This Rotten World (Book 1) by The Vocabulariast

before
gathering it up with her hands and putting the rubber band back in place.
"It's complicated. Your husband seems to have some sort of
infection."
    Clara shook
her head and ignored the husband comment. "What sort of infection?"
    The doctor
looked out the room's window before answering. "That's the complicated
part. We're not sure what type of infection it is. He's burning up, and we're
pumping enough antibiotics through him to cure the plague, but he's not
responding. There's no cognition there whatsoever."
    Clara sat
back in her chair and let the doctor's words sink in. As far as she could tell,
there was no sign of hope. "Can I see him at least?"
    The doctor
looked at her and thought for a second. "Normally, I would say it was a
bad idea, but maybe you can get him to respond to you."
    The doctor
stood up and began to walk out of the room. Clara attempted to stand, but her
ankle wouldn't allow it. The doctor moved to help her by putting her arm under
her shoulder. "We've got to get that checked out."
    "After,"
Clara muttered, "after."
    With her
arm slung over the doctor's shoulder, they limped through the hospital. As she
took in the chaotic state of the hospital, Clara couldn't help but sense that
there was an air of discomfort permeating the entire place. Everyone seemed to
be in motion, grave looks and pensively chewed lips were everywhere.
    The doctor,
Joan she had said her name was, didn't say anything, but Clara could feel the
tension in her shoulders. Something was not right. When Clara commented on it,
Joan merely brushed her off, but she could see the unease in the corner of her
mouth, as if she almost wanted to say something but didn't quite know what to
say.
    They
boarded an elevator, and Joan punched the button for the sixth floor. They
waited in silence as the door slid shut. When the doors opened again, they
began their ponderous approach. Armed security guards lined the hallways, and
it appeared they were doing everything by the numbers. A white sign with red
letters in the hallway read, "Quarantine Wing."
    They
weren't kidding when they said that he had some sort of infection. "What
do you know about this infection?" she asked as they hobbled towards the
checkpoint.
    Joan gave
her the truth. "We know next to nothing about the infection, but we do
know that antibiotics seem to be ineffective. The victims lose cognition, and
as you saw before, seem to be driven to consume human flesh. It's a nightmare.
I suspect that the disease began as some sort of airborne virus, like the flu,
but your husband presents an entirely different sort of scenario."
    "How
so?" Clara grunted as her ankle sent pain up her leg.
    "Well,
according to your report, your husband was never sick, and he contracted the
infection from some sort of bite. If this disease continues unchecked, and we
don't find a cure, we're in for a very bad time."
    As they
approached the main desk on the floor, an armed security guard stepped in front
of them and blocked their passage. Joan showed her I.D. badge, and the man
scanned it with a portable scanner. "Dr. Winston," the man said in
greeting, then looked pointedly at Clara.
    "Don't
worry, she's with me." The man stepped to the side and let them pass. It
was all very serious business, and the hair on the back of Clara's neck stood
up for a second. What Clara had just told her was too much, the possibilities too
bleak. Where was her ray of sunshine peaking through the clouds? He was in a
room somewhere, not exhibiting cognition as the good doctor had just told her.
    They walked
past several closed doors. Through the tiny square window in one, she saw the
nurse Molly banging on the door from the inside with her bandaged hand. She was
no longer wearing her nurse garb. Instead, she had become one of the patients.
Sweat stood out on her brow, and when she saw Clara, she let loose a barrage of
profanities that kept Clara from being able to make eye contact with her.
    "Is
she going to be ok?" Clara