Chapter 3: The First Symptom

They made it back to the residential area in tense silence, the weight of their discovery pressing down on them like the concrete ceiling above. Evan cradled his wounded hand against his chest, the bloodied keycard clutched in his other fist like a trophy. But Liam couldn't stop staring at the trail of dark droplets they were leaving behind—droplets that seemed too thick, too viscous to be normal blood.

"Sit down," Mike ordered, gesturing to one of the orange couches in the recreation area. "Let me look at that cut."

For once, Evan didn't argue. He slumped onto the couch, his usual swagger replaced by something that might have been exhaustion. The fluorescent lights cast his face in harsh relief, highlighting the sheen of sweat that had broken out across his forehead despite the bunker's constant chill.

Vince positioned himself across the room, camera trained on them but keeping his distance. "Is it bad?" he asked, his voice small and worried.

Mike opened his first aid kit with practiced efficiency, pulling out antiseptic and gauze. But when he tried to examine Evan's palm, he froze.

"Jesus Christ," he whispered.

The wound was deeper than they'd initially thought, running diagonally across Evan's palm from his index finger to his wrist. But it wasn't the depth that made Mike's face go pale—it was the blood itself. Instead of the bright red they expected, it was dark, almost black, with a consistency like motor oil. And threaded through it were thin tendrils of that same sickly green they'd seen on the keycard.

"What the hell?" Evan lifted his hand, staring at the wound with a mixture of fascination and growing alarm. "Why does it look like that?"

Liam set down his journal and moved closer, his historian's instincts overriding his revulsion. "When did you last get a tetanus shot? Could this be some kind of infection?"

"I'm not due for a tetanus shot for another three years," Evan said, but his voice lacked its usual confidence. "And infections don't work that fast. This is something else."

Mike reached for the antiseptic, but when he poured it over the wound, instead of the expected foaming and stinging, the liquid seemed to be absorbed into Evan's skin like water into a sponge. The green tendrils in his blood pulsed brighter for a moment, then faded back to their previous dim glow.

"That's not normal," Vince said from behind his camera, stating the obvious in a voice tight with fear.

Liam retrieved his journal, flipping through pages of meticulous documentation until he found what he was looking for. His hands shook as he read his own notes from their first day in the bunker.

"Evan," he said quietly. "Remember when we first got down here? When we were exploring the residential area?"

"Yeah, what about it?"

"You found those government documents in the filing cabinet. The ones you said were boring bureaucratic bullshit."

Evan's eyes narrowed. "So?"

"I read them while you were sleeping." Liam's voice was barely above a whisper. "One of them was an incident report. Dated March 15th, 1968."

The room fell silent except for the omnipresent hum of the fluorescent lights. Even Vince lowered his camera, sensing the gravity of what Liam was about to reveal.

"What did it say?" Mike asked, though his tone suggested he already suspected the answer would be terrible.

Liam cleared his throat and read from his journal: "Containment breach in Laboratory Seven. Subject designation 'Charlie Whiskey' has exceeded safety parameters. Immediate evacuation protocols initiated. All personnel to report to decontamination stations. Site lockdown in effect until further notice."

The words hung in the air like a death sentence. Evan stared at his wounded hand, the reality of their situation beginning to penetrate his athletic confidence.

"Laboratory Seven," Mike said slowly. "That was the room we just broke into, wasn't it?"

Liam nodded grimly. "The room where Evan cut himself. The room that had been sealed for over fifty years."

Vince's camera began whirring again, an unconscious response to stress. "What's Charlie Whiskey?"

"I don't know," Liam admitted. "The document was heavily redacted. But whatever it was, it was dangerous enough to seal an entire bunker for half a century."

Evan held up his hand, watching the strange blood continue to seep from the wound. It wasn't clotting, wasn't scabbing over the way a normal cut should. Instead, it seemed to be spreading, the green tendrils growing longer and more numerous with each passing minute.

"This is ridiculous," he said, but his voice cracked on the words. "It's just a cut. People get cuts all the time. This is probably just... rust or something. Chemical contamination from old equipment."

