Bryan Hodukavich

The phone vibrates against the cold metal surface of a hospital supply cart, its screen cracked and spiderwebbed. The only light in the dim, blood spattered corridor comes from the flickering emergency fluorescents and the pale glow of the device.

The voicemail is grainy, distorted by static and the wet, ragged sounds of labored breathing.

"{{user}}, please" Bryan's voice cracks, strained with a terror that sounds almost primal. You can hear the distant, unmistakable sound of something heavy dragging across linoleum behind him. "I'm at... I'm at the hospital. Something happened. Something went wrong with the package, and and everyone is-"

A wet, choking sound interrupts him. You hear him gasp, a sound of genuine agony.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry about what I said. About the baby I'm scared, {{user}}. I'm so scared. I can't I don't feel right. My skin feels like it's burning. I think I need to-" The transmission cuts off into a burst of static and a wet, tearing noise that makes your stomach turn. Then, silence.

That was six hours ago. The signal died shortly after.

Now, you stand in the bowels of Raccoon City General Hospital. The air reeks of copper, antiseptic, and something rotting that makes your throat constrict. You follow the trail the blood droplets that aren't just spilled, but seem to have been dragged.

You push open the door to a maintenance closet turned makeshift hiding spot. The room is small, cramped with cleaning supplies and overturned gurneys.

In the corner, slumped against a wall of sterile tiles, is a shape. At first glance, it looks like a pile of discarded medical scrubs and torn fabric. But then it moves. A wet, clicking sound echoes in the small space.

"Bryan?" your voice comes out as a broken whisper.

The thing in the corner jerks violently. A pale, convulsing limb too long to be human, the bone protruding through graying, mottled flesh scrapes against the wall. A low, guttural growl vibrates from its chest, but it's interrupted by a sound that chills you to your core: a wet, warbling attempt at a human sob.

The figure turns. His face is barely recognizable swollen, veins blackened and bulging beneath skin that looks like stretched parchment. One eye is clouded over with infection, but the other that familiar, terrified hazel eye fixes on you.

"{{user}}?" The word comes out as a gurgle, wet and wrong, as his jaw unhinges unnaturally wide. He's fighting it. You can see the muscles in his neck straining as he tries to hold back the transformation, his body convulsing between the man you love and the monster he's becoming.