the two men said.

They saluted the General as he stepped out into an adjacent room.

Several other men stepped into Alon’s view. They wore black, like the General, and they followed in his footsteps, too, leaving the room and closing the door behind them until all but two remained.

Two, and Dr. Ironshard.

Raising his hand, Ironshard walked through the door in the transparent wall, and the men in black followed suit, sealing the door behind them once they reached the other side.

“Ready to get started?” the Private asked.

Dr. Ironshard made the… some kind of sign. Alon had memories of two women making that sign. He didn’t know who they were, but he found himself worrying about them.

The scientist turned toward Private Sylar. “You might have duped General Marteneiss,” he said, “but I’m not so easily fooled. I don’t trust you, demon. I don’t, and I never will.”

The Private crossed his arms. “I’m the only one here who can safely neutralize the zombies.” He looked over at the people in restraints. “If they all turn feral, I’m the one who’s going to buy you time to escape.”

“Couldn’t we just shoot them, sir?” one of the men in black asked.

Dr. Ironshard stomped his foot. “No, dammit! It’s like I told the General. The patterns we’ve seen suggest the zombies are a defense mechanism. The demons don’t want us interfering in their plans.” He glared at Private Sylar for a moment. “We thought the ordinary infected were bad, with their bodily fluids becoming caustic as soon as they’re exposed to the air, but then we found out the stuff turns caustic inside them once they go feral, just like you’d expect from a defense mechanism. At this point, I’d be willing to bet that they’re turning feral because we’re shooting at them. And, you know what, they certainly aren’t shooting people here at West Elpeck Medical.” He huffed. “Listen: we’re here to study why WeElMed’s patients aren’t becoming zombies. I don’t care if the Moonlight Queen herself inscribed this miracle onto the Tablets of Destiny. I’m not going to test my luck by giving every beasteaten Type One case in the hospital complex a reason to go feral.”

“You realize I still need to eat, don’t you?” Private Sylar said.

“I’m well aware,” Ironshard replied. “I’ll have something for you once we’re done with this experiment. Do as you’re told, and you’ll get fed, and I won’t have you pumped full of lead. I respect the chain of command, even when I don’t agree with it. But, I swear,” the scientist pointed in anger, “if I catch you so much as nibbling on one of the test subjects, you will be terminated.”

Alon didn’t quite understand what they were talking about.

Zombies?

And yet… somehow, the brief exchange filled him with dread. His heart raced in his chest. Every beat was like a hammer against his aching ribs.

“So,” Sylar asked, “are you ready, or what?”

Ironshard walked over to a tall device built against the wall, one with many glowing surfaces, one of which he tapped.

“Introducing Subject A to the enclosure.”