Crossdressing To Survive An Apocalypse [BL]

Skyy barely had time to shut the door before Chen's voice hit him like a bullet.

"Do you have any idea how reckless that was?" Chen snapped, arms crossed, his eyes flashing with anger and relief all at once. "You could've been infected, killed, or worse—" His gaze flickered to the tree-dog, which padded in behind Skyy. Chen tensed. "And that thing—what if it's dangerous?"

Skyy sighed, rubbing his temples. "Chen—"

"Don't 'Chen' me." The man stepped closer, lowering his voice. "You don't know what you're dealing with."

Skyy met his glare. "Neither do you."

For a long moment, they stood there, tension thick in the air. Then, with a heavy sigh, Chen ran a hand through his hair and gestured toward the hallway. "Just—go to bed. We'll talk about this tomorrow."

Skyy didn't argue. He trudged to his room, exhaustion pulling at his limbs. Curling up on the cot, he let the tree-dog settle against him, its warm, bark-textured body oddly comforting. Sleep came quickly.

Morning light filtered through the cracked blinds when Skyy stirred. He felt lighter, his body refreshed for the first time in days. Stretching, he sat up—then froze.

Across the room, the diary lay open on the floor.

He hadn't touched it.

Heart pounding, he scrambled out of bed and rushed over. The pages were blank, except for a single word written in bold, ink-dark strokes.

Prisitsky.

Ice crawled down Skyy's spine.

He bolted out of the room. "Chen!"

Chen, already sipping his morning coffee, barely had time to react before Skyy grabbed his arm.

"I need you to drive me to the research base. Now."

Chen frowned. "What? Why?"

Skyy held up the diary, his voice tight with worry. "Because something's wrong."

Prisitsky barely noticed the passage of time. The lab felt eerily silent, save for the soft hum of the microscope and his own ragged breathing. His fingers trembled as he scribbled notes, struggling to make sense of what he was seeing. The virus—no, the life form—was still changing, its fibers shifting as though aware it was being watched.

He swallowed hard. The implications were staggering. If this thing had developed its own nervous system, its own biological cells, then…

His thoughts scattered as the door creaked open.

Prisitsky stiffened, his body still weak from exhaustion. Skyy slipped inside, his expression drawn with something between apprehension and determination. He clutched something tightly in his hands—a worn, leather-bound book.

Prisitsky frowned. "What's that?"

Skyy hesitated. "I need to check something."

He flipped open the pages, his eyes scanning over the inked words. Prisitsky barely paid attention—until Skyy's face paled, his fingers tightening around the diary's edges.

Prisitsky tensed. "What is it?"

Skyy swallowed, hesitating for only a second before turning the book around.

Prisitsky's blood ran cold.

There, scrawled in elegant but unsettlingly precise script, was a passage that hadn't been there before.

"The researcher watches. The creature waits. The walls whisper. He will not leave this room alive."

Prisitsky felt the air in the room shift, like something unseen had exhaled.

A chill raced down his spine.

Skyy slammed the book shut. "We need to go."

Prisitsky shook his head. "That doesn't mean anything."

Skyy stared at him, his jaw tight. "The last time this diary wrote something on its own, I ignored it. That's how my whole group died."

Prisitsky clenched his jaw. He wanted to argue, to dismiss the diary's words as paranoia or coincidence. But the way Skyy stood—his fingers white-knuckled against the book, his breath just slightly too fast—made something in Prisitsky hesitate.

A soft sound rustled behind him.

Prisitsky turned sharply.

The microscope's light flickered. The air felt… wrong.

Then the shadows in the corner of the lab shifted.

Prisitsky's breath caught as a figure stepped forward, its body impossibly thin, its skin stretched tight over elongated limbs. Its eyes were sunken pits, black and depthless, and when it moved, its joints cracked unnaturally, like wood splitting in the cold.

Prisitsky's heart slammed against his ribs. This wasn't a zombie. It wasn't human. It wasn't supposed to be here.

