I look down. The orb is still stuck to my hand. I try to shake it off, but it’s anchored, like it’s part of me now. Thin, wire-like tendrils are pushing into my palm, threading under the skin. It doesn’t hurt. But watching it happen is enough to make my stomach turn. It feels invasive. Wrong.
Then—flashing red and blue lights.
A police cruiser pulls into the parking lot, headlights sweeping across the sand. Someone must’ve seen the fight and called it in.
Shit.
I freeze. If I move, will I break whatever spell is keeping these things from finishing me off? They’ve left me alone since the orb latched on, but that could change in an instant.
But if they go for the cops? No way they’re walking out alive. And when it’s over, I’ll be the guy standing here with a smoking gun, a dead mutant shark on the beach, and a metal parasite drilled into his arm. That’s not exactly a story the cops are going to believe. “It was a zombie shark, officer.” Sure.
The sharks shift again. Slow, predatory. And then they break formation.
One charges straight toward the police cruiser—direct, aggressive, drawing attention. The other two peel off wide, slipping low, circling out to the sides.
Flanking. Classic pack-hunter behavior. Raptors, Jurassic Park-style. They’re smarter than they look. The first one’s the distraction. The other two are the kill shot.
The cops won’t see it coming.
No more time to hesitate.
I raise my weapon. Aim for the nearest flanker. Four quick shots, crisp and controlled, hammer into the back of the lead shark’s head. It drops hard, kicking up a spray of sand as it crumples.
Pivot. The second shark’s further out, using distance for cover. I adjust, aim low, and put a bullet through its knee joint. It stumbles, crashes forward, but keeps moving. Another shot into its back, center mass. No hesitation, no slowing down.
One down. Two still coming. Relentless.
I glance toward the squad car, willing the cops to notice, to react, to do something. But even if they do, I can’t count on them to stop these things. They’re not ready for this. Hell, I wasn’t ready for this.
And the orb… it's not done with me. The wires are burrowing deeper. The surface pulses, shrinking by degrees, as if it’s sinking into me, becoming part of me. Tendrils crawling up my wrist, toward my brain—or so it feels.
I don’t have time to panic. First priority: stop those sharks. After that, figure out how to get this alien tumor off me.
But right now, it’s me or those cops.
And I’m not letting anyone else die tonight.
Chapter X: The Orb and the Hunt
For a moment, I don’t realize why the sharks have suddenly stopped circling me. The beach is quiet—too quiet. The three creatures move in eerie synchrony, gliding in slow, deliberate arcs, perfectly timed, not even a twitch out of place. The unnatural precision makes my skin crawl. They’re connected. They have to be.
I glance down. The orb is still stuck to my hand, embedded there like it's becoming a permanent part of me. Thin, wire-like tendrils are forcing their way into my palm, threading beneath the skin. It doesn’t hurt, but watching it happen is enough to make my stomach twist in revulsion. It feels invasive. Wrong.
Then—flashes of red and blue lights.
A police cruiser swings into the parking lot, headlights sweeping the sand, slicing through the night air. Someone must have seen the earlier fight and called it in.
Shit.
I freeze. If I move, will I break whatever spell is keeping these things from finishing me off? They’ve ignored me ever since the orb latched on, but that could change in an instant.
But if those creatures reach the cops, no way the officers survive. And when it's over, I’ll be the guy standing on the beach with a smoking gun, a dead mutant shark at my feet, and a metallic parasite drilled into his arm. I can already imagine trying to explain this: “It was a zombie shark, officer.” Yeah, right.
The sharks shift again. Slow, predatory. Suddenly, they break formation.
One charges straight toward the police cruiser—aggressive, direct, grabbing attention. The other two peel wide, slipping low, circling outward to flank.
Classic pack-hunter behavior. Raptors. Jurassic Park-style. They’re smarter than they look. The first one's the distraction, and the other two are the real kill team.
The cops won’t see it coming.
No more time to hesitate.
I raise my weapon, aiming at the nearest flanker. Four quick shots, crisp and controlled, hammer into the back of the shark’s skull. It drops hard, kicking up sand as it crumples.
Pivot. The second shark’s further out, using distance for cover. I adjust quickly, aim low, and put a bullet through its knee joint. It stumbles, crashes forward, but keeps moving. Another shot into its back, center mass. It jerks violently but doesn’t slow.
