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Day Z-ERO

By: N.M.E.

“Man, why're we even flying now, world like what it is?"

“We've all got our reasons. Mine is work."

The well-dressed man fiddled with the makeshift mask over the lower half of his face. It bobbed erratically, ill-fitting and cheap, as he spoke. His seatmate, the slightly overweight man squeezed into the middle meat of their sandwiched row, struck up conversation.

“Oh yeah? What do you do?"

“I'm a reporter," the well-dressed man, Robert, said.

Robert Cohen. Hadn't been any other American reporting from China in the thick of this pandemic, so Robert expected to be recognized. Hoped, if he allowed his ego some honesty. But he didn't want to come across as impolite. Maybe due to the mask. Or the fact he had been red-eyeing it for a day and a half in the midst of cancellations and re-bookings. The fever cooking him underneath his button-up certainly didn't help his complexion.

“They're gonna make you stay home soon, I bet," the balding man said. “Do everything remotely, even the weather. That's what they're telling me to do, they say 'Doug, you can file all this digitally. You just need this VPN, and this home office set-up, not to mention this new expensive internet package.' Yeah, it's a company discount, but they still ain't the ones payin', right? Say I should be lucky to have a job as-is, quit the whining, people sick and dropping…well, not dead, but."

Robert nodded. Apparently he'd hit a nerve. Truthfully, the nerve already seemed exposed. Any minor abrasion would set Doug off. On Doug's other flank, the teen near the window coughed against the glass, his ear buds blocking out the worst of the small talk.

They had been idling here on the runway for upwards of an hour. Chicago hadn't been on their original flight path. However, a quarter-hour before priority boarding, the terminal attendants announced that due to coverage issues, likely the pre-pandemic sweep of sick days, their plane needed to stop halfway to plug some holes in the domestic schedule.

“And that plus my wife haulin' us to Seattle…fuck, man, my wallet's takin' a huge hit," Doug continued, unaffected by Robert's lack of response.

Not that Robert wasn't interested, stories were his business, but either Doug had trouble modulating his voice or Robert's ears had become overly-sensitive in the throes of fever. He was mildly annoyed, and found it difficult to pay attention.

They wouldn't list hyperacusis as a potential symptom for another three weeks.

“Are you two not traveling together?"

“Huh?" Doug spun. His ears had popped due to his unseasonable congestion as soon as they'd taken off from SEA. “Naw, it was just a last-minute trip, so we couldn't get seats together. She's back there."

He jabbed a broad thumb back toward the tail end. His wife, Martha, had secretly been relieved to have a few hours of relative silence. Doug was the type to complain about any little thing–from demanding they pack light to avoid checked bag fees, to the lack of “real" food at the airport, to the apparent fast recovery her mother had (“why'd we even fly out across the country if she just had a cough, Martie?"), and the sudden change to a layover (“even though we shelled out for a direct!"). She simply rested her eyes and breathed to the taxiing hum of the plane.

Meanwhile, her husband yapped his woes into some stranger's ear, inadvertently sharing contaminated air that leaked from an imperfection in Robert Cohen's, (the famous reporter), haphazardly homemade mask. Not that it mattered–the air hadn't been free of pathogens since they boarded five hours prior.

Robert and several of his fellow passengers had hauled their belongings, zero time to spare, from their Air China terminal. They'd packed stowaway novel microbes in their saliva. And unlike his other fellow Americans, Robert had been interviewing at impact of what would soon be the world-televised “Day Zero'' of the derivatively-named ZOVID pandemic.

“Well, I think they're just changing out our pilot, then we're off," Robert said to an increasingly-ornery seatmate.

Because their pilot, of course, also had early signs of a fever, but had to fill in for someone much worse off. Not as advanced a fever as Robert, who had the decency to hide his week of incubation from his peers and cameramen. More irresponsible to skip the lab tours and waste everyone's time and money, truthfully.

But the sooner they hit the air again, the sooner Robert could run to the toilet and heave up the contents of his stomach. Fever, nausea, chills–he knew he had it, but he couldn't have surmised to what degree. The odds were a billion to one that his body nursed the mutation that would soon drive the world to full horror movie panic.

