Chapter 158: The Scream [23]

My mind was drowning—submerged completely beneath waves of anger and sorrow that crashed over me with such relentless force that I couldn’t distinguish one emotion from the other anymore. They’d merged into a single tsunami of anguish that threatened to pull me under and never let me surface again.

Jasmine.

The image of her transformation was seared into my retinas—branded there with the permanence of a hot iron pressed against flesh. No matter how tightly I squeezed my eyes shut, I could still see every horrific detail with crystal clarity.

Her eyes clouding over with that milky white film as the infection spread through her system like poison through water. Her expression shifting from pain and fear to something blank and hungry and utterly empty of everything that had made her human. The way her fingers had clawed at the air, reaching for me with montruous intent even as tears still streamed down her transforming face.

I’d been right there. Close enough to touch her, close enough to see every detail of her death and resurrection as something monstrous. And I’d been completely, utterly powerless to prevent it.

As for Jason—the broken, pulverized corpse beneath my bloodied fists—I felt nothing. Or rather, I tried desperately to feel nothing, to maintain the cold emptiness that had carried me through the violence of dismantling him piece by piece. But even that was a lie, because the complete absence of compassion was itself a feeling, wasn’t it? A choice to shut down whatever part of me might have mourned for the friend he’d once been.

I couldn’t afford compassion for Jason. Couldn’t allow myself to remember the person he’d been before the Screamer’s stone had corrupted him, before jealousy and ambition had twisted him into something capable of such betrayal. If I let myself feel anything but rage toward him—if I acknowledged the tragedy of his fall or the waste of his potential—then I’d have to confront the horrifying possibility that I could have prevented this. That if I’d been a better friend, a more attentive leader, a less distant person, maybe Jason wouldn’t have felt inadequate enough to sell his humanity for alien power.

And that thought was unbearable. So I chose anger instead. Chose to see him only as the monster who’d killed Jasmine, not as the victim of circumstances and his own weaknesses.

The only thing I felt was rage. Pure, incandescent fury that burned through my veins hotter than the Dullahan virus’s energy, consuming every other emotion in its path. Despite having torn the silver stone from his chest—despite knowing on some rational level that Jason was already dead, that no amount of violence could change what had happened or bring Jasmine back—I kept punching.

My fists rose and fell with mechanical repetition, each impact sending jolts of pain up through my fractured knuckles and cracked bones that I barely registered. The sensation was distant, muted, like it was happening to someone else’s body while I observed from somewhere far away. Blood coated my hands—Jason’s and my own mixed together until I couldn’t distinguish whose was whose—making my grip slippery but not slowing the assault.

It wasn’t enough. Would never be enough. The violence felt hollow, meaningless, like trying to fill an infinite void by pouring sand one handful at a time. Each punch should have brought satisfaction or catharsis or at least the illusion of justice being served, but instead there was only emptiness. The same crushing, suffocating emptiness that had consumed me since I’d watched Jasmine’s humanity die right before my eyes.

Hitting Jason’s corpse wouldn’t bring Jasmine back. I knew that. The rational part of my brain—the part that still functioned despite the grief and trauma overwhelming every other system—understood that continued violence was pointless. Jasmine was gone. Her consciousness had been erased, overwritten by the viral programming that turned humans into infected monsters. Nothing I did to Jason could reverse that irreversible transformation.

And Jasmine herself—knowing her gentle heart, her capacity for forgiveness, her fundamental kindness that had persisted even in this nightmare world—she wouldn’t have wanted this. Wouldn’t have approved of me beating a corpse, wouldn’t have asked for vengeance delivered with such savage brutality. If she could see me now, she’d be horrified. Disappointed. Maybe even afraid of what I’d become.

I knew all of that. Understood it with perfect clarity.

Yet I couldn’t stop.

I pulled my fist back for another strike, muscles tensing automatically to deliver yet another blow to Jason’s already unrecognizable face. The motion had become reflexive, bypassing conscious thought entirely.

But this time, my wrist was caught mid-strike.

Fingers wrapped around my wrist with surprising strength, halting the momentum of my punch as completely as if I’d struck an immovable wall. The sensation was so unexpected that it took a moment for my brain to process what had happened, my dulled senses struggling to catch up with changing circumstances.

I stopped completely, every muscle in my body freezing as if someone had hit a pause button on my existence.

Slowly, moving through what felt like molasses, I turned my head to glance over my shoulder at whoever interrupted me.

Ivy stood there behind me, her hand wrapped firmly around my wrist with a grip that suggested she wasn’t going to let go until I acknowledged her presence. Her expression was as calm and composed as always—that slightly distant look she wore like armor, as if she existed half a step removed from the chaos and violence surrounding her.

