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"Wh—What do you mean?" Maarg asked, his voice tight with a mixture of surprise and profound confusion. He knew, with chilling certainty, exactly what Tara had just said. He'd seen Mark in the corridor, a creature of inhuman speed and strength, but Tara's words hinted at something far more complex. He needed confirmation, an explicit statement to anchor the unsettling implications swirling in his mind.
If what she claimed was true, it could be revolutionary, a breakthrough in understanding the very nature of this apocalypse. But it could also be a terrible curse, a monstrous power waiting to descend upon anyone unlucky enough to be injected with Gunther's serum. The thought sent a shiver down his spine, a cold premonition of a world forever altered.
He now understood, with stark clarity, the immense risk Carla had taken. Her decision to infiltrate this stronghold, to investigate what the 'man-eaters' were truly "cooking up", wasn't just bravery; it was prescient. If she hadn't come, if she hadn't risked everything to uncover Gunther's horrifying experiments, the Vipers – her own people, perhaps even all of Toronto – might have been wiped out in no time. A horde of intelligent, superhuman zombies, controlled by a mastermind like Gunther, would have been unstoppable.
Tara finally tore her gaze from the doorway, her eyes, though still wide with trauma, held a flicker of desperate lucidity. "He... when he changed," she began, her voice a strained whisper, as if merely speaking the words would shatter her last vestiges of sanity. "He screamed, yes, but then... he just stood there. He was shaking, convulsing, those veins pulsing, but he didn't lunge at me. He just... looked. Like he was trying to understand." She shivered, wrapping her arms around herself. "And then, when Mark Saw Gunther... He attacked him, Not me, It's like... he remembered Something."
Maarg's mind reeled. He knew?. The implications were staggering, horrifying. A zombie that retained its humanity, its memories, its affections? Or at least, enough of them to distinguish friend from foe? This wasn't the mindless, shambling horror of the typical undead. This was something entirely new, entirely unpredictable. Gunther's serum wasn't creating mindless drones; it was creating something far more dangerous, something with potentially retained will, even if trapped in a monstrous form.
The roar from the hallway intensified, punctuated by the sounds of the brutal struggle between Gunther, Jack, and the newly transformed Mark. The air grew thicker with smoke and the metallic tang of fresh blood. Maarg knew they couldn't stay here. The fire was encroaching, and the situation outside their little sanctuary was rapidly spiraling into total chaos.
"Tara, we have to go," Maarg urged, his voice firm, pulling her gently to her feet. "Now. We can't stay here, and we can't risk him turning on you. Not yet. We need to get out." He gave her a final, steadying look, hoping his resolve would transfer to her. There was no time for further explanation, no time to fully process the chilling implications of Mark's transformation. Survival was their immediate, desperate priority.
***
"No." Tara's voice was surprisingly firm, cutting through the roaring flames and Maarg's desperate pleas. She pulled back from his attempt to guide her, her gaze fixed with terrifying intensity on the doorway where Mark, or what was left of him, battled Gunther. The image of the grotesque, transformed figure, now locked in a visceral fight with their enemy, seemed to anchor her to the spot. "I'm not leaving Mark behind. If you want, you can just take Jack and leave. I'll stay." Her words were a chilling testament to her unwavering loyalty, a promise she evidently intended to keep, even if it meant her own demise.
Maarg stared at her, his mind reeling. Disbelief warred with a rising tide of desperation, a cold dread twisting in his gut. Her words were a direct assault on his deepest fears, a chilling echo of a past he desperately wanted to erase, a trauma that still haunted his every waking moment. He clenched his fist, the muscles in his hand tightening, his knuckles turning white under the strain. He didn't even realize the destructive force he was exerting, didn't feel the delicate bones beneath his grip, until Tara let out a short, sharp scream of pain.
The sound pierced through the haze of his panicked thoughts, a needle-sharp jab that snapped Maarg out of his trance. His eyes widened in horrified realization, and he instantly released her hand, the faint red marks of his grip standing out starkly on her pale skin. The memory, sharp and agonizing, flared vividly in his mind: the blood, the screams, the terrifying, inhuman transformation of his own mother, her eyes glazing over, devoid of recognition, as she turned on his father, then on him. He had lost them both that day, victims of a mindless hunger.
He remembered the bitter taste of helplessness, the gnawing regret of being unable to save those he loved. He never wanted to lose anybody again, especially not someone like Tara, who, despite the horror surrounding them, still clung to a reason to live, a life waiting to be reclaimed. Tara, despite witnessing Mark's grotesque metamorphosis, still had a purpose, a future. He couldn't, wouldn't, stand by and let her succumb to the same fate, to endure the same profound trauma he had.
"YOU DON'T HAVE A CHOICE, DAMN IT!" Maarg roared, his voice raw with a desperate frustration that bordered on hysteria, a desperate plea for her to see reason. He grabbed her arm again, more gently this time, but with an unyielding grip that conveyed his absolute resolve. "MARK IS DEAD! He's gone, Tara! That's not him anymore! That serum... it twists them, consumes them! We can't be sure if he won't attack us next!" He began to pull her towards the doorway, towards what he desperately hoped was their only path to safety, towards the flickering light of escape.
But Tara, fueled by a fierce, grief-stricken loyalty that transcended logic, resisted with a strength that surprised him. She pulled away with a sudden, sharp burst of irritation, her eyes flashing with a defiance he hadn't expected, a spark of stubborn life in the face of overwhelming despair. "Don't touch me," she spat, her voice laced with a cold anger that belied her trembling form. "You don't decide what I do." She took a ragged breath, the smoke burning her lungs, but her resolve remained unshakeable, a fixed point in the swirling chaos. "I'll stay. I'll stay here with Mark. If we live together, we die together." Her words were a final, desperate vow, an unyielding commitment that left Maarg momentarily speechless, torn between his desperate need to save her and his grudging respect for a choice that might very well lead to her doom.
The roar of the fire seemed to intensify, mocking his helplessness, wrapping around them like a predatory beast. The sounds of the monstrous battle just outside, the grunts of exertion, the sickening impacts, grew louder, pressing in on their desperate impasse. The very air around them felt thick with smoke, heat, and the palpable tension of their argument. Maarg looked at Tara, truly looked at her, and saw not weakness, but a raw, unyielding determination that mirrored his own. He knew, instinctively, that arguing further would be futile, a waste of precious, fleeting seconds that were rapidly running out. The building was literally falling apart around them. He had to make a decision, and quickly. He was facing a woman willing to die for her husband, even if that husband was now a monster. And in this burning hell, that kind of loyalty was as terrifying as it was admirable.