Previously on ILL… I sneezed, I got sick, lots of people got sick too. I got better, they died. They came back…

So, I’ve learned a few things.

  1. The zombies don’t want to eat me. – The door was wide open and I was securely strapped to the bed. It was an all-you-can-eat buffet invitation and the hungry punters walked on by. It means that I’m infected, right?
  2. People who come into contact with me generally die soon after. – But I no longer have any symptoms of the virus myself and haven’t for some time. Am I a carrier then? A harbinger of doom, the Angel of Death? Undesirable to the dead and the living alike. Oh, great!
  3. I am not a very nice person. – How’s that? Well, the guy’s name was Harold. He was a janitor at the hospital. When it all kicked off, he was asleep in his little storeroom just up the corridor. He must’ve been in a deep sleep because he didn’t wake up until well after the Munchers had cleared the hospital of ‘edibles’ and taken to the streets. Then he actually started cleaning! The corridors must’ve been littered with leftovers and swimming with blood but old Harold went at it with his mop and bucket. Fuck knows what he must’ve been thinking. Just another shitty day? He poked his head into my room and we exchanged pleasantries… “Nice weather for the time of year,” “Thank fuck it’s Friday,” “Isn’t it quiet?” “Can you unbuckle these straps?”… that kind of stuff. I could (should) have warned him but he should have known it was a quarantine room. He worked that corridor, for fuck’s sake! So that was the dilemma. I was strapped down and Harold was probably my last hope of release. Did I mention before that I didn’t want to miss my own apocalypse?

So, here I am, free and, yeah, I’m not a very nice person. But Harold would probably have finished his shift and walked right into the middle of the gathering throng of Munchers anyway. He was never going to last long, right? Callous? Bollocks! It’s a dog-eat-dog world as they used to say and I’m a hound of hell. Woof! Woof!



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