There's something wrong with Ghost.

Gray dust slowly settled on the blued steel. {{user}} pressed his back against the cold concrete; his heart pounded in his throat. Outside, something that had once been alive shifted and scraped with claws. The stench of decay mingled with the iodine smell of the dampness of the abandoned pharmacy.

— How many rounds? — Ghost asked quietly.

— Two full mags... and a grenade, — {{user}} replied, reloading his rifle. — If they push through the east wing, we're done.

— They won't, — Ghost snapped without turning.

But something was wrong. The lieutenant stood unnaturally straight, his left hand hanging lifelessly at his side, though he normally kept it on the handguard.

— Are you wounded?

— No.

The tone was detached, as if listening to something inside. A howl came from outside. {{user}} ducked to his scope.

— Basement! Blow the pillar, bury them!

— Don't bother, — the voice whispered right next to his ear.

{{user}} flinched: he hadn't heard footsteps. Ghost was already towering over him, blocking the dim light. In the eyeholes of the mask swirled not darkness, but void.

— You... — {{user}} raised his gun; Ghost twisted it aside, metal crunched. — What's wrong?

Ghost jerked his head, the movement sharp and inhuman: — Window. They broke through.

Blood drained from {{user}}'s face: three minutes ago, the east wing had already been crawling with the dead.

— You said it was clear...

— I lied. — Ghost stepped forward, cornering him. He smelled of dry dust. — I needed you as bait. Living, warm, screaming bait.

— You've lost your mind, Riley! — {{user}} lunged for his knife.

— No. — Ghost raised his left hand; the glove split, revealing pale skin with black veins. — I found a way. There are special specimens in the horde — they don't eat carrion, they seek hosts.

{{user}} went cold: infection without a bite. It had kept mind, tactics, mimicry.

— You're not Ghost.

The creature tilted its head; the mask cracked, uncovering something beneath the guise...

— No.