Chapter 113: Are you a Host, Wanda?

After my intensive discussion with Mark about the Screamer threat and potential countermeasures, I left him alone in his cluttered workshop, knowing that he was already working on my demands. The sound of equipment being moved and tested followed me as I walked away—Mark had a habit of immediately diving into projects once he understood the parameters, and I had no doubt he’d spend the next several hours examining every piece of recording equipment in his possession.

I was truly fortunate that the Municipal Office had someone of Mark’s caliber among their survivors. His combination of theoretical knowledge and practical engineering skills would put most university-trained electrical engineers to shame, especially in our current resource-constrained environment. The man could work miracles with salvaged components and improvised tools, turning abstract concepts into functional devices that actually improved people’s lives. Without his electrical grid project, the community and us would remain trapped in a perpetual dark age, dependent on candlelight and manual labor for basic survival needs.

But Mark’s technical brilliance also highlighted the magnitude of what I was planning to attempt. If someone with his expertise was expressing serious concerns about the risks involved in approaching the radio station, then I needed to be brutally honest about my chances of survival. This wouldn’t be like our encounter with the Frostwalker, dangerous as that had been. The Screamer represented a threat of entirely different magnitude—one protected by unknown numbers of infected and capable of summoning reinforcements from across the entire region around Jackson Township.

The Frostwalker battle had been difficult enough, requiring every member of our team and a significant amount of luck to achieve victory. Even then, we’d suffered casualties. Cindy had been infected during that fight, requiring emergency treatment that had fundamentally changed our relationship. Christopher had made the decision to leave our group afterward, unable to cope with the psychological trauma and interpersonal complications that had emerged from our victory. We’d won, technically, but the cost had been higher than any of us had anticipated.

Against the Screamer, those stakes would be multiplied exponentially. The alien weapon wasn’t just another mutated creature driven by virus-induced hunger—it was an intelligence actively working to coordinate the destruction of human civilization. The infected protecting it wouldn’t be random stragglers stumbling through the wilderness; they’d be organized, directed, and probably enhanced beyond normal parameters. And if I failed in my mission, the consequences wouldn’t be limited to my own death or the loss of a few team members. Failure would doom every human settlement within hundreds of miles.

That was why I’d already decided to approach the radio station alone, despite knowing that backup would significantly improve my chances of survival. The probability of losing team members was simply too high, and I couldn’t bear the thought of being responsible for deaths especially the ones in my group. I cared for all of them after all.

My primary objective was to record the Screamer’s frequency patterns and escape with that information intact. It was a reconnaissance mission rather than a direct assault, and solo infiltration offered better odds of avoiding detection than a group approach.

As I walked through the corridors of the Municipal Office, my mind continued working through on how I should do it. I’d need to plan approach routes that offered multiple exit strategies while getting close enough to obtain high-quality recordings. The timing would be critical—I’d need to be in position during one of the Screamer’s active periods, but also ready to evacuate immediately once I had the data.

My strategic planning was interrupted when I rounded a corner and nearly collided with two familiar figures engaged in what appeared to be a heated family discussion.

“I don’t need you to work for me, Grandfather, and you’ll only bother the others,” came a sharp female voice that I recognized immediately.

Wanda stood with her back partially toward me. It was impossible to mistake her with her unique appearance.

“Wanda, dear, I’m just trying to look out for your welfare,” Joel replied. “You know I won’t be around much longer in this world, especially at my age, and you have to divide my remaining life expectancy by at least half given all these monsters roaming around everywhere. If something happens and we need to evacuate this place in a hurry, I won’t be able to keep up with—”

“You don’t need to think about such unrealistic scenarios because we won’t have to leave this place to begin with, Grandfather,” Wanda interrupted, her tone carrying a coldness that made me wince involuntarily. “You’re the only reason you’re dying prematurely. Overworrying about imaginary problems will raise your blood pressure and make you sicker than any external threat ever could. If you die, remember that you’re the one who chose to leave me, willingly, through your own anxiety.”

