The Last Queen Chapter 3 The Plague's Shadow

Chapter 3: The Plague’s Shadow**

Three days after the night at Club Elysium, Maxwell McCarthy woke to a world unraveling. The McCarthy mansion, a marble-and-glass monument in Meyersdale’s elite district, was silent save for the distant hum of drones outside. Max, 21, lay in his childhood bedroom, the navy walls adorned with framed Bible verses and photos of Clara, his light chestnut hair matted with sweat, his warm brown eyes clouded with fever. His athletic frame, once vibrant in his white button-down and khaki pants, now felt frail under the weight of a white cotton T-shirt and sweatpants. He stumbled to the bathroom, the cold marble floor biting his bare feet, and retched into the porcelain sink, his stomach convulsing. His gaze lifted to the mirror, and what he saw stole his breath—his hair hung past his shoulders, longer and silkier than it had been, his skin unnaturally pale, his jawline softer, almost delicate. His chest ached, slightly swollen, as if his body were rewriting itself.

“Clara,” he rasped, his voice higher, unfamiliar, his eyes fixed on his alien reflection. He fumbled for his phone, his fingers trembling as he dialed her number, his heart pounding. “Clara, something’s wrong,” he said, his gaze distant, picturing her hazel eyes, her light blonde hair, her silver cross necklace. “I need you.”

Clara, 20, was in her dorm across town, her history textbooks scattered across a desk, her white blouse and jeans practical for a study session. Her voice crackled through the phone, sharp with worry. “Max, you sound awful. I’m coming over.” Her eyes, though he couldn’t see them, were wide with fear as she grabbed her keys, her gaze on the cross necklace she wore, a twin to Max’s own.

The McCarthy mansion became a fortress of desperation within hours. Clara arrived, her light blonde hair tied back, her hazel eyes locking with Max’s as she rushed to his side. “You’re so pale,” she said, her voice breaking, her hand touching his forehead, their gazes meeting in shared panic. “Max, what’s happening to you?” She knelt by his bed, her eyes on his, her fingers gripping his hand, the warmth of her touch a fleeting comfort against the fever burning through him.

Victoria McCarthy, 48, swept into the room, her dark chestnut bob pristine despite the late hour, her deep blue eyes fierce with maternal resolve, her pearl earrings glinting in the soft light. She wore a navy dress, its tailored lines a testament to her unyielding strength as the founder of St. Augustine’s Hospital. Alexander, 50, followed, his gray hair neat, his gray eyes steady, his gold wedding ring catching the lamplight as he gripped Victoria’s hand, their gazes locked in silent agreement. Tracy, 18, stood by the window, her long chestnut hair loose, her warm brown eyes mirroring Max’s, her silver bracelet glinting as she turned, her gaze meeting his with fierce protectiveness. “You’re strong, Max,” she said, her voice sharp, her eyes on his. “You’ll fight this.”

The room filled with specialists, their white coats a blur of motion, their voices a cacophony of medical jargon. Dr. Patel, a geneticist with a furrowed brow, studied a tablet, his eyes flicking to Victoria. “His DNA is mutating,” he said, his gaze meeting hers, his voice grave. “We’ve never seen anything like this. It’s as if his body is… reshaping itself.” Victoria’s eyes flashed, her hand tightening on Alexander’s, their gazes locked in shared fear. “Find a cause!” she demanded, her voice a whip, her eyes on Patel. Alexander nodded, his gaze on her, his voice low. “Do whatever it takes.”

Max’s condition worsened daily, his body a stranger. His hair grew silkier, cascading past his collarbone, his skin flawless, his chest swelling further, his voice a melodic lilt that startled him. He lay in bed, a white hospital gown replacing his clothes, his eyes on Clara as she sat by his side, her tears falling. “What’s happening to me?” he whispered, his gaze meeting hers, his voice trembling. Clara’s eyes, red-rimmed, held his, her hand squeezing his. “I love you, Max,” she said, her voice breaking. “We’ll get through this. I promise.”

The mansion’s study became a war room, its oak bookshelves and leather furniture a backdrop to the family’s desperation. Victoria paced, her eyes on Alexander, her voice sharp. “He’s our son, Alex. We can’t lose him.” Alexander’s gaze met hers, his hand on her shoulder, his voice steady. “We won’t. We’ll find a way.” Tracy, in a green dress, her silver bracelet catching the light, glared at the specialists, her eyes fierce. “You’re the best in the world,” she said, her gaze locking with Patel’s. “Fix this.”

Dr. Amanda Albright entered, her crimson lab coat a stark contrast to the white coats around her, her raven black hair framing emerald eyes that seemed to see through everyone. Her credentials pinned to her coat gleamed, a badge of authority. She stood by Max’s bed, her gaze meeting his, her voice calm. “Maxwell, your condition is unique,” she said, her eyes steady. “Your body’s rewriting itself, cell by cell. Cryogenic sleep is our only option—ten years to develop a cure.”

Victoria’s eyes snapped to Albright’s, her voice icy. “Freeze him? He’s my son!” Her gaze held Albright’s, her pearl earrings trembling with her fury. Alexander’s hand tightened on hers, their eyes meeting, his voice low. “Is there no other way?” Tracy stepped forward, her eyes on Albright, her voice sharp. “Ten years? He’ll miss everything—Clara, us, his life!”

Albright’s gaze met Tracy’s, unyielding. “It’s his only chance,” she said, her eyes calm. “His mutations are unstable. Cryosleep will preserve him until we can stabilize his DNA.” Her crimson coat seemed to glow in the sterile light, her presence commanding, almost otherworldly.

Max, frail in his gown, his features softer, his eyes on Clara, felt his world slipping away. He remembered their last date, a picnic in the botanical gardens, Clara’s laughter as they fed ducks, their eyes meeting under the setting sun. “Do it,” he said, his voice weak but resolute, his gaze locking with Clara’s. “I trust you all.” Clara sobbed, her eyes on his, her hand gripping his. “I’ll wait, Max,” she said, her voice breaking, her silver cross necklace glinting as she leaned to kiss his forehead, their gazes locked in love and fear.

The lab was a sterile cathedral, its walls lined with humming machines, the cryogenic chamber a glowing sarcophagus at its center. Victoria stood by Max, her eyes on his, tears streaming. “Ten years, Max,” she said, her voice trembling, her gaze holding his. “We’ll be here.” Alexander’s hand rested on her shoulder, their eyes meeting, his voice steady. “We love you, son.” Tracy, her eyes fierce on Max, whispered, “I’ll be here, big brother.” Clara, tears falling, pressed her lips to his, their gazes locked. “I’ll wait,” she said, her voice a vow, her eyes on his.

Albright adjusted the chamber’s controls, her crimson coat a beacon in the lab’s cold light, her eyes on Max, a faint smile hidden. “Rest now,” she said, her gaze meeting his, her voice soft. “We’ll bring you back.” The chamber sealed with a hiss, Max’s eyes closing, his last thought of Clara’s kiss, her hazel eyes, her promise. The family stood frozen, their gazes on the chamber, its blue glow a fragile hope. Albright’s eyes lingered on Max, her smile unreadable, her crimson coat a silent promise of a destiny only she understood.