Watley’s leg was discolored and swollen. Even from the doorway, a good ten feet from his partner, Mo could see that the infection had spawned thin, black tributaries in every direction. The wound was wet and glistening, oozing a thick, dark fluid.

Watley sat in the same chair he’d been in last night. He was leaning back, staring ahead, but not at his leg and not at Mo; the blank gaze indicated that his mind was somewhere far off. He seemed to be unaware that he was no longer alone. When Mo had first entered, he thought the man was dead.

Soiled sanitary wipes littered the floor around the chair, the empty container still lying in Watley’s lap. A mixture of blood and black liquid had pooled on the chair and spilled down the legs, staining the rug beneath. Mug was glad he had worn his helmet before opening the door to check on Watley. Fearing that an airborne pathogen might find its way into the adjoining room and infect him as well, Mo had slept with the helmet on.

Watley stirred. “I don’t feel good,” he mumbled.

“You don’t look good,” said Mo, matter-of-factly.

“What’s going to happen to me?” For the first time, he looked at Mo. The whites of his eyes had become yellow, the corners red and puffy.

“I don’t know. But you need medical attention, asap.”

Watley’s gaze reverted to its previous bewildered state. “All the hair fell off,” he said, rubbing the smooth limb. “I’m going to die, right?”

“Not necessarily. Get up.”

Watley’s eyes darted to meet Mo’s. “For what?”

“We’re going to look for something that can help that,” said Mo, pointing at the festering gash.

“Not the Machine…”

“No.”

Wincing, Watley shifted his weight to his good leg. “Can you give me a hand?”

“No. I’m keeping away from you.”

“Christ, man. I need help.”

“And how would it help you if I contracted whatever the fuck you’ve got? Then we’d both be up shit’s creek.”

Watley stared at Mo, then lowered his eyes to the floor. “You’re right. I understand…sorry.”

“Stay here. I’ll be right back.”

“You’re not ditching me, are you?”

Mo backed out of the room without answering. He went downstairs to the first floor and retrieved gauze from the cycles and returned, instructing his partner to wrap the leg. Watley did so, struggling through the pain, cursing and gritting his teeth.

After ten minutes, Watley had managed to haul himself downstairs. He mounted the cycle and gripped the handlebars with trembling arms. “Where’re we going?”

“There’s a hospital a few miles away. With any luck, there could be some antibiotics left behind. Or painkillers, maybe.”

“They’ll probably be expired. Shit, we might as well take an axe to my leg right now!”

“If you have a better plan, I’m all ears.” Mo removed his sidearm from its holster and casually pointed it at Watley.

Watley’s gaze shifted from the barrel to Mo’s eyes. He nodded. “Okay…I get it.”

Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.

Mo lowered his weapon. “You do realize that at this point, amputation might be the only option.”

Watley shook his head. “No. Something else has to work.”

“It might not.”

“Just don’t alert the Machine yet.”

St. Anthony’s Hospital sat a hundred yards from the highway. It looked as if had last been operational maybe twenty years ago. Parts of the brick edifice appeared to be crumbling and numerous windows had been knocked out.

Mo and Watley navigated a parking lot littered with emergency and civilian vehicles, each covered with gray ash, making them appear furry. A steady breeze snapped the tattered fabric of makeshift triage centers. There was strange human-shaped flora scattered across the landscape, some releasing tiny, airborne particles.

Once across the lot, they entered the emergency room entrance, weapons at the ready. Mo scanned first, as his partner was hobbled by his infection. Daylight sifted in here and there, but the interior was murky, which meant plenty of places for something to conceal itself.

Passing through the waiting room, where bones of unknow origin lay scattered on gurneys and the floor, Mo waded farther into gloom, toward the trauma center. Here, countless humanoid figures were present, displayed just as they were in their final moments of life. Many were simply cradled in corners of the massive room; others were still beneath sheets in their hospital beds. Each of the figures seemed to be an amalgamation of human and plant life. In one of the chairs behind a curtained off section, the woody stems of some indiscernible vegetation wove through the sleeves of a button-down shirt and around the backrest, continuing in a vertical shoot that rose through the tiled ceiling.

After shaking himself loose of the twisted wonder of the scene, Mo instructed, “Look everywhere. In drawers, cabinets…”

Watley nodded. He searched his side of the room but found only empty syringes and bottles. “Nothing.”

Heading to the second floor, they avoided more vine-like structures winding up the stairwell. Something that had once been a man sat slumped on one of the landings with a shotgun across its lap. Mo stepped over a tendril that appeared to have once departed from the main stem and sought out the man, curling around one of the legs and ending inside the flesh.

“Jesus Christ,” moaned Watley. “Is that what’s going to happen to me?”

Mo didn’t respond. On the second floor, he led them to the Operating Room. Here they got lucky and found antibiotics and a few syringes still wrapped in plastic.

Watley exposed his arm, preparing for the injection. “How do you know how much to give me?”

“I don’t. And you’re going to inject it yourself.”

Watley withdrew a full syringe worth. He took a deep breath and plunged the needle into his arm. He removed it, blotting a dot of very dark blood with gauze. “Well, it’s in.”

Mo held up his hand and Watley fell silent. Something outside the room moved.