Elena Reeves pressed her back against the brick wall, counting silently to thirty as she waited for the sounds of movement to pass. The te afternoon sun cast long shadows across the debris-strewn street, creating perfect hiding spots for whatever might be lurking. She'd learned to measure time precisely in her head—a skill that served her well both in her former b work and now, when timing could mean the difference between life and death.

  When she reached thirty, she peered around the corner. The street was empty save for abandoned vehicles and scattered trash. The medical clinic stood half a block away, its windows shattered but its structure intact. Elena checked her watch—she had approximately ninety minutes of decent light left before the real dangers emerged.

  She adjusted the empty backpack on her shoulders and sprinted across the open space, moving in the zigzag pattern she'd developed over weeks of scavenging. Direct lines made for easy targets; unpredictable movement kept you alive.

  Once inside the clinic, Elena barricaded the door with a fallen cabinet and pulled out her hand-drawn map. She'd systematically looted three-quarters of the building over the past week, marking each room with precise notations about what had been taken and what remained. Today's target was the storage room behind the pharmacy counter—if she was lucky, there might still be antibiotics or analgesics the previous looters had missed.

  "Think like them," she whispered to herself, a habit formed from too many days alone. "They grabbed the obvious. Look deeper."

  The pharmacy had been thoroughly ransacked, but Elena wasn't deterred. She pulled a small pry bar from her belt and moved to the back wall, where a small access panel was barely visible behind a poster about flu vaccinations. Maintenance access—the kind of thing most people wouldn't notice.

  The panel came free with a screech that made her freeze, listening intently for any response. When none came, she shined her fshlight into the revealed space. Three sealed boxes beled "Emergency Backup" sat inside, untouched. Elena allowed herself a small smile—her first real victory in days.

  She worked methodically, sorting through the supplies and prioritizing based on what the group needed most: antibiotics first, then pain medications, antiseptics, and finally bandages. Each item went into specific compartments in her backpack, logged mentally for the inventory she'd update ter in her notebook.

  As she worked, Elena's mind cataloged the patterns she'd observed over the weeks since the outbreak. Her background in immunology gave her a framework that few survivors possessed. She'd noted how the infection seemed to affect certain blood types differently—Type O individuals turned more rapidly, while some with Type AB showed deyed symptoms or occasionally, no transformation at all.

  She'd been documenting these observations meticulously, collecting blood samples when possible from both the turned and the resistant. Without proper b equipment, her analysis was limited, but the scientist in her refused to abandon the search for patterns.

  Her backpack now filled with precious supplies, Elena began her careful journey back. The sun was lower now, casting longer shadows that made her nervous. She'd plotted three alternative routes back to the subway maintenance room they called home, and today she chose the longest but safest path, avoiding the areas where she'd previously spotted the transformed.

  An hour ter, Elena descended the maintenance dder into the dimly lit underground space they'd converted into a shelter. The musty air was tinged with the smell of the small cooking fire and the antiseptic they used to keep the space clean. Eight survivors looked up at her arrival, faces lighting with hope when they saw her full backpack.

  "Did you find anything?" asked Ravi, a former hospital janitor who'd become their unofficial quartermaster.

  Elena nodded, carefully removing her organized bounty. "Antibiotics—enough for two complete courses. Some morphine, plenty of alcohol wipes, and even some sealed suture kits."

  "Thank God," whispered Sara, a middle-aged woman who had been a kindergarten teacher before the world colpsed. "Miguel's wound is looking worse."

  Elena immediately moved to the corner where Miguel y on a makeshift bed of bnkets. The construction worker had sustained a deep gash on his leg while fortifying their hideout three days ago. The wound was hot to the touch, red streaks beginning to spread outward—cssic signs of infection.

  "I need clean water and the new antibiotics," Elena said, her voice shifting to the clinical tone she'd used during her hospital residency years ago. She cleaned the wound methodically, noting the characteristics of the infection. As she worked, she observed Miguel's pallor and the unusual flecks of silver in his bloodstream when she drained the wound.

  "Have you had a fever?" she asked, pressing a hand to his forehead.

  Miguel nodded weakly. "Started st night. And I've been seeing things—colors too bright, sounds too loud."

  Elena's scientific mind catalogued these symptoms alongside the others she'd documented. Not typical infection symptoms, but not quite matching the transformation patterns either. Something in between, perhaps? She drew a small blood sample, adding it to her collection for ter analysis.

  "I'm giving you a strong antibiotic," she told him, preparing the injection. "But I need to monitor you closely. These symptoms... they're unusual."

  As she administered the medication, Elena mentally added Miguel to her observation chart—male, mid-thirties, blood type unknown but suspected A positive based on previous patterns, presenting with atypical response to either standard infection or the transformation virus.

  After ensuring Miguel was comfortable, Elena retreated to her small private corner of the maintenance room. She pulled out her worn notebook—a detailed scientific journal documenting everything she'd observed since the outbreak. Each entry was methodical, annotated with precise observations and theoretical connections.

  She recorded the day's findings, then flipped back through earlier pages, looking for corretions. There was something about the patterns of resistance she'd noticed—something that nagged at her scientific intuition. Some people turned within hours of exposure; others took days; a small percentage seemed naturally resistant.

  Elena rubbed her eyes, fatigue settling into her bones. She thought about her work at the university immunology department before the outbreak—the research into autoimmune responses and natural resistance factors. If only she had access to those bs now, to the equipment that could analyze these blood samples properly.

  She gnced at her own reflection in a small mirror propped against the wall. Dark circles underlined her eyes, and her auburn hair was pulled back in a practical knot. She looked at the small scar on her inner elbow—a reminder of the countless blood draws she'd volunteered for during her department's research studies.

  There had been something unusual about her blood work then—something the research team had been excited about but hadn't fully expined to her before everything fell apart. An "interesting antibody profile," they'd called it.

  Elena closed her notebook and tucked it securely in her bag. Tomorrow she would need to find a way to the hospital research wing—a dangerous journey, but Miguel's unusual symptoms demanded better analysis equipment than what she had here. If there was any pattern to be found in who turned and who remained human, she needed to understand it.

  As she settled onto her thin mattress, Elena reviewed her mental checklist for tomorrow's expedition: routes, timing, supplies needed, and specific equipment to prioritize if she reached the hospital b. Her systematic mind was already mapping contingencies and probabilities, the scientific approach that had kept her alive when so many others had succumbed to either the virus or the chaos that followed.

  In the dim light, she gnced over at Miguel, watching the rise and fall of his chest. The silver flecks in his blood worried her—she'd seen simir patterns in others just before transformation began. But there was something different here, something that didn't quite fit the established pattern.

  Elena pulled her bnket tighter around her shoulders. Tomorrow would bring answers—or at least better questions. In a world where knowledge meant survival, she would continue to observe, document, and analyze until patterns emerged from the chaos.

  Science, after all, was how humanity had always faced its darkest hours. And Elena Reeves was nothing if not a scientist to her core.