He couldn't have guessed those photos that had to have been doctored–of feathers sprouting from elbows, a line of emerald green scales flush with reddened flesh on a research scientist, or the elongated incisors of a father of three sharing their interwoven plumbing–would circulate the internet as hack conspiracy theorists tried to reverse-engineer their own timelines.

Nor would Robert imagine that his own face, or what would soon barely pass for it, would feature in the most-clicked video for the next decade. All he could do was continue entertaining Doug, be an earpiece for a stranger's mountainous molehills, and resist smirking behind his mask.

The icon on Doug's phone screen, which he failed to hide in the shadows of his beverage tray, showed a gay hook-up app that Robert hadn't bothered with in the better part of two years.

“Least we got service here for a bit," Doug said. He shared a private album with their flight's steward, who had scheduled some time for a rendezvous with any desperate passenger once they landed back in DC.

The employee lounge was adjacent to the terminal. And Ricardo had a deal with his supervisor that he could sneak someone in at the end of a shift, so long as he kept the tryst under fifteen minutes.

The plane ended its taxi. Engines roared to life as their former co-pilot re-introduced himself. The fasten seatbelt signs flashed, seats bounced to their upright positions, and Ricardo the handsome power top winked at Doug as he demonstrated how to use an oxygen mask three rows up.

Robert pretended to pay attention to the rest of his movie on the tiny, warbling screen in front of his swimming vision. Impossible to figure out at what superhero or villain origin story it cut-off an hour prior. Out of the corner of his eye, Robert glanced at Doug disguising a hardon in his lap using one of the Skymall catalogs, because he couldn't get his mind off of Ricardo.

Perhaps when the pulse of his heart eased, Doug could venture back to check on Martha. Hopefully she was asleep, considering how fatigued she had been after two sleepless nights on disjunct time zones fussing about her mom's mild fever. If she had this new virus going around–something only mindless left-tard idiots believed in–then she'd be fine. Doug read or watched somewhere it affected men worse.

Not that he had any reason to worry. This all hinged on it being real in the first place, and not the usual yearly bug. He hadn't gotten his flu shot in the last decade and was healthier than a bull. His seatmate blocking the aisle, Robert the Reporter, banked away to the restroom as soon as the plane leveled off. Perfect opportunity for Doug to stretch his hams.

The locks on these closet-sized airplane bathrooms never worked properly. Robert's vision fractaled his reality from behind his glasses. He fumbled with the latch, turned, and dry-heaved into the septic blue water now at chest-level. His knees bowed inward, only letting him find his footing after the wetter retches passed.

Certainly no panacea, but at least he was empty. Pulling his scrunched up mask from his breast pocket, he met eyes with the sallow, middle-aged Asia correspondent in the mirror. Living out of his suitcase for two and a half weeks had done a number, and even though he recalled shaving just two evenings prior in Nanjing, a bristly black beard grew in-between his frown lines. It itched to high heaven, which the homemade facial covering hacked from a hotel pillow case made even worse.

“Piece of shit." Robert flushed the mask down with yesterday's coffee.

He arrived back just in time for the drink service. Ginger ale for the stomach, then a namesake-sized serving of gin to help with the fever. Amusing enough to be an old home remedy, but truthfully he needed to numb things a bit. Take his mind off the fever cooking his bones and focus on the bone he imagined beer-bellied Doug slurping on in the other bathroom with Ricardo.

Robert passed the half-poured can of coke from the stewardess to the hoodied teenager near the window. No way any of them could have anticipated an invisible bead of Robert's saliva danced to its metal rim.

“Thanks," the teen grunted over the pulse of his airpods. He sipped, bored, the first song on his EDM playlist starting for the third time.

Mercifully, reporter, husband, wife, and any other future data point of contact tracing arrived safely in Dulles International two-point-five hours later. Robert's fever could have subsided, or maybe stowing his jacket gave the illusion, but the muscle pains in the locks of his joints, and the ache in his gums, felt medieval in its severity. Through his pain, he still managed the mild-mannered feat of grabbing too-heavy luggage for too-short women. Now all he had to do was endure Ricardo making eyes at Doug, who swaggered half a pace in front of him.

