Where Were You?

08 - Late Night Shift

Sam's hands trembled as he grabbed his thermos from the passenger seat, the cool metal slick with sweat from his palms. His head throbbed—had been since yesterday—and there was a tightness in his chest that he couldn't quite shake. Probably just coming down with the cold, he told himself. The factory was always a furnace, and working the night shift made it worse. He took a deep breath, trying to steady himself, but the dizziness didn't fade. 

He felt... off.

It was hard to focus as he trudged across the parking lot. His boots felt heavier than usual, his legs like lead. The flickering fluorescent lights overhead seemed brighter, sharper, stabbing at his eyes with every step. He blinked hard, trying to clear his vision. It wasn't a hangover—he hadn't had a drink in days. So why did his head feel like it was stuffed with cotton?

Inside, the factory hummed with the familiar sounds of grinding metal and churning gears. Machines lined the cavernous space, spitting out endless rows of parts that no one really paid attention to anymore. Sam nodded to a couple of guys as he clocked in, but their faces were blurry. He wiped his forehead, which was already slick with sweat, and forced a smile.

"Rough night?" one of them asked, his voice distant, almost muffled.

"Yeah, something like that," Sam muttered, though his tongue felt thick in his mouth. He swallowed, the taste of copper lingering in the back of his throat.

He made his way to his station, his fingers fumbling with the controls more than usual. The machine kicked into gear, the steady rhythm of the press thudding in time with his heartbeat.

 Thud. Thud. Thud. Each impact sent a jolt through his skull, making his vision swim.

He leaned against the machine, staring down at his hands. His nails were dark, dirt caked under them like always, but something was wrong. His fingertips tingled, almost numb, and the skin around his knuckles was pale, almost... grey? He rubbed at it, but the sensation didn't go away.

The noise of the factory seemed to grow louder, sharper. The usual clank of metal and hiss of steam felt like it was drilling into his brain, the sound becoming unbearable. His head spun, and he had to grip the edge of the machine to steady himself.

Something's not right, he thought, his pulse quickening. His skin felt too tight, stretched thin over bones that ached. His breath hitched, chest tightening again, like someone had wrapped a band around his lungs. Sam stumbled backward, away from his station, the edges of his vision growing dark.

"Sam? You good?" a voice called out from behind him. It sounded far away, like it was coming from the end of a tunnel. He turned, squinting to focus, but the world was tilting. His coworkers stood there, watching him, their faces swimming in and out of focus. They looked... scared.

"I don't... feel so good," Sam mumbled, though his words slurred. He blinked, and the world seemed to shift again. He swayed on his feet, grabbing for the nearest surface to hold onto, but his legs buckled. He went down hard, his knees cracking against the concrete floor.

Pain shot up his legs, but it felt distant, like it wasn't even happening to him. His breath came in shallow gasps, each one more ragged than the last.

"Get the foreman!" someone yelled, but Sam barely registered it. The world was spinning too fast now. His heart pounded, each beat sending waves of heat through his body. His skin felt like it was on fire, and when he looked down at his arms, he saw it—his veins, dark and pulsing beneath his skin, like black tendrils crawling up from inside him.

His chest clenched tight, and he doubled over, gasping for air that wouldn't come. He could feel it, something moving inside him, spreading through his bloodstream, turning everything wrong.

His coworkers circled around him, but no one got too close. He could hear their whispers—"Is he sick?" "What the hell is happening?"—but none of them dared to touch him.

Sam's vision blurred, but he could see their faces, twisted with fear, as they backed away. He reached out, his fingers twitching, but they jerked back, staring at him like he was some kind of monster.

And maybe he was.

His mouth opened, but the words wouldn't come. Instead, he coughed—a violent, gut-wrenching cough that sent a spray of blood splattering across the concrete. He stared at it, horrified, as more blood followed, spilling from his nose, his mouth.

"Sam, stay with us!" one of the guys shouted, but Sam couldn't.

Everything hurt. His skin burned, his chest felt like it was going to burst. And then, as his vision darkened, he felt it—something snapped inside him. A switch.

The pain vanished. The fear, the confusion, it all drained away, leaving him hollow. 

Empty.

He stood up. Slowly.

The men who had been hovering nearby stumbled back, their eyes wide with terror. Sam looked at them, but he didn't see them the same way anymore. 

His thoughts were... different now. 

Fuzzy. 

Distant.

One of them shouted something, but Sam didn't care. He felt a hunger now, deep and gnawing. He took a step forward, then another, and the men scattered. One tripped over a pallet of supplies, falling hard onto the floor. Sam's eyes locked onto him, that hunger growing, consuming.

He grimaced, the blood still dripping from his lips, and lunged.