It was akin to a customer encountering a courtesan, a dung beetle stumbling upon a dung ball, or a cat spotting a red dot from a laser pointer. The urge was so overwhelming that even though Alex White struggled to keep himself in check, his gaze remained riveted, unable to shift away.
After what seemed like an eternity, Alex White moved.
He lifted his injured hand, placing it flat against his chest, then used his other hand to mimic the act of eating with chopsticks.
Alex White was determined not to succumb to becoming a zombie. He felt he needed to exercise control, maintaining at least some semblance of dignity even if he did turn.
When the meat was removed, Alex White felt a guttural growl rise from his throat. He clamped his mouth shut, and thankfully, as the meat disappeared from sight, the sensation abated significantly.
The meat was replaced by a bowl of flour paste. There were no chopsticks, only a spoon, which Alex White chose not to use. He drank the paste down, finding it somewhat hot and flavorless, still hungry, and it did little to satisfy him.
After consuming three bowls in quick succession, Alex White suddenly felt the urge to vomit, but he managed to restrain himself, gripping his neck tightly to suppress the urge. He needed proper nutrition, sufficient food to fortify his immune system against the virus. The immune system was still fighting; he couldn't cut off the supplies for the fighters.
He took a sip from the nearby water cup, then awkwardly pressed it against his forehead, hoping to cool down slightly. Though the relief was minimal, the coolness offered a measure of comfort.
This sequence of actions proved more effective than writing. The observer continually took notes in a small notebook.
Alex White speculated that it might be to record the infected's strong survival instincts?
Or perhaps this zombie's behavior was somewhat unusual?
He noted that the observer smelled pleasant and, despite himself, he sniffed, quickly reining in this peculiar action. He made an effort to focus on the observer's face, surprised to notice it only now.
It turned out to be a female scientist with a fervent obsession. That made sense.
Alex White realized that the pleasant scent was not due to his immune cells dying off and him turning into a zombie but simply because girls have a pleasant scent.
Why he was drooling…
Perhaps due to having drunk too much water, after a while, the other person put away the pen and paper, gave him one last look, and then turned back to wash their hair, facing away from him. Alex White, battling a pounding headache, struggled to stay alert while also grappling with an escalating sense of agitation that he needed to control.
As the sun dipped toward dusk, the other person brought over more paste. Though Alex White had no desire to eat it, he forced himself to consume it, hoping to regain some strength.
The other person, armed with a double-barreled shotgun, left the yard. After what felt like an eternity, they returned empty-handed, as if they had merely taken a stroll. They entered the house, reemerged shortly after, and tossed something to Alex White.
Alex White scrutinized it closely and soon recognized it as a dental brace.
He looked at the other person, hesitated briefly, and placed the brace in his mouth. He tried moving his jaw with it, finding it somewhat awkward but less uncomfortable than anticipated.
Could it be that his senses were dulling over time?
This was a realization Alex White was reluctant to face, but there was little he could do. Noting that he had the brace, the other person spoke slowly, then approached, unlocking a chain from an iron frame, and moved carefully to the other side of the wall.
When he was finally seated, Alex White realized he had been moved from the yard to a makeshift shelter, complete with stacked firewood, tools, and various other items. This arrangement would be helpful if it rained during the night.
Alex White was unsure if his appearance had undergone significant changes, but the cautious expression of the other person suggested it was not a promising sign. He remained quiet, trying to suppress the urge to sniff the other person, though saliva, especially with the dental brace, was both troubling and difficult to control.
"Thank you,"
Alex White said. Despite his infection, the fact that the paste was being used to aid him in resisting the virus was a kindness, even if the other person had some research motives. In such a resource-scarce environment, it was a gesture of goodwill. Even restrained, he sensed a sliver of kindness. The other person could have easily dispatched him at the corner and left on a bicycle.
His tongue remained numb, and he couldn't tell if what came out of his mouth was coherent speech or just indistinct growls. He didn't dwell on it, merely watching as the other person retreated into the house. After a moment, he wiped his saliva and adjusted the dental brace.
Amidst various physical discomforts, Alex White was also acutely aware of changes within himself. He feared that zombification might mean the rotting away of all his nerves, leaving behind only an eternal hunger. For now, while his condition was dire, it hadn't yet reached the point where he was attacking others.
The following day brought a relentless high fever. The other person prepared more paste and sat at a distance, sifting some grains with a sieve. From this distance, Alex White couldn't discern what it was and didn't have the inclination to investigate.
By evening, his state had deteriorated to the point where he even vomited some of the paste he had ingested. Lacking experience with infections and uncertain if this could even be termed an illness, he could only drink water incessantly—vast amounts of it. Whatever a zombie might crave, he fought against it with sheer resolve, combating increasingly fierce instincts. He imagined his eyes must be bloodshot and red.
On the verge of collapse, Alex White felt as if he were at the center of a vast ocean, his small boat rocking precariously in a storm, on the brink of capsizing. Alternatively, it felt like trudging through a desert, his body so parched it seemed ready to wither away.
Yet his heart beat with vigorous strength, transforming the entire world into a massive heart, its rhythmic thumping echoing in his ears, making the sensation of blood being pumped out of his heart strikingly perceptible.
After enduring a grueling night, he was utterly drained, leaning against the wall in a state of exhaustion. Though he couldn't see himself, the concerned look in the other person's eyes suggested that his condition was far from good.
Unexpectedly, by noon, Alex White felt a glimmer of recovery. Previously, the paste had shown no signs of improvement or absorption, leaving him with only a profound hunger. Now, however, he felt a resurgence of strength and seemed to be experiencing a decrease in fever. Alex White wasn't sure if this was merely an illusion; he sat cross-legged like a zombie who had attained enlightenment.
The other person's surprise at his condition was evident.
"Am I still salvageable?" Alex White inquired.
His tongue remained numb, and communication was failing. His sluggish mind was painstakingly trying to practice the correct vocalization techniques, with his tongue making restless, incoherent noises.
The other person took out a piece of paper, wrote something on it, and pushed it towards him. Alex White stared at the paper, struggling to make sense of the words. They were recognizable but challenging to interpret, requiring significant mental effort to construct coherent sentences and understand their meaning.
"You... infected..."
Alex White felt a throbbing in his temples and imagined his face must be flushed red.
"How... many days?"
Alex White glanced up and then down again.
He concentrated on the words on the paper, recognizing the message the other person was trying to convey.
"How many days have you been infected?"
This was the message on the paper.
He was excited and wanted to let out a roar.
He picked up the pen, attempted to write, but hesitated. After a moment of thought, he wrote:
"3"