“Not everyone gets ill. I don’t know why, but people react differently to the virus. Some die. Some live. Some… change.” “Will, what’s the matter? You all right, buddy?” As the last word of Rye’s question left his mouth, Will’s eyes refocused on him. His lips curled back, showing off gore-encrusted canines stretching at least three quarters of an inch farther than the rest of his teeth. The following snarl, and his red irises, gave no indication that he knew who they were. The moment he lunged, both men pointed their guns in his direction, screaming for him to stop. He didn’t.