One of Robert's camera guys tried to flag him down for a data card exchange, but Robert brushed him off under explicit interest of scheduling his Lyft (“never Uber, for what they did to their contractors") for the nanosecond after he claimed his fifty-pound suitcase from the belt. Gary the Camera Jock would have his fucking soundbites from Robert's computer on Monday, pre-show editing be damned.

He deserved some shuteye. Maybe a romp with his fiance. Breakfast or dinner, whichever he roused for first. Meat.

“I need to take a leak, bad, Martie, so can you grab my bathroom bag from the luggage…thingy?" Doug's hand left Martha's smaller waist.

He had been the one to insist on packing light enough to avoid checking a bag. But then, when their return trip was so overbooked that people had to volunteer their laptop cases for last-minute storage, he decided to play the hero?

Martha didn't care. It would give her some time to catch up on post-flight contact. Her Mom's fever had likely subsided by now, and the old bundle of neuroses had been worried with all of the cancellations and pilot sick days that her daughter and son-in-law's flight home would drop out of the sky. Martha dialed, glanced at baggage claim signage, and ventured off.

Ricardo and Doug locked fingers, giggling like schoolboys as they ducked into the surprisingly discrete hallway that led into the stewards' lounge. Just a few chairs and two bunks for the overworked flight crew that had honed their bodies to endure sleep in the chatter and chaos of international lobbies.

Ricardo closed the drapes behind them. A formality, since Sean the Day Manager had guaranteed he'd keep the lounge clear with a “disinfectant in progress" blockade.

“Show me that big cock again." Doug licked his lips.

The husky white boy fell to his knees, almost groveling as Ricardo smoothly undid his belt and rocked his hips in that so-practiced way that let his pants fall around his stuffed waistband and pool at his ankles.

“Thirteen minutes."

Ricardo gasped as those pink lips parted for a second time in the last few hours. The muscles in Doug's red face relaxed, eyes closing in carnal bliss as he nursed on Richie's uncut eight inches. Doug certainly didn't deepthroat like a married man, so Richie confirmed the whole “married and looking" thing as a ploy. Well, whatever, so was his “safe only."

Two minutes later, Doug arched his back and wrapped his hands around a bar of the top bunk. He sunk back into Ricardo's hips and moaned like a drunken sailor as that oh-so perfect slab of latin meat massaged his insides. He had been loosened up by his triple Seattle dickings early in the morning before the women of the house woke up enough that they didn't even need Ricardo's stash of emergency lube. The thick film of Doug's spit eased the little resistance.

“Fuck yeah, boy," Doug growled.

Ricardo smirked. He reached forward and hooked a few fingers in Doug's mouth. The moan, almost a protest, quickly quieted as his other hand manhandled one of Doug's tits. Not pure flab by a longshot, but maybe he hadn't pushed himself at the gym in a year or so. Richie handled it like when he used to fuck girls, and wondered if Doug would do the same to his alleged wife later today.

“You're my 'boy' for the next ten minutes," Richie said. “Tell your daddy what you want."

“Fuck me," Doug slurred. He sucked on Ricardo's thumb.

“You want my leche?" He knew it drove these basic-ass repressed white boys wild.

Doug quivered like putty. Richie wasn't really even that close, but he picked up the pace and let his mind drift to more lurid excursions last year. He recalled the marine who wanted one final forbidden fuck before heading out to whatever middle-eastern dump they milked oil from this election year.

Or the coach who squirmed just like Doug here when Richie slapped those big white cheeks. He kneaded the dough, then let Doug do the bulk of the work. Mr. Married Man threw it back as he used one hand to work his shorter dick into a red-hot, rock-hard baton.

“Oh fuck," Ricardo hissed. He bucked, then dumped two big blasts of cum into Doug's gaping guts. Came on quicker than he realized. Usually he let his bottoms squirt first.

“Oh my goddddd." Doug moaned, playing up his wonder at the simple act of being a dump for some rando's spunk. Honestly, he'd had better. But he'd also had way worse. Still, he'd throw the kid a bone. “Thanks for your load, papi."

