“What are we doing here?” he mumbles quietly. His voice is barely above a whisper.
The girl next to him scratches as her arm. “We’re infected,” she breathed. She scratched harder.
She shrugged and moved to scratch her other arm. “It contagious,” she offers.
She shrugs again. He growls and unconsciously starts scratching at his own arm. There are twelve of them in the room. All of them don white shirts and pants, all of their feet bare against the cold white tile. The walls are white too, there is no color, and it is maddening.
They all stare blankly at the ground, some hanging their heads lower, shielding their eyes. The girl next to him is one of them. He tangled and dirty blonde hair hands like a veil over her face. She continues to scratch, switching now, from arm to arm.
A door he didn’t know existed opened. A man with a mask enters, he holds a medical bag in one hand as he uses the other to close the door behind him. He goes to the person nearest to the door. He kneels down and lifts their head. This person had their head held higher. He opens his medical bag and preforms a checkup on him.
The masked man then stand and proceeds to the next person. This on has her head hung lower. He kneels again and puts a finger under her chin, he raises her head and, after a quick inspection, lowers it back down and moves on.
He watches the man goes from person to person, noting that those who hung their heads lower, were not subjected to a checkup. Soon it was his turn. It was painless and was over quickly. The girl next to him did not receive one.
The man in the mask left, closing the door quickly behind him.
“Why did some people not get a checkup?” he asks the girl, praying for some type of answer.
“Because we’ve already lost against it.”
She raises her head and her hair falls back. She is horribly pale and has spider veins around her forehead. Her eyes are closed as she sucks in a deep breath. Finally she turns to him and slowly opens her eyes, revealing pure black. There is no color. Her iris and sclera are completely black, blending with pupil.
“We’ve already lost against the infection,” she murmurs.
There is a sudden rustling around the room. He notices that all the patients with low hanging heads are now staring at him. All of their eyes are black.
“There’s no cure,” one boy mumbles from across the room.
“Meaning it’s only a matter of time,” the girl says. She points out the way he’s scratching at his arm. “That’s just the first symptom.”
“It only gets worse,” everyone in the room stated simultaneously.
