Issue #2 “The Gathering Storm”

Chapter 2 — Lock the Doors

The cold wind howled against the walls of the Lakeshore Gas & Mart, rattling the loose metal sign above the door. Inside, the fluorescent lights flickered, buzzing like an electric insect. The clock above the coffee station read 2:37 a.m. — a dead hour in a dead town.

Harper Lane stood near the window, arms crossed, staring out into the empty parking lot. His EMT uniform — faded blue pants and a black jacket — was streaked with dirt and faint traces of dried blood. His night had been long before he’d even stepped into this gas station. The overturned truck on Route 9, the hysterical man screaming about “biters,” and the strange, unsettling look in that man’s eyes — all of it had been gnawing at Harper since he walked in.

“You keep pacing like that, you’re gonna burn a hole in the floor,” Ethan Graves muttered from the corner.

Ethan sat on an overturned crate, cleaning a hunting knife with a strip of cloth. He had the lean, wiry build of a man who never stayed in one place long. His leather jacket was cracked at the shoulders, and his boots had seen better days. A duffel bag rested against his foot — a traveler’s life packed tight and ready to move.

“Tell me you didn’t see it too,” Harper shot back. “That guy — the one they brought in on Route 9. Something’s wrong.”

“I saw a man drunk off his ass with half his arm missing. People panic, man.” Ethan ran the cloth along the knife’s edge. “And people get violent.”

“It wasn’t just that,” Harper insisted. “His skin — it was grey. His veins… black.”

“Yeah, well,” Ethan muttered, tucking the knife into his boot. “Sounds like none of our business now.”

Both men turned as the door jingled open.

She stepped inside fast, closing the door hard behind her — like something might follow. She was soaked to the bone, her black hair plastered to her face. A leather satchel clung tightly to her shoulder. She moved with purpose, scanning the room in a way Harper recognized — the way medics assessed a scene before they started triage.

“Bad night?” Harper asked.

She barely looked at him as she moved past the counter toward the back of the store, her soaked boots squeaking against the tile.

“You alright?” Ethan called out, louder this time.

“I’m fine,” she shot back, voice low but firm.

“You’re not,” Harper said. “That’s blood on your sleeve.”

She stopped at the cooler door, knuckles white against the glass handle. Slowly, she turned back toward them. Her face was pale, her dark eyes sharp and weary.

“I need to know something,” she said. “Has anyone come through here? Someone… sick?”

Harper and Ethan exchanged a look. Harper answered first.

“Yeah. Route 9. About an hour ago. Some guy — they took him to the hospital.”

“Shit,” she whispered.

“You wanna tell us what’s going on?” Ethan pressed. He stepped forward, posture shifting from relaxed to tense.

“I don’t have time for this,” she muttered, grabbing a bottle of water from the cooler and twisting the cap with shaky fingers.

“You’re bleeding,” Harper pointed out again. “You might need stitches.”

“I’m fine,” she said again.

“You keep saying that,” Ethan growled, “but you’re standing there like you’re about to pass out.”

The woman exhaled hard, then set the bottle down and unzipped her satchel. From within, she pulled out a small metal case and tossed it onto the counter. Harper stepped closer, eyeing the biohazard symbol stamped across the front.

“I’m Dr. Renee Kessler,” she said. “I specialize in infectious diseases.”

“That’s… weird timing,” Harper said.

“I was passing through. Heading east to Chicago,” she explained. “I got pulled off the road when I saw a man stumbling down the shoulder — bleeding, confused. I stopped to help him, but…”

Her voice trailed off. She swallowed hard.

“But what?” Ethan pushed.

“I tried to help,” she said quietly. “He wasn’t… right. His skin was cold — like ice — and his breath… it smelled like meat left out in the sun.” Her hand went to the faint rip in her sleeve. “He grabbed me — scratched me. I barely got away.”

“You think you’re infected?” Harper asked, his EMT instincts kicking in.

“I don’t know,” Renee said. “I don’t even know what this is. But I know it’s not normal.” She tapped the case on the counter. “I’ve been tracking isolated outbreaks in rural towns all the way from Montana to here. People getting sick, dying… then getting back up again.”

The room was quiet now. Harper didn’t know whether to believe her — but the unease gnawing at him deepened.

“You’re saying this… whatever this is… it’s happening here?” Harper asked.

“I think it already started,” Renee said.

A loud thud hit the glass window. All three turned sharply. Something — or someone — was outside. A shadowy figure, staggering in the dark. Another shape shuffled behind it. Then another.

The door jingled again.

“No, no — don’t!” Harper shouted.

But a man in a heavy trucker’s jacket stumbled in, clutching his arm. Blood soaked his sleeve, dripping onto the floor. His face was pale, sweat streaming down his forehead.

“Help… me…” he croaked.

Harper took a step forward, but Renee grabbed his arm.

“No,” she said. “Don’t touch him.”

The man groaned — a horrible, wet sound — and staggered forward. His eyes were glassy, his pupils nearly pinpricks. His breath reeked of something foul.

“Shit,” Ethan muttered, backing away. “That’s not just some drunk… is it?”

The man’s head jerked up. For a moment, he stood still. Then his mouth twisted into a grin — a grotesque, slack-jawed smile. His fingers flexed and curled like claws.

“Lock the doors,” Renee whispered.

The man lunged.

To be continued….