“Get cleaned up." Richie slapped Doug's ass. He pulled his cock out, bringing forth a few drops of prime Mexican jizz that hit the floor. Someone else's problem.

Doug nodded and pulled up his pants. He still had blue balls to burn, but clearly his quickie wasn't in the mood for extended company. Ricardo offered him a clumsy, half-hearted kiss. Doug returned with some tongue, but then did his duty to the ritual and expediently saw himself out.

Martha blew up his phone, and he'd just have to tell her the baggage claim was fucking ridiculous to find, as usual.

Robert Cohen, patient zero of ZOVID Day One, bucked over in a coughing fit. Something had lodged itself in his throat, and he was suddenly hyper-aware of the shuffle of feet as people surrounded him. He could smell the fear to his left, hear the click of walkies as someone dialed for a medic, and tasted blood as new teeth ripped through his gums.

He staggered in a half-circle, then swan-dove against linoleum as the contents of his backpack spilled as if from a pinata. He had just wanted his Advil, which had been stowed away five rows up for the past nine plus hours. But the pain that coursed up and down his spine, raw electricity extending to each fingertip and follicle, cackled at any simple analgesic.

If he was honest with himself later, after the interview circuit, it didn't really hurt. Not in the traditional way. It felt like cracking a knuckle or having your partner pop your hip as you splayed out on his side of the bed. The pain of relief, and the itch to do it again. To have your body wound and unwound so many times that you barely considered yourself human.

But Robert wasn't technically human, at least not for much longer. The virus coursed through his body, spread by the simple act of opening his mouth at the wrong time in the wrong poorly-ventilated room. A drop of saliva, imperceptible to the naked eye, but containing tens of millions of lab-grown machinery whose sole drive was to warp his body, cell by cell at first, then an exponential cascade.

And now that cascade had come crashing together, Robert emerged from the wreckage. His fingers–claws, now–raked across his chest. He needed air and he needed to cool off, so his custom-tailored shirt, colors hand-picked by his then-boyfriend, now-fiancee, was a mere obstacle. A thin barrier, but a barrier still.

“Sir! Sir, please calm down! I'm going to–"

The paramedic on-staff approached the whirl of fur and fury, only to get a bright red slash across his cheek.

Robert's words slurred, tongue too heavy in his transfiguring mouth. He tried to reach for something on the floor. It fell out of his bag. “My–My co–"

“Sir?" The guard's eyes darted between the fumbled laptop and the claw extended towards it.

“My cock," Robert growled. “Need to FEEL it."

The same scraggly beard had now raced down his neck and chest like wildfire, dark pelt pushing through the slash-marks on his shirt until it all fell away like a desiccated flower. His slacks soon followed, but they were helped by the extension of his feet and legs. Seam burst, then warped further by that same pelt, and then the thick, foot-long erection punched out his zipper while a bristly, canine-like tail burst from the seat. All Robert had to do was whip out his belt for his old human cocoon to fall away.

Rapidfire images swam through his head. Robert remembered the cages in that hidden Wutan (alleged) BSL-3 lab. Dogs, pigs, rats, and even a horse, restrained and doped-out, suddenly lighting up with fear as the whir of machinery flared to life. Test tubes, murky titrations, and even a preserved human torso vivisected alongside diagrams of like-splayed animal models. All in desperate need of a sanitary wipe.

A virus. Chemical weapon made at first to apply rapid gene therapy, and then to destabilize warzones when the government got interested. Once dropped, soldiers found themselves overcome with hunger for each other's bodies, possessed by reassigned predilection for their fellow man, regardless of nationality. You could either use the distraction to retreat, or shoot members of the contagious gay orgy like fish in a barrel, since your own troops came prepared with respirators.

Of course, if you could edit human sexuality, this notorious tangle of neurons, both genetic and un-genetic in its arbitrary assignment, then why not aim for something more concrete? Reconstruct the body itself. Pack on muscle. Crank down inhibition. And why do your soldiers need to be human?