The harshness of her words hit hard, and I saw Joel’s shoulders slump with visible pain. Wanda’s ability to inflict psychological damage with surgical precision suggested someone who’d been hurt deeply enough to develop defensive mechanisms that wounded others.

Wanda must have sensed my presence because she turned away from her grandfather and her gaze fell directly on me. She stopped mid-step and stared silently, her expression shifting from anger to something more guarded.

No matter how many times I encountered her, Wanda’s appearance never failed to capture my attention in ways that went beyond simple physical attraction. Her red eyes, so unusual and striking against her pale skin, seemed to hold depths that suggested intelligence and experiences far beyond her apparent age. Combined with her albinism-induced white hair and naturally fragile build, she presented an almost otherworldly presence that stood out dramatically among the practical, work-hardened survivors who populated the Municipal Office.

“Oh, Ryan!” Joel’s face brightened considerably upon noticing me, clearly grateful for any interruption that might defuse the tension between him and his granddaughter. “Good to see you, brat. How have you been managing?”

“I’m doing quite well, Joel,” I replied, though my attention remained partially focused on Wanda’s continued silent staring. “How about you? You’re looking a bit worn down since our last conversation.”

Joel’s smile faltered slightly, and he coughed—a dry, persistent sound that spoke to ongoing health issues. “I’m managing as well as can be expected at my age, though I have to admit this lifestyle takes more out of me than I’d like to acknowledge.”

“It seems like your granddaughter isn’t helping much with your stress levels,” I observed, knowing the comment was probably undiplomatic but unable to resist pointing out the obvious.

“I’m leaving,” Wanda announced abruptly, moving to walk past me without further conversation.

The dismissive gesture triggered a sudden impulse that had been building since our first meeting months ago. “Are you a Host?” I whispered as she passed, my voice low enough that Joel wouldn’t overhear the question.

Wanda stopped immediately, turning back to face me with an expression of genuine puzzlement rather than recognition or alarm. “What did you say?”

Her reaction appeared completely authentic—confusion rather than defensive evasion or guilty knowledge. I’d been harboring suspicions about Wanda since our first encounter, wondering if her unusual appearance and demeanor might indicate she was carrying a symbiotic entity similar to my own Dullahan virus enhancement. Her white hair, red eyes, and seemingly fragile constitution combined with occasional and eerie calmness had suggested she might be concealing abilities she didn’t want others to discover.

But her genuine confusion at my question suggested I’d been reading too much into superficial characteristics. Her distinctive appearance was simply the result of albinism—a genetic condition that had nothing to do with viral enhancement or symbiotic relationships. I’d been allowing my own experiences to color my interpretation of someone whose only crime was looking different from the norm.

“Nothing important,” I said, feeling slightly embarrassed by my unfounded suspicions. “Just wondering about something.”

The disappointment was sharper than I’d expected. I really thought she was the one. But Wanda was apparently just another survivor dealing with her own challenges in her own way.

“Treat your grandfather better,” I said instead, allowing some genuine concern to enter my voice. “You have no idea what it’s like to lose your remaining family members. Trust me on that.”

The change in Wanda’s expression was subtle but visible—a flicker of something that might have been vulnerability before her defensive walls reasserted themselves. “Why are you even here?” She asked, deflecting my advice with a question of her own.

“Can’t I visit friends without having ulterior motives?” I replied, matching her slightly confrontational tone with casual friendliness.

She studied my face for several moments, as if searching for hidden meanings or deceptive intentions. Finally, she turned to leave again, apparently satisfied that I wasn’t an immediate threat to whatever carefully constructed emotional barriers she maintained.

“Eat more,” I called after her retreating form. “You look like you’re made of glass and might shatter if someone speaks too loudly.”

The comment earned me a frigid stare that could have frozen water, but I caught something else in her expression—a flash of hurt that suggested my observation had struck closer to truth than she was comfortable acknowledging. Then she was gone, disappearing around the corner with the kind of dignity that people use when they’re trying not to appear affected by criticism.

