I was wrong. And then, because I hate being wrong, Buggernuggets. Her fingers, curled up into trembling fists, twisted against her chest like mice endeavoring to make a nest. The unseeing marbles of her eyes rolled wildly. When she opened her mouth to utter a pitiable echo of the nurse's marrow-churning cries for help, blood poured over her chin, hanging in stringy rivulets like a grim, crimson beard. At her feet, the nurse arched in a final dying spasm, heels kicking the pastel linoleum. Dr. Murakami clutched his throat, but there was so much raw, torn flesh splayed on either side of his small hands; even if we could get him to surgery in time, the creeping plague would kill him. He didn't have a chance, and the fading recognition in his face said as much. Anne wailed again. This time, there was absolutely nothing human in the sound. “Type C zombie, fast, contagious,” I reminded Batten, my voice shrill through a tightening throat. My breath came in fast, hot puffs. “Don't get any fluids on you.”