One down. Two still moving. Relentless.
I glance toward the squad car, willing the cops to notice, to react. But even if they do, I can’t count on them stopping these things. They’re not ready for this.
Hell, I wasn’t ready for this.
And the orb… it’s far from done with me. The wires burrow deeper. Its surface pulses, shrinking incrementally, as if sinking into me, becoming part of me. Tendrils crawl up my wrist toward my brain—or so it feels.
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No time for panic. First priority: stop the sharks. After that, find a way to get this alien tumor off.
But right now, it's them or those cops.
I slap in a fresh mag, the cold metallic click sharp in the night air. No time to breathe. I move quickly, low and quiet, tracking behind the two remaining sharks as they zero in on the officers.
Passing the corpse of the shark I took down, its massive body is a mess, head half-gone from gunfire. Something catches my eye—a strange, golden glimmer pulsing deep within the shredded remains of its skull.
My hand moves on its own. Like a puppet with strings pulled taut, I stumble off stride. My arm drags me straight into the gore. My fingers plunge into sticky, shredded flesh, and there—nestled inside—is more of that gold substance.
It’s mesmerizing. The liquid metal pours off the dead shark’s ruined tissue, writhing like ants swarming from a ruptured anthill, all rolling toward the orb on my infected hand.
The tumor.
As it makes contact, the orb swells. Pulses. A faint digital flicker flashes across my vision—an interface? No, a symbol.
A percentage.
5%.
It ticks upward.
6%.
What the actual fuck?
I try to pull away, but the flow holds me fast. It’s like the dead shark is feeding me—feeding it.
Automatic gunfire cracks from the cop car, snapping my attention upward. At least they've realized this isn’t some drunken brawl. Good. Finally.
The two surviving sharks react instantly. About twenty feet down the beach, they pivot—not in panic, but with terrifying precision. Their bodies shift grotesquely. Bones snap audibly, reshaping as their thighs flatten, stretching into muscular fins. Their arms collapse, becoming broad, flat paddles as fingers fuse into glistening cartilage and sinew.
The transformation is seamless. Horrifying.
In seconds, they're no longer hybrids lumbering across sand—they've evolved into something sleek, deadly, fully aquatic. With a fluid, graceful motion, they dive into the surf, slicing through the waves like living torpedoes, vanishing beneath the surface without a trace.
Clever bastards. They're not beaten, just regrouping.
My attention snaps back down. The golden metal fully absorbs into my hand, the orb pulsing larger, denser, tightening tendrils constricting around my skin. Then, as if its purpose is complete, the shark's corpse collapses inward.
Not falling—imploding.
Its mechanical limbs fold inward with a sickening crunch, the bizarre flesh liquefying, flowing into a sludgy goo. Seconds later, it’s nothing but a decomposing, bloated lump, indistinguishable from a long-dead tiger reef shark rotting on the sand.
But I know better.
This isn’t over.
Not even close.
By the time I’m closing in on my mansion, I’ve got two things on my mind:
- How the hell to get this tumor off my arm.
- And how long until those cops realize the “animal attack” doesn’t add up.
Because they will. And next time, they'll be coming with more than pistols.
I hear the cops behind me. Radio chatter spikes—short, clipped commands. “Subject moving south!” They’ve spotted the corpse, focusing their attention on the bloated remains of the shark-thing. Maybe, for a moment, they'll think it’s just some mutilated animal.
But that hope dies quick. Because it's not just the shark.
There’s also a man—a fisherman—lying motionless near the waterline, half-buried in sand. His skull’s been opened up by a clean headshot—mine. In the chaos, I barely registered him going down. Now, in the cold clarity of aftermath, the implications hit hard.
That’s a body. A human body.
When the cops realize they're not just dealing with a predator but a dead civilian with a bullet hole through his brain, this stops being animal control. It becomes homicide.
Detectives. Crime scene units. Media. Heat.
All of it.
My face, my name—plastered everywhere.
And I'm still carrying an alien tumor on my arm that's growing.
My window to disappear is closing fast.
By the time I’m closing in on my mansion, I’ve got two things on my mind:
- How the hell to get this tumor off my arm.
- And how long until those cops realize the “animal attack” doesn’t add up.
Because they will.
And next time, they'll be coming with more than pistols.
