(WARNING! DON'T READ IF YOU LOVE DOGS AND CAN'T SEE THEM IN PAIN)
While everyone was overjoyed, hugging their loved ones and sharing emotional stories, the air around the colony crackled with life once again. Laughter echoed for the first time in days. The rescued group was given food, bandages for their wounds, and a place by the bonfire to rest and recover. People sat in small groups, trading tales of survival, of close calls, and of the brave efforts Maarg and Jack made to bring them home.
But far away from the joy and warmth of the colony, Buster the dog wandered alone. His nose twitched as he sniffed along a cracked, abandoned street. The faint scent trail of his colony and master was fading, but Buster followed something else now—something strange, something unnatural. The sun had almost set, and shadows stretched long and thin across the ruined cityscape.
Buster's paws padded softly against the broken pavement as he came upon an old, rotting building. He sniffed at the doorway, then stepped inside. The air was damp and stank of mildew and metal. As he moved forward cautiously, a shadow slipped behind him silently.
A tall, slender figure emerged from the darkness. Its face was obscured by a cracked gas mask, and its limbs moved unnaturally, like puppet strings were guiding them. Its voice crackled, low and broken—part human, part machine—as it spoke.
"Pooor... little... doggy... lost... from your... fri-endsssss?"
It knelt down and began to pet Buster gently on the head. Buster growled softly but didn't move—something about the touch froze him in place. The creature's fingers were long, thin, and ended in sharp, claw-like nails. One hand pressed against Buster's neck, and with terrifying precision, it dug its nails into the skin and injected a glowing, fluorescent green liquid from a hidden syringe embedded in its wrist.
Buster whimpered. Then the pain came.
The dog collapsed onto the dusty floor, twitching violently. His eyes began to roll back, a pale film spreading over them. His body convulsed, foam gathering at the corners of his mouth. His paws scratched at the ground as if trying to fight the corruption taking over. All the while, the creature simply stood over him, head tilted, observing with curiosity—almost pleasure. Its breath wheezed out in jerks as it whispered in garbled gibberish, its voice glitching like an old recording.
Back in the colony, the fire crackled warmly. Plates clinked, spoons scraped pots, and laughter spilled out into the night. For a fleeting moment, things felt normal. Even Jack smiled, sitting next to Sammy who handed him a bowl of hot stew. People gathered around Maarg's father, who recounted their near-death experience, praising the courage of the rescue team.
Mr. Whitaker, however, sat apart from everyone. His eyes scanned the dark horizon beyond the colony walls. His hands, usually composed and mannered, now trembled on his lap. He didn't touch the food. He didn't say a word.
Maarg noticed.
He walked over, crouching beside the older man.
"Sir," Maarg said gently, "I know how much Buster means to you. And I promise, first thing in the morning, we'll go out and look for him."
Mr. Whitaker didn't respond at first. Then he let out a long, shaky sigh.
"He's all I've got left," he muttered. "All I ever had after everything went to hell."
Maarg nodded. "We'll find him. I promise."
Behind them, the fire crackled. People continued to eat and laugh. But overhead, a cold wind blew.
And somewhere in the distance, a faint howl echoed through the night—painful, broken, and unnatural.
The sun had barely touched the horizon, casting a dull amber glow across the fog-drenched colony. Everyone was still asleep or just beginning to stir—except for Mr. Whitaker.
He stood silently near the colony's gate, arms crossed tightly over his chest. His silver hair rustled in the early breeze, eyes fixed on the thick fog beyond the barricade. He hadn't slept. He couldn't. Not when Buster was still out there.
Then… something moved in the mist.
His breath hitched. For a moment, he thought his exhausted mind was playing tricks on him. But no—there it was again. A figure. Low to the ground, walking slowly.
"Buster…?" he whispered, barely audible to himself.
The fog parted just enough to reveal it.
Buster.
Standing at the edge of visibility, half-shrouded in mist, the loyal dog stood facing him. Head tilted. Silent.
Mr. Whitaker stepped forward, his face breaking into a stunned, trembling smile. "Buster!" His voice cracked. "My boy! You came back!"
He opened the gate and rushed out, barely noticing how cold the air had become. "You bloody scared me, you know that? Come here, lad, come here!"
But Buster didn't move.
Something felt… wrong.
His tail wasn't wagging. He wasn't running into his master's arms like he always had before. His ears twitched unnaturally. And his eyes… pale, almost gray. Not like before.
"Buster?" Whitaker said again, his voice dropping.
Still, no movement. No bark. Just those blank, glassy eyes staring at him.
Whitaker knelt down slowly, extending his hand. "What's wrong with you, boy?"
Then Buster let out a low growl.
It wasn't like the growl of a scared dog. It was low. Guttural. Like it was coming from deep within something else. Something darker.
Before Whitaker could react, Buster lunged.