But her white coat—usually pristine and professional—was thoroughly coated with blood. Fresh crimson stains mixed with older, dried brown patches, creating a macabre abstract painting across the fabric. The sight triggered something in my trauma-fogged brain, momentarily cutting through the rage and grief.

Relief flooded through me first. Ivy was alive. Despite everything that had happened—the trap Jason had set, the hordes of infected, the catastrophic failure of my rescue attempt—Ivy had survived. She was standing here, whole and apparently uninjured despite the blood covering her coat.

But even that relief was immediately swallowed by the pain of Jasmine’s loss that still sat lodged in my throat like broken glass, making it difficult to breathe or swallow or speak.

I clenched my fist where Ivy held it, fingers curling into a trembling ball as my entire arm shook with barely suppressed emotion. The tremor spread rapidly—shoulder, chest, legs—until my whole body was vibrating with the effort of containing feelings too large and overwhelming to process.

"It’s over. He is dead," Ivy said. Each word was delivered with perfect evenness, no inflection suggesting judgment or emotion or anything beyond the simple statement of fact.

Her calm voice felt impossibly soothing despite—or perhaps because of—its complete lack of emotional content. It was like a lifeline thrown to someone drowning in turbulent waters, something solid and unchanging to grab onto when everything else was chaos and pain.

I’d always felt somewhat envious of Ivy’s ability to maintain such composure regardless of circumstances. She could stand in the middle of absolute carnage, surrounded by death and horror that would break most people, and remain perfectly collected. Never panicking, never losing control, never allowing emotion to compromise her effectiveness.

But I... I couldn’t be like that. No matter how much I wished I could shut down my feelings and operate with pure logical efficiency, I wasn’t built that way. The emotions always found their way through eventually, building pressure behind whatever barriers I constructed until they exploded with catastrophic force.

I gritted my teeth hard enough that I heard them grinding together, the sound vibrating through my skull. My jaw trembled despite the pressure, muscles spasming as my body betrayed the emotional turmoil I was trying desperately to contain.

Why did things become like this?

The question erupted in my mind with the force of a scream, even though no sound emerged from my throat. It was the same question—that same damn question—that had haunted me since everything started two months ago. The question that woke me from nightmares and followed me through every waking moment, demanding answers that didn’t exist.

Why? Why did the world have to end? Why did the virus have to spread? Why did ordinary people have to transform into monsters? Why did the aliens have to come? Why did my mother have to die? Why did I have to be the one to kill her? Why did Jasmine have to be bitten? Why couldn’t I save her? Why did Jason have to betray us? Why, why, why?

The questions multiplied exponentially, each one spawning ten more, creating an infinite loop of futile interrogation that never produced satisfying answers because there were no satisfying answers. Sometimes terrible things just happened. Random. Senseless. Cruel beyond measure. And no amount of asking why would change that fundamental truth.

After my mother’s death—after I’d been forced to kill the Infected she became while she clawed at me with hands that had once held me as a child—I’d thought I’d reached the absolute limit of what pain a person could endure. That surely nothing could hurt more than that particular violation of the natural order, that breach of the sacred bond between parent and child.

But I’d been wrong. Because now I found myself asking the same question after Jasmine’s death and Jason’s death, and somehow it hurt just as much. Maybe even worse, because this time I’d had power. This time I’d had abilities beyond normal human capability. This time I should have been able to prevent the tragedy.

I had power now—enhanced strength, accelerated healing, the Time Freeze ability that could stop reality itself, wind manipulation that could tear through steel. The Dullahan virus had transformed me into something more than human, granted me capabilities that should have made me capable of protecting the people I cared about.

Yet I hadn’t been able to save Jasmine. Had failed utterly and completely despite all my supposed power. I’d naively believed I could protect her, that my enhanced abilities would be enough to keep her safe in this nightmare world. That belief had been shattered as thoroughly as Jason’s face beneath my fists.

Naive. Yeah, that was the word. How naive I had been about everything.

About my ability to protect people. About the scope of the threat we faced. About whether power alone was sufficient to change outcomes. About all of it.

Even though we’d destroyed the Fire Spitter and the Frost Walker—two of the aliens’ weapon-creatures, victories that should have demonstrated our strength and capability—the Starakians hadn’t bothered retaliating immediately. Hadn’t sent more advanced forces or escalated their attacks or shown any sign that they viewed us as a genuine threat worth their full attention.

And I’d initially interpreted that as a good sign. Thought maybe they were wary of us, regrouping and reassessing their strategy in light of our unexpected resistance. That we’d earned their respect or at least their caution through our victories.

