After witnessing the horrifying sight from the balcony, Ivan quickly closed the curtains, but the image lingered in his mind. He sat down, trying to calm his nerves, but the anxiety gnawed at him relentlessly. Unable to stay still, he stood up and grabbed a bottle of alcohol, some wipes, and a pair of clean plastic gloves. He meticulously cleaned his hands and then his entire body, scrubbing every inch until he felt a little more in control. Changing into fresh clothes, he still felt the sickness creeping in.
This isn't good…
His OCD, which had often been a coping mechanism, now felt like a curse. The lack of a proper shower made his skin crawl with disgust, and he could barely stand the sensation. But survival meant dealing with these discomforts, and he tried to push the thoughts aside.
Realizing he also needed to secure water, Ivan hurried to the kitchen and filled every cup, bowl, and container he could find. The fear of
running out of clean water gnawed at him, driving him to hoard as much as possible. Afterward, he made a quick meal of instant noodles, trying to regain some strength. As he ate, he glanced at the broom in the corner of the room. The idea struck him, and he quickly sharpened the tip, turning it into a makeshift spear.
Better for range, he thought, the practicality of the weapon offering a small comfort. And I don't want to get too close to those things…
The hours dragged on, and as night fell, Ivan knew he had to stay vigilant. He'd slept during the day, preparing himself for the long, tense night ahead. His laptop screen glowed in the dimly lit room as he sifted through the files he had downloaded earlier. Social media was a chaotic mess of rumors, theories, and conflicting information.
One post claimed the virus originated from America, while another blamed Nazi experiments. Some users argued it was a mutated virus, while others insisted it had been intentionally modified.
This is ridiculous… Some people should really be banned from using Wi-Fi, he thought bitterly, anger bubbling up at the sheer amount of misinformation. It frustrated him that he couldn't discern what was true or false, making it even harder to navigate the growing crisis.
He scrolled through more posts, coming across increasingly outlandish theories.
"I heard that a plane crashed down carrying important packages. You all think this was the start of the infection?"
"It isn't just the virus that escaped the scientists. I heard there were fungi too."
The sheer absurdity of it all made Ivan's thoughts darken. How about I just end it then…
He entertained the thought for a minute, considering the 19-story drop from his balcony. But the faces of his loved ones flashed in his mind, halting him in his tracks. The connection to them, even if just a memory, was enough to keep him going. He tried calling them again, but the lines remained dead. Frustration and fear coiled tighter around his chest.
Day 3-4
Ivan had been sleeping fitfully during the day when a sudden explosion jolted him awake.
"What the!?" he exclaimed, heart racing as the ground shook beneath him. He rushed to the balcony, eyes scanning the horizon. Far in the distance, a massive plume of smoke rose into the sky—the plantation had exploded.
Then, the power went out, plunging his apartment into darkness. Ivan sighed, a mix of resignation and relief. As expected… Took much longer than I thought…
Thankfully, he had anticipated this and charged his power bank and devices in advance. But the explosion had done more than just knock out the electricity. The infected outside had become more active, drawn by the noise. Even Ms. Henderson in the bathroom responded to the disturbance, banging against the door with renewed fury. Ivan quickly shoved her hand back in and secured the barricade, his nerves frayed.
Day 5
The next day, the water supply stopped working. Ivan had just started preparing noodles when the tap sputtered and went dry. The realization hit him hard—without electricity, the water supply was bound to follow. Annoyed by the timing, he cursed under his breath and had to resort to using the water he had carefully stored in various containers.
"This couldn't have waited another five minutes?" he muttered, pouring some of his precious stored water into the pot. He couldn't afford to waste any of it, so he carefully measured out just enough to cook the noodles.
As he watched the water heat up, he couldn't shake the sense of growing tension. With every resource dwindling, the pressure to make the right decisions was becoming almost unbearable. Each time he used water or food, he was acutely aware of the finite supply he had left.
He spent the day organizing his supplies, taking stock of what little food and water he had left. His mind raced with the options before him—should he risk venturing out for more supplies, or stay hidden and hope for rescue? He couldn't shake the feeling that leaving the apartment would be a death sentence, but staying put might lead to slow starvation.
Day 6
Ivan's stomach churned painfully, a constant reminder that he hadn't been able to use the bathroom for days. The discomfort had grown unbearable, and he found himself doubling over in agony every so often. The idea of using a bucket briefly crossed his mind, but his OCD immediately recoiled at the thought. It wasn't just about the act itself—it was the filth, the contamination, the thought of being trapped in a small space with it. The mere idea sent shudders down his spine.
No… I can't… I just can't… He paced back and forth, his mind racing. Each step felt heavier than the last, weighed down by the tension in his gut and the growing pressure in his mind.
The bathroom was just a few feet away, but it might as well have been miles. Ms. Henderson was still in there, her presence a constant source of anxiety. He knew what he had to do, but the thought terrified him. His OCD screamed at him, urging him to avoid the confrontation, to stay safe and clean. But the pain in his stomach was becoming too much to bear, and the disgust with himself was reaching a breaking point.
I have to… I don't have a choice… The thought began to solidify in his mind, as if it were the only option left. His OCD was a cruel master, but his body's needs were undeniable. The bathroom was right there, just a few steps away. All that stood between him and relief was the infected neighbor he had once tried to help.
He stared at the barricaded door, his mind swirling with fear, disgust, and determination. Can I really do this? The question echoed in his thoughts, but there was no more time for hesitation. The pain was too much, and the need to feel clean, to purge himself of the grime and the filth, was overwhelming.
He glanced at the sharpened broomstick he'd prepared earlier, his makeshift spear. It's now or never, he thought, gripping the handle tightly. The cold wood felt foreign in his hands, but it was the only tool he had. His heart pounded in his chest as he slowly approached the bathroom door.
She's just like the others now… He tried to remind himself, pushing down the guilt that threatened to surface. She's not Ms. Henderson anymore…
Ivan stood in front of the door, his breath coming in short, shallow gasps. He hesitated, his hand hovering over the makeshift barricade. For a moment, the fear nearly overtook him, paralyzing him in place. But the pain, the relentless gnawing pain in his stomach, forced him to move. He began to dismantle the barricade, piece by piece, until only the door separated him from the infected woman.
He gripped the broom-turned-spear, his knuckles white with tension. Every instinct screamed at him to stop, to turn around and find another solution. But the pain in his stomach was unbearable, a constant reminder of his desperation.
His mind raced, searching for a way to justify what he was about to do. But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't shake the image of Ms. Henderson as she was before the infection—a kind, elderly woman who had always smiled at him in the hallway. The thought of ending her life, even in her current state, was too much to bear.
"I can't do this," he whispered to himself, his voice trembling. "I can't kill her."
Ivan backed away from the door, his resolve crumbling. He couldn't bring himself to harm her, no matter how much pain he was in. The thought of what lay beyond the door terrified him, but the idea of taking a life—even one so far gone—was something he simply couldn't do.
He slumped against the wall, the spear falling from his hands. He felt defeated, trapped by his own fear and morals. His body ached, his stomach twisted in knots, but his conscience wouldn't allow him to go through with it.