Surviving the Apocalypse With My Yandere Ex-Girlfriend-Chapter 88: Like moths to a flame

A hand slammed against the table.

The sound cracked through the room, sharp and loud—but I didn’t flinch. I’d learned not to. Callahan’s outbursts had a rhythm to them. You hear enough of them, they stop meaning anything.

"This is the third incident this week," he snapped. "We cannot keep operating like this."

His voice stayed just below shouting, but the intent was there. Around the table, people shifted. Leaders. Generals. Head doctors. Faces I used to only see from a distance.

Now I sat among them.

Voices started overlapping almost immediately—arguments, concerns, half-formed solutions colliding into noise.

"What exactly are you suggesting, Callahan?" someone finally asked.

He didn’t hesitate.

"We go back to original protocol," he said. "Shoot any civilian we even suspect is infected."

The room reacted all at once.

Gasps. Chairs scraping. Someone muttered, "That’s insane."

Callahan didn’t care.

"Let’s stop pretending," he went on. "This place is overcrowded. Resources are thinning. Soldiers are getting soft."

The word soft landed heavy.

Then—

"Adrian."

I looked up in one smooth motion.

Callahan’s eyes locked onto me.

"You were the one who pushed for this to be a safe haven instead of a stronghold," he said. "And look where it’s gotten us. So—what do you have to say for yourself?"

I took one breath.

Closed my eyes.

Then spoke.

"We’ve already taken steps to deal with overcrowding," I said evenly. "Expansion plans are underway. Units are moving toward Fort Sam Houston as we speak."

A few heads turned.

"The joint military base was overrun months ago," I continued. "Once secured, we’ll be able to relocate at least half the population there. More space. Better structure. Easier to identify actual infected."

Silence settled in, thinner than before.

Callahan grimaced.

Someone beside me shifted in their seat, arms folding tight.

"And with all due respect," I added, my voice steady, "if we’d kept that protocol you’re so fond of—"

I opened my eyes.

"—we wouldn’t have half the useful hands we rely on now."

I let that sit for a beat.

"That includes me."

The room stayed quiet.

I left the room before the meeting was done.

No one stopped me. Maybe they didn’t notice. Maybe they didn’t want to.

Either way, I couldn’t sit there anymore.

Images kept flashing through my head—the man’s eyes, glowing molten orange. The way his body jerked and twitched. The blood under his head, dark and slick, streaked with that same unnatural color.

And the word he kept screaming.

Amber.

What the fuck was amber?

I didn’t care that I’d been banned from medical. Rules felt small compared to the weight pressing on my chest. I needed answers.

I pushed through the doors.

"Hey. I need a sample of that—"

I stopped short.

They were already working on the body. Medics and workers moved around it in full protective gear, masks, gloves, face shields. Vials of blood changed hands, sealed and labeled with fast, practiced motions.

And then I saw her.

Terri.

She wore a long lab coat now, clean and pressed. No heavy protective gear like the others. Just gloves. Her curls—once wild and loose—were pulled back into a neat bun. She looked older. Sharper. Like she belonged here.

Before I could say a word, she spotted me.

"Adrian—!"

She crossed the room fast and wrapped her arms around me. I barely had time to return the hug before she grabbed my sleeve and dragged me toward the far corner.

"What are you doing here?" she whispered harshly. "You know you’re not supposed to be—Dr. Tekashi banned you after you let—well..."

"Something’s been bugging me," I cut in.

She stopped.

I met her eyes. "What can you tell me about him? About what was in his body?"

Her expression shifted. Guarded.

Terri glanced back at the room. At the body. At the blood samples being passed between gloved hands.

Then she pulled me farther away.

"We found this in his tent," she said quietly.

She reached into her coat and pulled out a syringe. There was still a residue inside—amber-colored, catching the light in a way that made my skin crawl.

I stared at it.

"It’s a drug," she continued. "Unknown origin. Unknown composition. We’ve never seen anything like it."

My jaw tightened.

"We believe it suppresses an infected’s urges," she said. "Temporarily. Just enough to let them function. Think. Blend in."

"That sounds..." I started.

"Useful?" she finished. "That’s what we thought too."

She shook her head.

"It’s highly addictive. Especially to infected with advanced symptoms. And when it wears off—when they’re deprived—"

She didn’t need to finish.

"They get worse," I said.

Terri nodded. "More aggressive. More violent. More...creative."

I folded my arms, bile rising in my throat.

"So infected are using it to stay sane," I muttered.

