The hunger is only getting worse. Wren grinds her teeth so the itching pain will provide a distraction. Four of her teeth are nearly ready to fall out. Two canines, a bicuspid, and an incisor. One good knock and they'll tumble right out. She wheels the gurney towards one of the private rooms. The door is ajar. Inside reeks of detergent. She steps in and clears the room. Inside the closet, under the bed, and of course the bathroom. It reeks of chlorine, but that's good. The bedsheets are made. Things are clean and safe. Curtains are drawn across the window. The glass is intact. Nothing to indicate someone is trying to get in. When she peeks outside, a scarlet flush of sunlight retreats across the sky. No signs of traffic or power.

But even at dusk, the light pierces the back of Wren's eyes. She winces and looks away. It's like staring into a camera flash. Blood vessels branch across her vision, renewed every time she blinks. For seven full seconds, she cannot see anything other than afterimages.

Still half-blind, she pulls Harkes inside and shuts the door. He sighs and relaxes a little. It's easy to forget he can't see as well in the dark as she can. Now their situations are reversed. She takes the chair placed inside the shower and props it up against the door. Then she takes a towel and jams it into the narrow space between the door and the floor. It's not exactly a fortress, but it gives them time to regroup and plan their next step.

First thing's first. Harkes needs HCIG as soon as possible. For every minute he goes without the second half of treatment, his chances of survival decrease.

Wren pauses, back to the window, and rubs her eyes. They ache, but her vision is clear.

"We can't leave them like that."

She angles her head towards Harkes, but doesn't answer.

"We can't," he says faintly. "'S fucked up."

"We won't."

He settles at that, but not by much. She can't blame him. The cruoris virus infiltrates the central nervous system. It damages the brain, causes personality changes, and leads to all sorts of aberrant behaviour. Losing control over yourself, becoming a hostage to the will of another person, doesn't help, either.

But that's a line of thought for another time.

Wren changes her gloves again and readies the IV kit. It's not unlike before, except air needs to be pushed out of the line. The saline flush shoots a small arc onto the floor. Tape ready, transparent dressing out, lines broken out of seal. She rolls up Harkes' jacket sleeve above the elbow, then unrolls the elastic blue tourniquet and wraps it just below his sleeve cuff. Her vision is getting better even now, but it's still hard to find any blood vessels. The volume in her head is just going up and up and up. His heartbeat thrums up her fingers, her gloves and tourniquet reek, and the smell of alcohol singes her nose hairs. Finding something in this rat's nest of sensory input feels impossible. Weeding out the arteries even more so.

"Oh for God's sake." She leans back and glares at his arm. "I'm a fucking vampire and I can't find a vein."

Harkes makes a strangled noise. When she looks at him, his big green eyes are crinkled into half-moons. The asshole is laughing at her.

"Shut up and make a fist, corporal."

"Yes, ma'am."

The tension between them eases a little. It feels strange to reclassify herself as a vampire, but it's another reality check. The hunger squeezing her stomach doesn't belong to a human being. Wren glances at the doses of HCIG and focuses on the task at hand. Even with gloves on, she can feel Harkes' pulse. She palpates along the tender skin inside his elbow. A vein will bounce under pressure. An artery won't. And she really doesn't want to be poking more holes in his body.

There. Wren pauses and presses down. The blood vessel inflates when she stops pressing on it. That's a vein. She cleans his skin with another antimicrobial wipe, but has to avert her head for a moment afterwards. The smell is so intense, it gives her a headache. She shakes it off as best she can and double-checks the vein's position without touching skin. It hasn't run off. So without further ado, she presses the needle in with its bevel up. Blood collects in the chamber. It's a good h—

That midnight craving feeling hits Wren like a brick. She freezes. Blood fills the cannula. Deeply red. Almost black. But even in this setting, with a dizzying swirl of other smells, it's like the best steak. The perfect first bite on a perfect first night when you're hungry enough to enjoy a fancy meal, but not so hungry that you just mindlessly gobble it all down. It's all of that and more.

Her mouth waters. Her mouth actually waters.

Heart beating double-time. Sweating. Shaky. Adrenaline hums through her muscles. All her fine motor skills are flying out the window.

"Shit." She blinks sweat out of her eyes.

A balding Latino in his fifties. His eyes are the shade of brown that looks black in the right light, but pinpoints of blue and red are already visible. His expression is pure animal panic.

She understands now.