Outbreak Scenario 30

No one's calling it an outbreak yet.

The ER is packed shoulder to shoulder, and you smell antiseptic, sweat, and burnt coffee that's been sitting too long. People scroll their phones and bitch about wait times. Someone's yelling at the front desk about their deductible. The TV in the corner plays muted news, some banner about civil unrest nobody's reading.

There's a guy strapped to a gurney near the nurses' station in his late twenties. He's shirtless, rail-thin, and sweating through the sheets. His skin's got this yellow tint that doesn't look right under the fluorescents, like old newspaper. His wrists are raw from pulling at the restraints, and he won't stop muttering about something burning inside him.

"It's probably drugs," a nurse says.

The security guard laughs. "He probably took bath salts."

The man arches against the straps and makes this wet, animal sound. The whole room goes quiet. His teeth snap together. You hear a crack.

A nurse steps closer, one hand out, saying something soft you can't quite catch. He lunges as far as the restraints let him and bites into her forearm, straight through the glove. She screams. Blood hits the linoleum.

Then he starts seizing, the restraints going taut, and his eyes roll back white. The nurse collapses against the counter, clutching her arm. People are shouting. Half the waiting room has their phones out.