Chapter 182: Infected (3)
They tried to stay awake the second night.
By then, nobody in Dorian’s group believed the first collapse had been ordinary exhaustion. It had happened too cleanly.
Thirty-four people did not lose consciousness at the exact same moment because they were tired. Nobody remembered fighting sleep, nodding off, waking briefly, or even dreaming. There had been no transition between awareness and unconsciousness.
One moment they had been standing in the common hall, the next morning had arrived with an old man dead.
So now, they prepared.
Someone found bitter tea buried among the building’s food supplies. The leaves had been packed into waxed paper that had somehow survived the damp, and once brewed, the liquid turned so dark it left brown stains along the inside of every cup.
Carl took one sip, then his entire face scrunched. He swallowed with visible effort, stared down at the cup as if personally betrayed, then pushed it away.
"No."
Misha heaved out a sigh. "You have to drink it all."
The boy shook his head firmly. "I’d rather get knocked out."
Alaric lifted his own cup toward the boy. "Coward."
Carl stared blankly at him. "Mister, you’re worse of a coward than me."
Astrid looked down to hide a smile, and Misha almost did too.
The infirmary had also produced several sealed packets of stimulant tablets from the back of an old cabinet.
Misha hated them on sight. Half the labels had faded until the dosage information looked like fragments of a dead language. Several tablets had discolored around the edges, and one bottle had expired so long ago that Misha briefly wondered whether whoever manufactured it had still been alive.
She spent nearly fifteen minutes sorting through them.
Alaric lasted seven before complaining. "If we die because you’re reading medicine labels, I want it recorded that I objected."
Misha did not look up. "If you swallow the wrong one and your heart explodes, I’ll record that too."
That shut him up.
Eventually, she found two sealed packets with intact dates and legible dosage instructions. It was not enough for everyone, but it was enough to test whether chemical stimulation mattered. Dorian divided them among several rooms.
Misha kept one, Caius took another, Astrid refused hers because she wanted to know whether she would still collapse naturally. Alaric claimed that surviving on anxiety had kept him functional for years, and she believed him.
At 5:50, every person in their room remained awake.
Misha checked the small clock on the wall again even though she had already checked it less than a minute earlier. The second hand ticked with irritating confidence, each movement bringing them close to an event they still did not understand.
Astrid sat on the floor with her back against the wall, her knees drawn up slightly. Caius occupied the edge of one of the beds, posture straight despite the exhaustion settling into his shoulders, while Carl had claimed the safest corner between the bedframe and the wall. His blanket had been folded into a rough cushion behind his back.
Misha had chosen this room because it had one door, and no connecting passage. The beds had been pushed against opposite walls, leaving the center completely open. If anyone approached another person while the others remained conscious, they would see it. Not that any of that would matter if the Floor simply switched them off at six.
Across the room, Alaric noticed her gaze returning to the wall clock.
"You keep glaring at the clock like you expect it to apologize."
Misha lowered her cup. "I’m watching the time."
"By glaring? You’re definitely threatening it."
"I can multitask."
His lips curved into a sly smile. "Do you think intimidation works on chronology?"
"It works on you."
Carl looked from Misha to the clock. "What happens if it’s not exactly six today?"
She rubbed one thumb along the rim of her cup. "Then we learn the first collapse had another trigger."
"And if it does?"
Astrid spoke without looking away from the door. "It would mean staying awake isn’t part of the solution."
Caius nodded. "It would also mean the effect is either tied to the building or the Floor itself."
"Or something inside it," Misha added.
Alaric leaned farther over the chair. "I can already hear Dorian announcing a revised night protocol tomorrow morning."
Misha glanced toward him. "You say that like you don’t approve."
His smile faded gradually, leaving his mouth still while his eyes remained thoughtful.
"I just become nervous when frightened people start calling control safety. That is usually when somebody invents matching armbands and ruins everyone’s afternoon." Then he shrugged. "So naturally, I’m staying with the people least likely to establish a committee."