But the truth was so much worse. They simply didn’t bother with us because we were beneath their notice. Not worthy of their concern or effort. They didn’t take us seriously—not as threats, not as opponents, not as anything meaningful at all. We were insects to them. Bacteria. So far beneath their level of existence that our victories over their weapons were completely irrelevant.

They didn’t actually need to move a finger themselves. One of their technologies—the Screamer—had done everything alone, taking down Jackson Township without any direct Starakian intervention. A single deployed weapon had corrupted Jason, orchestrated Jasmine’s death, destroyed our community’s cohesion, and left us scattered and broken.

And that was just the Screamer operating semi-autonomously. What would happen when the Starakians decided we were actually worth addressing personally? When they deployed their full capabilities against us instead of just leaving automated weapons to do the cleanup work?

The thought made my blood run cold despite the rage still burning in my chest.

Are we that small and meaningless in their eyes?

I didn’t know whether to laugh hysterically or cry in despair about that realization. Maybe both. Maybe neither. The feeling of helplessness and powerlessness gnawing at me was excruciating, physically painful in ways that transcended mere emotional distress.

I was scared. Genuinely, bone-deep terrified in a way I hadn’t allowed myself to acknowledge until this moment. Not scared of death—I’d made peace with my own mortality months ago—but scared of inadequacy. Scared that no matter what I did or how strong I became, it would never be enough. That I’d keep failing to protect people, keep watching them die or transform or suffer while I stood by helplessly despite all my supposed power.

And I felt weak. Weaker than I’d ever felt, even weaker than during my childhood when my father used to beat me. At least back then I’d had my mother to protect me, to shield me from the worst of his drunken rages with her own body when necessary. She’d been my strength when I had none of my own.

But now she was gone too. Everyone I tried to protect either died or left or transformed. And I was alone with my inadequate power and my mounting failures.

"You are injured," Ivy said cutting through my spiraling thoughts.

"I am..." The words emerged as barely a whisper, my voice rough and broken from screaming and crying and the general abuse my throat had taken. It hurt to speak, hurt to breathe.

"Ryan."

Rachel’s voice drew my attention. I turned my head slowly to see her approaching with careful steps.

She knelt in front of me where I still straddled Jason’s corpse, positioning herself at my eye level so she could meet my gaze directly. Her green eyes were red-rimmed and puffy from crying, tears still glistening on her soot-stained cheeks, but her expression held nothing but concern and compassion.

Then, without saying anything else, she wrapped her arms around me and pulled me into a tight embrace.

The contact was overwhelming. Rachel’s warmth against my cold, bloodied skin.

She didn’t say anything. Didn’t offer platitudes about how everything would be okay or how time heals all wounds or any of the other meaningless phrases people use when confronted with grief they can’t fix. She just hugged me, holding me tightly as if she could physically prevent me from falling apart through sheer force of will.

I reached out with trembling arms, wanting to wrap them around her back and return the embrace, needing that connection like I needed oxygen. My muscles engaged, lifting my arms from where they’d been hanging limply at my sides.

But then I felt a shiver run down my spine—ice-cold despite the heat still radiating from the burning house. Jasmine’s death flashed through my mind again with vivid clarity, accompanied by the memory of her tears, her desperate final words.

My arms froze halfway to Rachel’s back, paralyzed by sudden terror. What if I failed her too? What if I got Rachel killed through my inadequacy? What if my touch carried some curse that doomed everyone I tried to protect?

"I am here," Rachel said softly against my shoulder, her breath warm on my neck. Her arms tightened around me even more. "I won’t leave you."

Something inside me cracked at those words—some final barrier I’d been maintaining through sheer stubbornness. The trembling in my arms intensified until they were shaking so violently I didn’t trust myself to touch her, but Rachel didn’t seem to care. She just held on, anchoring me to reality through physical contact when my mind wanted to spiral away into darkness.

"I... am sorry." The words scraped their way out of my throat like broken glass. "I’m sorry."

Sorry for showing them such a pathetic side of myself. Sorry for losing control so completely. Sorry for scaring them with my violence and grief.

"It’s fine," Rachel murmured, though we both knew it wasn’t fine at all. Nothing about this situation was fine. "We have to leave now, Ryan. The house isn’t safe anymore."

That at least was a practical concern I could focus on. Something concrete to do rather than drowning in emotional quicksand. I forced myself to nod, the motion jerky and uncoordinated but functional.

"Prepare the van," I managed to say, my voice still rough but gaining some steadiness from having a clear objective. "I need to get that Device." The alien technology we’d been storing in the garage. We couldn’t leave it behind for the Starakians to reclaim.