Imagine a literal wolfpack of shock troopers you could deploy in the dead of night. Marines with crocodilian resilience and metabolism to sit and wait for days if not weeks on end in those murky enemy swamps. The endurance and unpredictability of a bull. And naturally, all of it with a built-in time-limit. Or a kill-switch, if things got too–pardon the pun–hairy.

Of course, all of this data: diagrams, photographs, lines of code, spectroscopy slides, and witty repartee from the finest scientific and journalistic minds, well it all resided in one place. One un-edited expose. One computer. One tiny little array of silica.

And a seven-foot tall anthropomorphic wolf's clawed foot would smash it.

Robert stumbled in his new body, too huge and fearsomely strong to make him anything more than a musclebound marionette with its strings cut. His carry-on bag's items had been strewn around, and he smashed a computer underfoot. His nails bit through glass, fiber, and chip. And if anyone knew who he was, or what could be on that computer, it could have likely been salvaged.

But it would be swept up and incinerated by a disinfecting squad two hours later.

Humanity would lose track of the Zodiac Disease's highly-audited origins over the coming years. Robert Cohen, who hoped to elevate his name into the echelons of history for his dangerous, brave, and borderline-illegal reporting, would instead go down in history as the maligned “patient zero."

The man who became a beast, filmed by his ex-camera man, and stroked his wolf-cock in a public airport for all to see, lost in the delirium of pain, shock, and lust. Who then reverted three days later, lost in the woods outside of a NoVA suburb. Who would return to face public scrutiny, firing squad by social media and the twenty-four-hour news cycle. Who would have his engagement postponed, and then canceled, and whose relationship would deteriorate.

And he would have to rewatch himself transform, strip on live TV and TikTok, and Pornhub, for the next several years, all the while eking out a living on any talk show who would dare endorse his story.

And who would go to therapy for the next decade, until his story became commonplace, until they diagnosed “post-Zodiac" as a measurable condition, and social justice ran its course.

The man who would eventually settle down, and perhaps even learn to live with, maybe revel in the notoriety. Who would strike up a new flame and who would joke, one night after a few glasses of wine, that they should watch “The Video." And then things would get steamy as the Robert from six years prior, shot afar on someone's iPhoneX, transformed into a musclebound wolf-man with a knotted pole of dripping meat. Who would leer at the camera, then run off to infect Patient Two, then Patient Three, until it cascaded into something too numerous to number.

And they'd laugh, because it didn't seem so weird now. In fact, people had kinks for ZOVID cases nowadays. You didn't even have to DarkWeb it.

And they would kiss, and watch it again, and then fuck. Robert would bemoan his dick didn't do that anymore, and life would go on.

But in the here and now, Robert, who couldn't even recognize his own name, swayed on all-fours. His lupine cock smeared precum on the ground, then retracted halfway back into its sheath. He momentarily scrambled, overcome by the fluorescent lights, and the screaming, and the sound of mis-firing tasers (“the TSA was woefully under-trained for this situation"), until his claws found traction and bit into the floor.

He fled, following nose and instinct. His brain whispered sweet nothings into itself, a fold of truths and mistruths about who and what he now was. A weapon, a human mind overcome with the primal urges and genetic programming of an adult gray wolf in heat. The musculature of a Greek God, but the finesse of a newborn, skittering and sliding into a trio of garbage bins.

The vocabulary and understanding of a man. But without the vocal structure. Short-term memory that told him to follow the symbol for the baggage claim, but did not know why. The desire of a gay man who had not seen his long-term partner in nearly a month. But the libido of a monster.

It all coalesced into a target: one man out in the open. Balding, stocky, whose name danced on the tip of Robert's memory. Whose scent indicated arousal. Whose gait and posture indicated he had recently been on the receiving end of another man.

Flabbergasted by what approached him, a werewolf out of a goddamned horror movie, Doug spun on his heel and ducked into a restroom in an attempt to hide. Unfortunately, he had further corralled himself. How could he know he was the monster's target?

Robert slammed into too-tight corners in the compact mensroom. Foul, astringent scents assaulted his nose. His eyes watered, and he had the human urge to feel around for his glasses, before remembering he didn't need them anymore. He caved in the stall door with a great slap, then shuffled into the stall, facing down the loud-mouthed Doug.

