The fever raged on.
He briefly came to twice, but the surroundings were shrouded in darkness, the candles had long since burned out, leaving him in complete obscurity.
A faint sense of dampness on his forehead suggested a cooling treatment, bringing Alex White a small measure of relief.
When consciousness returned, it was jolted back by the movement of the tricycle. Alex White stared blankly at the sunlight filtering through above him, the vehicle creaking along just as it had the day before.
He remembered being kidnapped and bound with iron chains.
Trying to shift, Alex White realized his memory was accurate; this was indeed the same tricycle he had been transported on yesterday. Why was he lying on it again? Alex White curled up in the tricycle's cargo area, grappling with the fleeting shards of his rationality.
Had they decided he was beyond saving and were transporting him back?
Damn it.
He had a vague recollection of becoming a zombie.
He turned his head to look; his arm was swollen and oozing pus.
Lying groggily in the tricycle's cargo area, Alex White was unsure if he had mutated. All he felt was an intense hunger and thirst.
His vision was blurred, and being bound prevented him from rubbing his eyes. Alex White closed his eyes for a moment; his eyelids were burning hot, more so than expected.
He wished for a pen and notebook. Documenting the process of becoming a zombie would be a groundbreaking research opportunity.
He wasn't sure if he could still write, though. Alex White vaguely recalled last night... if it truly was last night and his perception of time hadn't been skewed, the other party had attempted to communicate, but it was challenging. The infection likely left him aware of the conversation but unable to comprehend it fully.
Perhaps the fever had damaged the language centers in his brain?
The human brain is incredibly complex. Damage can result in the loss of language abilities, with speech becoming fragmented and disjointed—known as aphasia. Another type involves difficulty in understanding others, with a breakdown in the connection between sound and meaning, and even distinguishing speech.
Was the virus infection dismantling brain functions, leaving only instinct and turning him into a mere beast?
His grasp on the current situation was fading, while bizarre fragments of memory surfaced, making Alex White's experience even more distressing.
As a Leaf Boat Sways in the Sea of Memories
Like a leaf boat adrift in the sea of memories, controlling his thoughts and recollections proved nearly impossible; he could only drift along, watching where the fragile vessel, at risk of sinking, would end up.
When he made another attempt to reorient his thoughts, he realized he was no longer on the tricycle.
This realization was unsettling. Alex White understood that he had lost consciousness, unsure if he had been roaring and attacking people in his stupor.
Now bound by iron chains, with the other end of the chains secured to an iron rack, he found himself near an old, dilapidated pedal tricycle—presumably the bumpy vehicle that had transported him.
Further away, he saw a figure squatting and engaged in an unclear activity. Upon closer examination, he noticed a basin on the ground and realized the person was quietly humming while washing their hair.
The good news was that he hadn't been transported back. The bad news? Well, becoming a zombie was bad enough; it seemed unlikely there could be worse news.
The previous night, he had managed some form of communication. To call it communication might be generous; more precisely, he had demonstrated an ability to communicate. Alex White hoped that his loss of consciousness hadn't revealed any violent tendencies that might ruin this fragile connection.
The speed of the infection was alarming. Alex White had a general sense of what becoming a zombie entailed. Even though the other party had attempted to engage, his fever-induced daze made it difficult to perceive beyond the movement of their lips.
He needed to re-establish communication!
Alex White watched the person for a while, making sounds with limited success due to his uncooperative tongue. He mimicked the person's melody and began to hum.
The person paused, turning to look at him.
Alex White nodded eagerly and continued to hum.
The person approached, inspecting him closely, and then picked up a stick to prod his arm. Alex White noticed his bitten arm had been cleaned at some point, and his forehead was covered with a damp cloth. "I am a person," Alex White tried to articulate clearly with brief phrases. The person didn't respond but observed him with mild surprise. "Person, I am a person." Now infected, Alex White felt an irritability at being poked with the stick, an annoyance he couldn't quite describe.
He was still running a fever.
The person studied him a moment longer before turning to retrieve a notebook and a pen from somewhere. These were the items Alex White had hoped to use on his journey, intending to document his transformation into a zombie in hopes of winning a Nobel Zombie Prize—though he wasn't sure such a prize existed. Now, however, the notebook was in the person's hands.
Holding the small notebook, the person observed Alex White while jotting something down, seemingly making a record.
Alex White watched the notebook and pen in the person's hands, tilting his head slightly.
...Well, he was mistaken; there were indeed worse fates than becoming a zombie: on the second day of his ordeal, being bound by a mad scientist for experiments.
Wonderful.
Could things get any worse? Sitting on the ground, Alex White scratched at the dirt, suddenly realizing that the surface was not cement but yellow soil. He considered this for a moment, then attempted to lift his hand to write in the dirt. He tried to write "I am a person," but it came out messy and indecipherable. Alex White steadied himself, noticing the person had paused their writing to look at him. He then scrawled "SOS" in the dirt.
And then another one.
Help me, help me.
Alex White focused on making the "SOS" clear and legible, rather than a chaotic scrawl. Even if there was a language barrier, a neat, recognizable symbol could still convey a message.
A zombie that can write—impressive, wouldn't you say?
Alex White suddenly felt that there might still be hope for him.
Theoretically, a fever indicates that the immune system is battling the virus. As the conflict continued, Alex White felt as if he could hear the battle within his body, the immune system fiercely resisting the zombie virus.
He wrote another "SOS" and looked up at the person. Was there a vaccine? Could he still be saved? Please administer a few dozen shots to support the immune system.
The person's expression was enigmatic, their thoughts unclear. They merely glanced at the scrawls in the dirt and then at Alex White.
Feeling groggy, Alex White found it hard to keep his head up. He lowered his gaze and began to hum softly to the melody the person had used while washing.
A zombie humming to itself—what a peculiar sight.
Alex White thought.
The person turned and walked away. Alex White wasn't sure if his writing had made any difference. His head was throbbing.
The person returned, poured a glass of water, and nudged it toward him with a stick.
After a brief pause, the person retrieved a piece of meat and nudged it toward Alex White with a stick. Driven by intense hunger, Alex White's eyes were drawn to the meat, and he felt a deep-seated conviction that eating it could lead to recovery. Despite his best efforts to resist, he was overcome with an uncontrollable urge.
To his dismay, he found himself salivating profusely.
This involuntary response filled him with a profound sense of dread.