Chapter 159: End of the Screamer Incident!

"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.

Rachel nodded understanding, slowly releasing me from the embrace.

She stood up carefully, her own exhaustion evident in the way she moved, and turned toward the camping van where the others waited.

"Ivy, can you help me look at the others?" Rachel called back. "They all lost consciousness from exhaustion and the Screamer’s attacks. I’m worried about them."

Ivy was still looking at me with that steady, assessing gaze, as if she could see straight through whatever mask I was trying to construct. But after a moment, she nodded and followed Rachel toward the van, finally releasing my wrist.

I remained kneeling there for a moment longer, staring at Jason’s broken body beneath me. My friend. My betrayer. Now just cooling meat and shattered bone. The silver stone I’d torn from his chest lay a few feet away, its glow dimmed but still faintly pulsing with alien light.

"I will help you, Ryan."

Cindy’s voice came from my side. She’d approached without my noticing, probably understanding what I was planning to do without me having to explain.

I turned to look at her—saw her tear-streaked face and concerned expression—and managed a small nod of acknowledgment.

I bent down and picked up the silver stone of the Screamer from where it had fallen and rolled away across the blood-slicked floor. My fingers closed around its smooth, crystalline surface, and immediately I felt the difference between this core and the others I’d recovered.

The Frost Walker’s stone had been cold—not merely cool to the touch, but actively drawing heat from my skin like it existed at some temperature below what physics should allow. Holding it had been like gripping a chunk of dry ice, painful if maintained for too long.

The Fire Spitter’s stone had been the opposite—warm, almost hot, pulsing with internal heat that suggested barely contained combustion. It had felt alive in a way the others hadn’t, like holding something’s actual beating heart rather than just crystallized alien technology.

But the Screamer’s stone was different from both. It felt stronger somehow, more substantial despite being roughly the same size. The texture was smoother, almost liquid under my fingertips despite remaining solid. And it vibrated—not mechanically, but with a frequency that resonated with something deep in my chest, creating sympathetic vibrations in my sternum that were deeply unpleasant. The sensation reminded me uncomfortably of Jason’s sonic attacks, as if the stone retained some echo of the weapon it had powered.

I slipped it into my jacket pocket despite the discomfort, unable to leave it behind where it might be recovered by the Starakians or fall into someone else’s hands who might be tempted to use it as Jason had.

"Let’s go," I said to Cindy.

Together, we entered our burning house carefully, navigating around fallen beams and sections of floor that had been weakened by fire and violence. The heat was intense—oppressive waves that made sweat immediately spring up across my skin despite the blood loss and exhaustion that left me feeling cold inside.

These last two months, only good memories had filled this house. I’d really thought we would be living here until the end—whatever "end" meant in this apocalyptic nightmare. That we’d found something resembling stability, maybe even something like home in the truest sense of that word.

Naive. Just another naive wish on my part, added to the growing collection of shattered hopes and failed expectations.

When I was processing that bitter realization, my eyes suddenly widened as my gaze fell on something that made my heart stop.

An infected lay sprawled on the floor just inside the entrance, her legs bent at unnatural angles—clearly snapped by some tremendous impact. Despite the catastrophic injury that would have immobilized a human, she was still moving, still fighting against the damage with that characteristic infected persistence. Her arms reached out toward me with grasping motions, fingers curling and uncurling spasmodically as a low, wet growl emerged from her throat.

It was Jasmine.

Or rather, it was what Jasmine had become. What remained of her after the infection had done its work and the transformation had completed.

"Ah... Sydney, when she drove the van against Jason, she must have..." Cindy trailed off beside me, not finishing the explanation because we both understood what had happened.

I approached slowly, each step feeling like it required enormous effort. My legs trembled beneath me—whether from exhaustion, emotional trauma, or simple reluctance to face what I had to do, I couldn’t say. Probably all three.

Looking down at the infected Jasmine, I forced myself to really see her—to acknowledge what she’d become rather than what she’d been.

Her skin had taken on that characteristic grayish pallor, mottled with darker patches where blood had pooled beneath the surface. Her eyes—those warm, expressive eyes that had looked at me with shy affection just hours ago—were now clouded with milky white cataracts that reflected the firelight eerily. Her mouth hung slightly open, with black ichor dripping slowly from between her lips.

But despite all those horrific transformations, her face was still recognizable. Still unmistakably Jasmine’s features, just twisted and corrupted by alien biology into something that only resembled humanity.

I spotted a piece of wood nearby—part of a broken support beam, one end sharpened to a point by the violence that had splintered it. Without conscious thought, my hand reached out and grasped it, fingers closing around the rough surface tight enough that splinters bit into my palm.

