Turn, Zombie!
Some people stepped forward, some quietly retreated, and others, clinging to a thread of hope, remained hidden in the crowd, waiting to decide their fate once symptoms flared up or they were discovered as infected.
John watched it all helplessly, the anguish in his heart beyond words— the girl's death shocked him to the core, and that infallible detector only fueled his deep-seated terror.
Just then, a rampaging zombie pounced on several soldiers, sparking screams and chaos throughout the crowd.
Amid the ensuing pandemonium, John Carter quietly slipped away.
He hadn't noticed that just minutes before, the same soldier who had killed several people, after being bitten by a zombie, had unhesitatingly chosen to end his life by swallowing his own gun.
In the face of this all-consuming catastrophe, who can really say what is right or wrong?
…
John Carter leaned against a weathered wall, where the once searing pain of his wound had dwindled to a numb itch.
On closer inspection, he saw that the deep gash no longer gushed fresh blood; the once vibrant muscle was gradually losing its vitality, turning gray and pale—every sign pointed to his impending transformation into a zombie!
"No, no—I don't want to die, I don't want to become a zombie, no, no!" he gasped, each labored breath barely drawing enough air.
Disturbing signals from his lungs and heart made him feel as if every organ inside was rotting and disintegrating in excruciating pain.
Limping along, he reached out and touched the wall, summoning every bit of strength to inch forward.
Less than a hundred meters away stood a hospital—its interior long abandoned, much like this desolate city.
John Carter fell to the ground but still struggled to crawl toward the hospital, knowing that it might harbor antibiotics and penicillin—a glimmer of hope in his heart.
Finally, he managed to break into the hospital.
His injured leg had long lost all sensation—where was the pharmacy? Time was running out!
Gritting his teeth, he forced himself upright, collapsing onto a patient cart, and staggered through the silent, empty corridors in search of the pharmacy.
When he finally found the pharmacy, a splitting headache nearly made his eyes burst open, and a violent bout of vomiting expelled a thick, foul-smelling substance that looked like congealed blood.
Antibiotics—antibiotics!
Although he wasn't entirely sure how to take these medications, he hurriedly swallowed any pill he could find; for liquid drugs, he trembled as he injected them into his arm with a syringe.
In his muddled mind, countless fragmented memories flooded back—the Cynthia who pushed him off the air duct, the middle-aged man who gave him chocolate, and that desperate girl who ended her own life…
Each image, accompanied by that bone-chilling laughter, echoed relentlessly in his ears.
As he tumbled from the cart, he lost consciousness.
Just as he struggled to open his eyes, a rapid heartbeat suddenly jolted him awake—a beat several times faster than normal.
In his blurred vision, only a blood-red world continued to spread before him.
"I… I'm not dead yet, I haven't turned into a zombie!" he secretly rejoiced, but before he could burst into laughter, a terrifying hissing sound filled his ears.
He cried out for help, but all that emerged was a chilling, low murmur.
When he tried to sit up, he found his limbs utterly powerless, and no matter how much he struggled, he couldn't free himself.
Overwhelmed by anger and despair, he bit down hard on the metal tube of the cart, managing to create a hole.
Even though the rest of his body was too weak to support him, his biting force had morphed into what seemed like a zombie's privilege.
In that moment, he suddenly realized—had he already turned into a zombie? And why could he still retain his human consciousness?
Countless questions flashed through his mind.
Then, an ominous hunger suddenly overwhelmed him, making him feel as if he could tear his own flesh off.
"It's over… I've really become a zombie," John Carter thought bitterly, even as he struggled to resist the overwhelming craving—a force that now seemed beyond his control.
After what felt like an eternity, he barely managed to pull himself up, staggering like a baby taking its first uncertain steps.
His legs could barely support his weight, his neck had lost the strength it once had, and only with the feeble support of his shoulders could he continue moving forward.
His fingers were so numb that he couldn't even grip a scalpel—the knife slipped weakly from his fingertips every time, falling back onto the table.
Well, without a weapon, so be it.
John eventually abandoned the idea of finding a weapon and, dragging his exhausted body, staggered out of the hospital.
Outside, the night sky should have been ablaze with stars, but in his eyes it was stained blood-red, and his vision seemed to be crisscrossed with tiny fractures—perhaps his eyes had been injured.
At that moment, he felt an ever-intensifying hunger.
Then, a few dark silhouettes staggered into view—zombies!
Terrified, he tried to turn and run, but his limbs refused to obey, leaving him frozen in place.
The zombies stared at him for what felt like ages before, seemingly losing interest, they slowly ambled away.
A bitter irony welled up inside John Carter: these creatures wouldn't attack him—after all, he was a zombie now too!
As he bitterly mocked himself, a piercing female scream shattered the silent night.
The scream sent his body into uncontrollable motion, drawing him automatically toward its source.
No matter how hard he struggled, it seemed his body had completely taken over, forcing him to move forward against his will.
"Is this instinct? The instinct to hunt for food?" he roared inwardly, unwillingly resisting the desire that was slowly overtaking his will—he did not want to become that cold-blooded, flesh-eating monster.
But it was all too late.
The streets were littered with abandoned trash, crashed cars burning helplessly from frantic escapes, and a few toppled utility poles sparking ominously.
Rounding a corner, he saw over a dozen zombies frantically chasing a girl in jeans.
The girl, probably in her twenties, was running alone on the street—screaming and struggling desperately.
Standing beneath the blood-red night sky, John felt a whirlwind of emotions, silently wondering: In this disaster, is there any such thing as right or wrong?