"Yes," she said. "Or at least to feel sane."

A heavy silence fell between us.

Then she spoke again, softer this time.

"In other words..."

She looked back at the body.

"Our world just got a lot more brutal."

—

Boots moved fast across Fort Sam Houston.

Rooms were kicked open. Hallways cleared. Armories stripped and secured. Men in green camo swept through the base like a tide, efficient and loud, calling out corners and counts.

Bodies of infected lay scattered beneath them, ones that they put down with brutal efficiency.

A dark-skinned man with a buzz cut lifted his walkie.

"Operation secure Fort Sam Houston is successful. Over."

A hand clapped his shoulder. Cheers broke out. Someone whistled. Rifles were tapped against tables in celebration.

It felt earned.

By nightfall, campfires burned along the perimeter. Tents went up. Bottles were cracked open and passed around, laughter bouncing off concrete walls that hadn’t heard joy in months.

Risky. Everyone knew that.

But they needed this.

Just one calm night.

One man slumped against a wall, a bottle loose in his hand. One knee bent, boot flat against the concrete. His rifle rested in his other hand, hanging low. He had no plans to use it again tonight.

Then—

Orange bled into his vision.

He blinked, sitting up slightly. Confused. His head swam. A smell hit him next—sweet, bitter, wrong. Like metal and sugar mixed together.

Before he could react, weight slammed onto his chest.

A woman straddled him.

She was beautiful in a way that hurt to look at. Messy hair. Sharp grin.

Her eyes pulsed red—

—and molten orange.

Infected.

His heart dropped.

"Hey, cutie," she murmured.

He barely had time to lift his hands.

Steel flashed.

His throat opened.

She pressed her mouth to the wound immediately, drinking greedily. Blood soaked her clothes, spilling down her chin, dripping onto the ground like she’d been starving for years.

Then all hell broke loose.

Screams tore through the camp.

Gunshots. Too close. Too wild.

Orange chemsticks flared to life, swinging from belts, casting sick light across bodies and walls. Figures moved through the chaos—infected, but not feral. Coordinated. Smiling.

Strange clothes. Black nails. Blood-slick hands.

Soldiers were cut down where they stood. Dragged. Torn apart. Violated like prey.

Among the carnage stood Lila.

Blood streaked her face and arms, her chest rising steady and calm. A machine gun rested in her hands, muzzle flashing as she fired into the crowd without hesitation.

She smiled faintly to herself.

And didn’t stop.

Something twisted hard in the buzzed man’s chest as he ran.

He sprinted through the carnage, boots slipping on blood, tripping over bodies that had been soldiers minutes ago. The air was thick—metallic, sweet, wrong. It crawled into his lungs and stayed there.

He gagged but didn’t stop.

To his left, a woman was straddled over someone pinned to the ground. Her movements were violent, frantic, her head thrown back in bliss that didn’t belong in a place like this. Blood soaked the dirt beneath them.

He didn’t look long.

He ran past.

"HEY—!" she screamed suddenly, voice sharp with pleasure and fury. "SOMEONE’S ESCAPING!"

She didn’t get up. Didn’t even try.

Gunfire chased him instead.

Bullets tore into the ground around his feet. He ducked, rolling behind a burned-out crate, heart slamming so hard it felt like it might burst through his ribs.

Figures moved through the smoke behind him. Fast. Laughing.

Lila was among them.

She broke into a sprint, others close behind her, but the man ran like his life was worth more than whatever they wanted to do to him.

Because it was.

He dove into one of the Humvees they’d driven in with, slamming the door shut just as rounds sparked off the metal. His hands shook as he jammed the key in, then floored the gas.

The engine roared.

The Humvee tore through the gate, fishtailing before straightening as it sped into the dark.

From behind, gunfire followed.

Lila stood in the open, firing from the hip, her face calm, almost serene, orange light flashing across her eyes with every shot.

She took a step forward.

Then a hand caught her arm.

She stopped.

The woman with the mullet stood beside her, cigarette glowing between her fingers. Her grip was firm, knowing.

"Let him go," she said simply.

Lila didn’t look at her. Her eyes stayed on the shrinking taillights.

The woman smiled.

"You want him alive," she added. "Bait works better that way."

A pause.

"That stupid ex of yours," she whispered. "You want him to come running, don’t you?"

Lila lowered the gun.

She watched the Humvee disappear into the distance, something heavy settling in her chest. Not regret. Not mercy.

Purpose.

Molten amber traced the edges of her eyes as she finally turned away.