Doug screamed something, but Robert used the moment to dive forward. His long, slobbering tongue entered Doug's mouth and probed. Their saliva mixed. Doug, who had already been infected by sharing a row of seats with a human named Robert several days into his contagious window, received a second infection.

The smaller man attempted to beat the wolf away with fists and feet, but it was all fruitless. His blows, uncoordinated, glanced off the military-grade beast's bulk with barely any consideration.

Robert removed his tongue and pressed his nose to Doug's chest, then traced it down to his stomach, and then to his crotch–yes, arousal still, apparently unbothered by his partner's monstrous appearance. He relished in Doug's quiver, equal parts fear and arousal.

The stressful twitter of voices outside told Robert they likely didn't have much time. Surely, his human reason flared, they would send in bigger guns to contain him? The U.S. had known about the international triage of enemy science crafting these gene-bombs, right? They'd claim him as a test specimen.

He suddenly didn't care. Other needs to attend. Robert grabbed Doug by the shoulders, spun him around, and pressed him against the wall over the toilet. It flushed automatically, masking his scream. Then, with surgical precision, Robert ran a nail along Doug's pants and split them along with his underwear. He ripped them off, legs momentarily hog-tying his human victim, and then loomed. His wolf dick inflated back to its prodigious size.

“Oh god. Oh fuck, what are you going to do to me? What are yoo-ooOOOOOOHHH!!"

The cock speared into Doug, its tapered tip perfect for parting a hole, willing or not. Slicked by Robert's own precum, as well as whatever already remained inside of Doug from his tryst with the flight attendant, it moved forward with indomitable insistence.

“Oh fuck. Please. Oh god, i-it's too big."

It was. But the challenge could be part of the fun. Doug's knees buckled. He felt the weight of the wolf-monster on his back, its tongue lolling in bestial pleasure next to his right ear. It panted, hot and heavy, then bucked its hips again, sending another few inches of the massive animal cock through Doug's asshole.

He came. Robert's wolf'cock had struck gold. The spot that originally made Doug curious about fingering himself, and then graduating to toys, and finally downloading an app some young guy at work recommended (before he got fired for jerking it on-duty). Doug moaned so loudly, so wholly, that he couldn't even consider this rape. His blue balls drained. Newly-infectious seed sprayed from his throbbing cock, splattering toilet and wall. They wouldn't learn about sperm contagion for another few months. Nor the lowered sexual inhibitions of those infected, even pre-transformation.

“This is insane….oh fuck."

If this monster only wanted a dump, and Doug wasn't about to get gutted in the one way that mattered, then he would willingly give himself over to it. Clearly there were benefits.

“Just fuck me and go." Doug grunted as another few inches pressed inside of him. “I just don't want to fucking die. If you can understand me. Then please. My wife….

Of course. Robert had no intent to kill. He was a man of culture, and integrity. And needs. In his hierarchy of needs, he began to thrust his hips back and forth, which elicited indescribable sounds from Doug. He'd work on an escape plan after he came.

Doug could have never imagined this. But he was alive. And he was little more than a wolf-man's fleshlight. He thought back to some of his earliest encounters with other men, the fear and the hesitation, and then the realization that they were just as scared as him. All he had to do was play along, keep relatively quiet, and endure whatever the wide knob was that probed at his hole.

“Please….please…." Doug moaned. “Fuck me."

Robert's cock couldn't be called perfectly human or animal. Long, hefty, narrow at the tip, and knotted at the base. In his mind, he knew the structure's true purpose–locking a pair of wolves together. It ensured insemination. But now it didn't seem entirely necessary. It's not like his quarry could currently run anyway. Later rumination would cause Robert to realize the Chinese government hadn't really thought out the genitalia component. Not that he blamed them.

Nonetheless, he pushed, and hard, but truly it was “too big." Doug squirmed below, clearly frantic from the attempted invading bulge. If Robert needed to fully knot someone, he'd have to look elsewhere. Maybe with someone his own kind.

And he didn't need to knot in order to cum. There were still plenty of inches to work with.

“I want your load. Please, wolf-man, daddy, whatever you are. Cum in me."

Oh fuck, Robert liked that!