I raised the makeshift stake toward the infected, positioning it carefully above her head. My hands shook violently, making the pointed end waver in the air as I tried to steady my grip.

One last time, I allowed myself to look at Jasmine’s face. Really look at her, trying to see past the infection to the person who had existed before.

I’m sorry.

I’m sorry, Jasmine. I’m so, so sorry.

Sorry I couldn’t protect you. Sorry I failed to save you when you needed me most. Sorry you had to die afraid and in pain. Sorry your last moments were consumed by terror and transformation. Sorry I have to do this now—to end what’s left of you in such a brutal, impersonal way.

If there’s any heaven out there—any place where souls go after death, any justice or mercy in this universe—I hope you’re there. I hope you’re at peace. I hope you’re free from the horror of what happened to you.

I hope you can forgive me.

I didn’t hesitate further, because hesitation would only make it worse. My arms moved with mechanical precision, driving the stake downward with all the strength I had remaining.

The sharpened wood punched through skull and brain with a sickening crunch that I felt reverberate up through the stake into my arms. The infected Jasmine’s body convulsed once—a full-body spasm that looked almost like the shudder of someone waking from a nightmare—and then went completely still. The reaching hands dropped limply to the floor. The growling ceased. The milky eyes stopped moving, fixed now in a final, unseeing stare.

She was gone. Truly gone this time, with no alien virus to reanimate her corpse or twisted biology to sustain movement despite catastrophic injury. Just... gone.

"Do you want to bury her?" Cindy asked quietly from beside me.

Did I want to bury her? Give her body proper treatment, show respect for who she’d been, provide some small dignity in death?

I thought about it seriously, really considered the option despite my exhaustion and the practical difficulties it would present. We didn’t have much time—the house was still burning, and we needed to evacuate before the structure collapsed or the fire attracted more infected. Digging a grave would take time and energy we couldn’t spare.

But those practical considerations weren’t what made my decision.

No.

I couldn’t bury her like this. Wouldn’t bury what the infection had transformed her into, wouldn’t inter this corrupted shell as if it represented who Jasmine had actually been.

Jasmine deserved better than a grave dug in haste outside a burning house, her body broken and transformed, buried as a monster rather than as the kind, gentle person she’d been in life. If I was going to honor her memory properly, it wouldn’t be like this—not in these circumstances, not in this state, not when I could barely stand upright and was operating on nothing but trauma and exhaustion.

Maybe someday, if we survived long enough, I could create some kind of memorial. Something that celebrated who she’d been rather than what she’d died as. But not now. Not here. Not like this.

I shook my head slowly, unable to articulate all those thoughts into coherent words but trusting that Cindy would understand the gesture.

She nodded silently, not pushing for explanation or trying to change my mind.

Together, we crossed through the burning house, navigating around more debris and damage as we made our way toward the garage. The structure groaned ominously around us, timbers cracking and shifting as fire weakened the supports. We didn’t have much time before the whole thing came down.

The garage was relatively untouched by the flames—separated enough from the main structure that it hadn’t caught fire yet, though smoke was beginning to seep through the connecting door. The alien Device sat exactly where we’d left it, a mysterious piece of technology about the size of a large suitcase, covered in symbols and patterns we couldn’t decipher.

I bent down and lifted it, grunting with the effort. The Device was heavier than it looked, and my exhausted muscles screamed protest as I hoisted it up. Cindy immediately moved to help, taking one side while I held the other, and together we carried it back through the house and out to where the camping van waited.

Loading it into the vehicle was awkward and difficult, requiring careful maneuvering to get it through the door and secured in a position where it wouldn’t shift dangerously during transit. When the Device was finally stowed securely, I took one last look at what had been our house.

The flames had spread further now, consuming more of the structure with each passing moment. Orange light flickered in every window, painting the walls in shades of destruction. Black smoke billowed up into the night sky, visible for miles in every direction. The artificial screams from Mark’s devices continued their broadcast, creating a surreal soundtrack to the apocalyptic scene.

Two months of memories contained in that structure. Good memories, mostly—meals shared around the kitchen table, late-night conversations on the porch, moments of laughter and connection that had seemed impossibly precious in this broken world.

Jason.

Jasmine.

Both gone now. One a betrayer, one a victim, both dead by my hand in different ways.

How many more people would I lose? How many more times would I stand in ruins, looking at what used to be home, mourning what could never be recovered?

"Ryan," Rachel called gently from the driver’s seat. "We need to go."

I nodded, unable to speak past the lump in my throat, and climbed into the van. The door closed behind me with a solid thunk, sealing us inside the metal box that would carry us away from this place.

Rachel shifted the van into gear and pressed the accelerator.