But even as he spoke, they could all see the change beginning. The skin around the wound was taking on a grayish pallor, and the veins beneath were becoming more visible, tracing dark lines up his arm like the roots of some parasitic plant.

Mike grabbed Evan's wrist, checking his pulse. "Your heart rate is elevated. And your skin feels hot."

"I'm fine," Evan insisted, but sweat was now pouring down his face despite the bunker's chill. "Just need to clean it properly. Maybe some antibiotics."

Liam consulted his journal again, flipping to notes he'd made about the bunker's medical supplies. "There's a first aid station in the dormitory area. We might find antibiotics there."

But as they helped Evan to his feet, the wounded man stumbled, his coordination already beginning to deteriorate. The simple act of standing seemed to require enormous effort, and his breathing had become shallow and rapid.

"I'm okay," he repeated, but the words were slurring slightly. "Just need to sit down for a minute."

They half-carried him to the dormitory, settling him on one of the narrow beds in the communal sleeping area. The room was a relic of institutional design—rows of military-style bunks with thin mattresses and scratchy wool blankets. But now it felt like a sick ward, the overhead lights casting everything in that same sickly yellow that made healthy skin look corpse-pale.

Mike found the first aid station and returned with a bottle of penicillin tablets, their expiration date showing 1969. "These are ancient, but they might help."

Evan swallowed the pills dry, then lay back on the thin mattress. But instead of looking relieved, he seemed to be getting worse. The green tendrils in his blood were spreading faster now, visible beneath his skin like veins filled with antifreeze. And his eyes—his normally bright blue eyes—had taken on a glassy, unfocused quality.

"How long?" he asked suddenly.

"How long what?" Liam responded.

"How long since we've been down here? How long since Paul disappeared?"

"Seven days," Liam said, confused by the question. "You know that."

But Evan was shaking his head slowly, as if trying to clear away fog. "Feels longer. Feels like... like weeks. Months. Like I've been here forever."

Vince lowered his camera, genuine concern replacing his usual nervous energy. "Evan, you're scaring me, man. Maybe we should try to get you to a hospital."

Evan's laugh was harsh and bitter. "Hospital? We're trapped sixty feet underground in a sealed government bunker. There is no hospital. There's just us and whatever the hell I've got running through my veins."

He held up his wounded hand again, and they all saw that the bleeding had finally stopped. But instead of healing, the wound had begun to change. The edges were turning black, not with infection but with something that looked almost metallic. And from deep within the cut, they could see a faint phosphorescent glow—the same sickly green that had stained the keycard.

"Jesus," Mike breathed. "What is that thing doing to you?"

Evan stared at his hand with a mixture of fascination and horror. "I don't know. But I can feel it. It's not just in the cut anymore. It's moving. Spreading."

As if to prove his point, a thin line of green appeared beneath the skin of his forearm, tracing the path of a major vein. It pulsed in rhythm with his heartbeat, growing brighter with each beat.

Liam grabbed his journal and began writing frantically, documenting every detail of Evan's condition. But his hands were shaking so badly he could barely form the letters. Whatever Charlie Whiskey was, it was already inside their friend, changing him from within.

And in the back of his mind, a terrible thought began to form. If this was what had happened to the original researchers—if this was why the bunker had been sealed—then they weren't just trapped.

They were quarantined.

Outside in the corridor, something moved in the shadows—something that had once been human but was now something else entirely. It had been waiting in the darkness for so long, waiting for fresh hosts to continue its ancient purpose.

The Charlie Whiskey organism had been dormant for decades, but now it was awake. And it was hungry.

In the dormitory, Evan's breathing grew harsh and labored, each exhale carrying the sweet, cloying scent they'd first noticed in the Research Ward. The infection was accelerating, spreading through his bloodstream with inhuman speed.

And somewhere in the depths of the bunker, other things began to stir—things that had been waiting patiently in the dark for new friends to join their eternal collective.

The real horror was about to begin.