Joel approached me with a weary sigh, shaking his head in the universal gesture of family members dealing with difficult relatives. “I’m sorry about her behavior, Ryan. I know she comes across as cold, but she’s been through more than most people her age should have to handle.”

“Don’t apologize for her, old man,” I replied, though I kept my tone gentle. “Just take better care of yourself. I agree with your assessment—without you around, she’d have a much harder time surviving in this world. She needs you more than she’s willing to admit, even if she’s too stubborn to acknowledge that fact.”

Joel nodded bitterly before hurrying to catch up with his granddaughter.

I looked at Wanda as she moved away, her slight figure disappearing around the corner with that particular dignity she used when trying to appear unaffected by criticism or concern.

Damn it.

Something was still bothering me about her—a nagging feeling that refused to be dismissed despite her seemingly genuine confusion when I’d asked about being a Host. There was something in her manner, her unusual appearance, the way she carried herself that suggested depths I couldn’t quite fathom. But I couldn’t put my finger on exactly what it was that made me so certain she was hiding something significant.

Scratching my hair in frustration, I turned around and began walking back through the Municipal Office corridors.

“Ryan.”

The whispered call made me stop mid-step. I looked around and spotted Jasmine peering out from one of the smaller office rooms, gesturing for me to approach with obvious urgency.

“Can you help me out with something?” She said.

“With what?” I asked, stepping into the office.

“With my confession, of course,” she said, turning to face me with an expression that mixed hope and anxiety in equal measure.

I felt caught off guard by her sudden directness, though I realized I probably should have seen this confrontation coming. Jasmine had been increasingly obvious about her feelings during our recent interactions, and the intensity of her greeting earlier had suggested she was working up to some kind of declaration.

“I think I’ve waited long enough for your answer to my confession, don’t you?” She continued, pouting.

“Jasmine…” I started, trying to find diplomatic words for a conversation I’d been hoping to avoid indefinitely. “You know that Sydney and I are…”

“What about Rachel?” She interrupted, her eyebrows rising.

“What about Rachel?” I asked, genuinely confused by the direction her questioning was taking.

“I know you’re not actually with either of them,” Jasmine said, smiling. “When I ask Sydney or Rachel about your relationship status, they both avoid the topic completely. And you’re avoiding it too, which tells me you’re not really committed to anyone, so I still have my chances, right?”

The logic was uncomfortably sound, even though it was based on incomplete information. The reality of my situation with Sydney, Rachel, and the others was far too complicated to explain, involving secrets about viral enhancement, immunity transfer, and relationship that would be impossible to discuss without revealing information that could endanger everyone and too awkward actually.

“Chances for what exactly?” I asked, though I suspected I already knew the answer.

Instead of responding verbally, Jasmine stepped forward and kissed me directly on the lips, her action so sudden and unexpected that I barely had time to process what was happening before her arms were around my neck and she was pressing against me with obvious passion.

I grasped her shoulders instinctively, intending to create some distance between us, but Jasmine held onto my shirt with surprising determination and continued the kiss with an intensity that suggested months of built-up emotion and desire. I was acutely aware of my enhanced strength and the potential for accidentally hurting her if I used too much force, so I settled for gently tapping her shoulder in what I hoped was a clear signal that she should stop.

After what felt like an eternity but was probably only a few seconds, Jasmine finally pulled back, her cheeks flushed with a combination of embarrassment and defiant satisfaction. She looked directly into my eyes.

“I won’t give up on you,” she said. “I know what I want, and I’m not going to pretend otherwise just because the situation is complicated.”

Before I could formulate any kind of response, she walked out of the office, leaving me standing alone with the lingering scent of her perfume and a growing sense that my personal life was becoming even more messy than I’d thought possible.

Regardless…

Since when did I become this popular?

Is this my popular phase?

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