I hear the cops behind me. Radio chatter spikes—short, clipped commands. “Subject moving south!” They’ve spotted the corpse, focusing their attention on the bloated remains of the shark-thing. Maybe, for a moment, they'll think it’s just some mutilated animal.
But that hope dies quick.
Because it's not just the shark.
There’s also a man. A fisherman. Lying motionless near the waterline, half-buried in sand. His skull’s been opened up by a clean headshot—mine. In the chaos, I barely registered him going down. Now, in the cold clarity of aftermath, the implications hit hard.
That’s a body.
A human body.
When the cops realize they’re not just dealing with some freak predator but a dead civilian with a bullet hole through his brain, this stops being weird animal control and turns into a homicide investigation.
Then it won’t be local patrol cops. It’ll be detectives. Crime scene units. Media. Heat.
All of it.
My face, my name—plastered everywhere.
And I’m carrying an alien tumor on my arm that’s still growing.
My window to disappear is closing fast.
The streets of Bel Air blur past as I move uphill, fast and low. The neighborhoods here are designed for privacy—high hedges, winding drives, mansions hidden behind security gates. Perfect for someone trying to disappear.
But not perfect enough.
The low wail of sirens cuts through the quiet. A moment later, I spot them—two LAPD cruisers, lights strobing, charging up the avenue. Big bastards. Newer models, armored, built for riots. Overkill for some guy on foot.
I duck into a narrow side alley, flanked by towering hedges and luxury garbage bins big enough to hide a body. I slide in behind them just as the lead cruiser roars past, a foot of clearance from giving me away.
For a heartbeat, I breathe. Maybe they didn't spot me.
Then brake lights bloom red.
The cruiser reverses. Slowly. Deliberately.
Shit.
It slides to a stop right in front of the alley mouth. Two cops spill out, not with pistols, but with AR-15s raised. That’s not standard-issue patrol kit. They’re either spooked or they know exactly what they're hunting.
Problem is, I don’t know if it's me.
Maybe they saw something else.
But crouched behind a pair of garbage bins, boxed in with nowhere to run straight, I’m just a duck in a shooting alley.
I weigh my options. Stay still and get ventilated. Or run—and get cut down before I make ten steps.
So I pick option three.
As they're still exiting the cruiser, I lean out, sight up, and fire a quick shot into the front tire. The report cracks loud in the enclosed alley, deafening.
The wheel explodes, rubber shredding, metal screeching against pavement.
Both cops drop into cover, yelling, reacting on instinct.
That’s my opening.
I bolt from cover, vaulting over a low wall into someone's backyard. Land hard. Keep moving. The manicured garden shreds underfoot as I charge through
As I cut through backyards, scaling low fences and ducking through gaps between hedges, I’m bracing for it—the real response. Choppers overhead. K-9 units. Squad cars sweeping every block. After all, I just fired at a police vehicle. That’s not a slap-on-the-wrist offense. That’s manhunt material.
But… nothing.
No more cruisers. No aerial searchlights. Just the distant echo of sirens, drifting further into the city grid.
It doesn’t add up.
I keep moving, crossing into De Neve Park, a small patch of green between neighborhoods. Quiet. Deserted. The trails are empty, except for wind-rustled trees and the crunch of ash underfoot—remnants of the recent riots, mixed with the fine, gray fallout from the asteroid strike.
Bel Air’s just beyond. The opulence of its gated estates feels a world away from the chaos brewing downtown.
Maybe that’s the reason. The city’s still recovering. Resources stretched thin. A lone armed suspect, even one dumb enough to shoot at a cruiser, is low priority compared to whole districts still smoldering.
For now.
I don’t waste the grace.
By the time I stagger up my driveway, the adrenaline’s wearing off, replaced by exhaustion and a creeping, pulsing heat under my skin.
I’m a mess.
Sweat-streaked, caked with sand and mud, clothes torn from fences and ground-crawls. But none of it compares to my left arm.
The tumor has grown, bulging outward in a grotesque mockery of my palm. A dull glow pulses beneath the skin, spreading like a web of molten gold. Fine latticework of metallic filaments creeps up my wrist, spiraling around the forearm, reaching hungrily toward my shoulder.
It looks like a spider spun molten wire along my veins.
It’s no longer a question of if this thing is changing me