The Bridge

They moved fast, navigating the failing corridors like rats through a sinking ship.

The bridge wasn’t far now — a handful of turns, a flickering stairwell — and through it all, Sarah could feel the ship changing around them. The walls seemed to pulse when she wasn’t looking directly at them, and the air grew heavier, thick with static and the sour tang of sweat and fear.

They reached the main hatch to the bridge. Miraculously, the door was still powered, sliding open with a sluggish hiss.

Ward was there.

Alive.

Uncompromised.

He stood near the main console, barking into a comm unit, trying to wrestle control of the ship back from the chaos. He looked up sharply when they entered, relief flashing across his worn face.

"Sarah. Devlin. Thank Christ—"

He stopped.

Sarah barely had time to process it.

Devlin's arm clamped around her from behind, yanking her back against him with brutal ****. Her pistol was wrenched from her grip, clattering to the deck.

"What the fuck—?!" she gasped, struggling, but Devlin’s other hand moved fast — too fast — sliding over her body with greedy, possessive intent.

His fingers clamped around her breast, squeezing hard enough to make her cry out, grinding himself against her ass with unmistakable arousal.

"You smell so good," he hissed against her ear, voice no longer the frantic, terrified Devlin she knew, but low, oily, wrong. "So soft. I knew you'd feel perfect."

Sarah thrashed violently, but he was strong, unnaturally strong. His hand slid lower, shoving under her jumpsuit, fingers finding her slit, pressing inside with an obscene wet sound.

She gasped — half shock, half rage — tears springing unbidden to her eyes.

Ward surged forward, but Devlin jerked her tighter against him, using her body as a shield.

"Ah, ah," Devlin taunted, sliding a second finger inside her, curling cruelly. "One wrong move, and I rip her apart."

Sarah’s mind reeled. Her body betrayed her in horrifying little ways — betraying the thrum of unwanted heat, the involuntary clench around his invading fingers — but she **** herself to focus through the wave of nausea and fury.

This wasn't Devlin.

This was something wearing him. Puppeteering his lust, his instincts, weaponizing them against her.

Ward’s face twisted with helpless rage.

"Let her go, Devlin," Ward growled, voice deadly low. "You don’t want to do this."

Devlin laughed — a broken, jagged sound. His fingers moved faster inside her, shamelessly, until Sarah whimpered despite herself, hatred boiling in her veins.

"Don't I?" Devlin murmured against her temple. "Maybe this was always inside me. Waiting for permission."

Sarah gritted her teeth, feeling the cold press of his belt against the small of her back, feeling the frantic thud of his heart pounding against her shoulder blades.

Focus. Find the opening.

She twisted her wrist, searching blindly — finding the small utility knife still strapped to her jumpsuit thigh pocket.

Ward saw it too. His eyes flicked to hers — a single, silent command.

Now.

With a roar, Sarah jammed her elbow back into Devlin’s ribs, hard. He grunted, loosening his grip just enough. She ripped the knife free and slashed backward, feeling it bite into flesh.

Devlin howled, stumbling.

Ward was on him in an instant, slamming him to the deck. Sarah stumbled away, wiping the back of her hand furiously across her mouth, still feeling Devlin’s touch like a brand burned into her skin.

The bridge lights flickered wildly, casting the scene into violent strobes — Ward grappling with Devlin’s writhing body, Sarah scrambling for her dropped pistol.

She scooped it up just as Devlin bucked Ward off with a monstrous, inhuman strength.

His eyes glowed for a moment — a shimmering, unnatural blue — and then he vanished, his body dissolving into black mist that sucked itself into the ventilation ducts with a high-pitched screech.

Silence slammed into the bridge like a physical blow.

Sarah sagged against the wall, gasping for breath, the pistol hanging limp in her shaking hands.

Ward pulled himself up slowly, wiping blood from his mouth.

"We’re infected," he said grimly, voice hoarse. "All of us. Some more than others."

Sarah slid to the floor, pulling her knees to her chest, the pistol still clutched tight in her trembling fingers.

No, she thought, as the ship groaned around them like some slumbering beast, not infected.

Hunted.