Alaric liked hiding observations inside jokes. Sometimes, the joke existed mainly so nobody noticed he had said something useful.
"If one of us is infected, being together is worse." Carl commented.
"Excellent." A genuine grin spread across his face. "The child has found the flaw in our brilliant strategy."
The boy glared at him. "That wasn’t funny."
"That was a compliment."
"It didn’t sound like it."
"Most good praise doesn’t, kid."
"That makes no sense."
Misha closed her eyes for half a second. ’This is who I chose to spend the night with.’
Caius leaned forward, forearms resting across his thighs. "We are limiting the number of assumptions. That is the best we can do tonight."
Carl looked toward him. "That sounds like guessing with nicer words."
Alaric made a soft sound of approval.
Caius closed his eyes briefly, and Misha saw the patience leave his face by approximately half a degree.
Astrid’s lips curved faintly. "He isn’t wrong."
"I know," Caius replied, rubbing one hand down his face. "That does not improve it."
Outside the room, doors had been closing one after another for the last ten minutes. Dorian had allowed people to choose their own sleeping arrangements within reason. Some formed groups of four or five, others paired off with people they already trusted.
Several residents refused to share a room at all, convinced isolation was safer than waking beside someone who might be infected.
One Blackthorn member had argued the opposite. If someone died alone, they would learn nothing.
That conversation ended badly.
Now the common hall stood empty. Every closed door contained its own theory of survival, and every theory began with the assumption that somebody else might be dangerous.
Fear rarely asks for proof before building walls.
Misha glanced toward the floating message without making it too obvious.
To be fair, walls are useful.
So are the graves.
You are exceptionally unpleasant today.
Alaric looked around the room and tapped one finger against the chair’s armrest. "I should establish something before we all lose consciousness."
𝚏𝕣𝐞𝗲𝐰𝕖𝐛𝐧𝕠𝕧𝚎𝚕.𝐜𝚘𝗺
Misha’s suspicion returned immediately. "What is it?"
"If I die tonight, one of you is probably responsible."
Astrid slowly turned her head toward him as well. "What if someone breaks in?"
He considered this seriously. "Then I shall revise my accusation posthumously."
"You can’t."
"Then I expect all of you to defend my reputation."
Misha crossed her arms. "You’re assuming anyone would bother."
Alaric stared at her, looking rather offended. "Shana."
"If you die, I’ll tell people you went bravely."
His face softened into mock gratitude. "Thank you."
"Don’t worry, I’ll lie convincingly."
Carl looked at ALaric with the grave seriousness only children could manage when adults were being ridiculous. "If you die, we’ll know whether you were infected too."
"Ah, excellent point, kid."
The boy puffed out his chest rather proudly. "I know."
The clock clicked. It was now exactly 6:00.
One instant, Misha was upright, the next, something pressed down through her skull, shoulders, chest, and limbs all at once, bypassing fatigue entirely. She turned to count, but her vision narrowed and her fingers stopped responding.
===
They woke the next morning with no additional corpse. That should have helped, but it did not.
Misha understood why almost immediately. A death would have given them something concrete–No, death gave them possibilities.
Perhaps the old man’s death had been random, perhaps someone had intended to kill him and decided against another attack, perhaps the presence of different sleeping groups changed something, or perhaps—
Too many perhapses. Misha hated this the most.
By breakfast, suspicion had simply changed shape. Instead of asking who killed him? people started asking why did nobody die this time?
Several residents whispered that the parasites had realized everyone was watching, while a Blackthorn member suggested one of the isolated sleepers might have locked itself alone that’s why no one had died.
Another argued that maybe the old man’s death had been natural. But of course, nobody believed that. The man who had said it was Veron.
Misha quietly added him to the growing list of people she intended to keep an eye on, because... Why would he even say something like that?
People were already being killed by the Infected. Everyone in the hall knew it. So for Veron to start talking that way, Misha couldn’t help but find it suspicious.
A mystery denied blood becomes hungrier.
Misha disliked that sentence, mostly because the room seemed determined to prove it correct.