It satiated some baseborn animal need in both the human and the wolf. Robert's fiance, who he loved, did not spark the same passion or adventure beneath the covers as the rest of Robert's life. They deliberated a threesome once, even had a mutual friend lined up, but eventually declined on the grounds that it just didn't “feel right."

But what did feel right was how Doug squirmed like prey on Robert's nearly foot of wolf meat. Doug's cock, not even fully hard anymore, oozed like a leaky faucet. A constant assault on his god-given g-spot would drive him mad in those following days as the fever ran its course. And when the first signs of Doug's own transformation would strike, he would panic, deny among all else that he could possibly be sick, and could have possibly gotten it on that flight, or at the airport. Under no circumstance, even under the pressure of government contact-tracing, would he ever reveal his humiliation and indulgence in this public restroom.

Robert pounded as hard as friction would allow. Even though he had already deemed his knot too great a presence for this hole, the cleft of Doug's pliant rear received two or three more attempts in the throes of passion. Though nature refused, Robert bellowed as the electric charge of climax built in the heat of his member. He almost whimpered, so overcome with need, and wrapped a firm claw around his partner's small neck.

Doug choked out wheezing moans through tears of either pain or pleasure, for the two were now inextricably linked. Maybe it was better for him to die here, beyond the limits of what his sexuality would have ever permitted, and with no easy escape even if the wolfman fled. His pants lay in ribbons on the floor and there was only one way out of here.

“Oh fuck!" Doug's raspy cry threw Robert over the edge.

Robert howled, every bit a beast, and the full-body release of his orgasm created starbursts in his vision. If not for the raw adrenaline coursing through his pumped-up body, courtesy of the soldier's perfect hormonal cocktail to reach beyond their limits in the thick of the battlefield, he likely would have passed out.

Cum poured into Doug's bowels. It filled every available crevice at full blast, riding the momentum from Robert's fervent thrusts. Doug was knocked off of his feet several times, and scrambled against a slick wall before wrapping his fingers in his partner's thick neck scruff.

Robert's viral essence squeezed out around his own cock and flowed in rivulets down Doug's reddened ass. There was too much, too quickly, and Robert would have to accept the fact that some of his seed would go to waste in a puddle on the floor.

But little did he know his superhuman refractory period would have him at attention to infect another, and another still, as soon as he extricated himself from both Doug and the cramped restroom. He growled, satisfied, then gave his cock a few moments to pulse one final spurt of cum before it retracted far enough back into its sheath for Robert to make a clean escape.

He belted on all-fours along linoleum, immune to any taser or bullet the authorities could let fly in his blurring silhouette. The screams and shouts rang like high music in his perfectly-attuned ears.

Human recollection told him a long stretch of highway and open flats separated him from the cover his wolf instincts so desired. But thankfully, they had shut down terminals and would be busy erecting traffic barricades for the foreseeable future, ensuring Patient Zero had a clean route to avoid containment. Not that the government had anything in their books to prevent this anyway, but if push came to shove, Robert would have had to test his military-grade strength and animal cunning on the National Guard before the real cavalry arrived.

And Patient Two sat slumped against a wall, his clothing in shreds, and his mind in as numbed a state as his rear. He couldn't stop cumming. Doug gingerly felt his battered ring, gasped at how easily his fingers slid in, which elicited another pulse from his own member, and then leaned his head back to pass out.

Day Zero of the ZOVID Pandemic would feature in countless documentaries, social media theory videos, and think-pieces for the next decade. A cure would be found, naturally, as anything done by science can inevitably be un-done by it. But its mark on society would live on. Men would always remember succumbing to their base desires, spurned on by animal instinct and military design.

In time, society would utter a collective sigh and move on. Sex would seem less taboo. A majority of the male population had transformed, fucked or been fucked (some lucky to do both), reverted, and recovered. How could you feud with your uppity neighbor when you had a horse-cock probing his ass two days prior? Brothers and coworkers could nurse on each other's pulsing animal cocks for wave upon wave of infection and re-infection.

Compunctions would ease in all but the most impermeable conservative sects of the world.

But before the world could heal, it first had to break.