The tree-dog creature let out a low, warning growl.

Skyy yanked Prisitsky's arm. "Run."

Prisitsky didn't need to be told twice. He stumbled toward the door, his weakened legs barely carrying him as Skyy shoved it open. They spilled into the hallway just as something slammed against the metal, the force denting it outward.

Prisitsky gasped for breath, his mind reeling. "What the hell was that?"

Skyy didn't answer. He was already flipping through the diary, searching for more. The pages turned on their own.

New words bled onto the parchment.

"It dashed after us like a beast."

Prisitsky's stomach twisted violently.

He reached out, gripping Skyy's wrist. "What the hell does that mean?"

Skyy met his gaze, and for the first time, Prisitsky saw something worse than fear in his expression.

Resignation.

"It means," Skyy said quietly, "that thing isn't after me."

Prisitsky inhaled sharply.

The lights in the hallway flickered.

The door behind them groaned.

And then, with a sickening creak, the metal burst inward.

The force of the impact sent metal shards flying. Prisitsky barely had time to react before Skyy yanked him backward, the jagged remnants of the door frame slicing through empty air where they had just stood.

The creature stepped through.

Prisitsky's breath hitched. Now, in full view, it was worse than he had imagined. Its elongated limbs twitched unnaturally, its bark-like skin pulsing with veins of sickly green. Thin, root-like tendrils extended from its fingertips, writhing against the walls as if tasting the air.

Skyy shoved the diary into his jacket. "We need to move."

Prisitsky didn't argue. His body was failing him—his legs weak, his arms shaking—but adrenaline pushed him forward. They sprinted down the hallway, their shadows stretching unnaturally under the flickering lights.

Behind them, the creature let out a sound.

It wasn't a growl. It wasn't a screech.

It was a whisper.

A thousand voices murmuring over one another, layered into a distorted hum that made Prisitsky's vision blur. He stumbled, gripping the wall.

"Prisitsky."

His own name slithered through the air, spoken in a voice that wasn't quite human.

Skyy's grip tightened on his wrist. "Don't listen to it."

Prisitsky forced himself to keep moving, but the weight of the whisper pressed against his skull, sinking into his bones.

The creature was inside him. It had been inside him.

And now it was calling him back.

The hallway twisted in his vision. The walls seemed to breathe, pulsing in time with his own erratic heartbeat. Prisitsky bit the inside of his cheek hard enough to draw blood, the pain grounding him for just a second.

Skyy turned a corner and shoved open a heavy metal door. Prisitsky stumbled after him, the room beyond dimly lit by emergency lighting. Rows of abandoned medical equipment lined the space, long-forgotten experiments half-scattered across tables.

Skyy slammed the door shut and locked it. His breath was ragged, but his hands were steady as he pulled out the diary.

Prisitsky pressed a hand against his chest, trying to control his breathing. The whispering was gone, but something in him still felt off.

Skyy flipped through the pages, searching. The ink was still writing itself.

"It is not an infection. It is not a parasite. It is not a disease."

Prisitsky's fingers curled into fists. "Then what the hell is it?"

More ink bled onto the page.

"It is a seed. And you are the soil."

Prisitsky's stomach twisted violently.

Skyy's breath hitched. "Prisitsky—"

A heavy thud echoed from the other side of the door.

Prisitsky went rigid.

Another thud. Then another.

The creature wasn't breaking the door down.

It was knocking.

Prisitsky's breath came short and shallow. His fingers dug into his arms, his nails pressing into skin. He barely noticed Skyy moving until the younger man grabbed his shoulders and forced him to look at him.

"Stay with me," Skyy said, his voice firm but not unkind.

Prisitsky swallowed hard, nodding.

Another knock. Slow. Rhythmic. Patient.

The diary trembled in Skyy's hands, more words spilling onto the page in erratic, jagged ink.

"You cannot run from what grows inside you."

Prisitsky's pulse pounded in his ears.

Something was moving beneath his skin.