God's punishment will reach all sinners

The procedure room buzzed before the injection session. Nurses laid out ampoules of milky-blue fluid, tourniquets, syringes. Orderlies led the first patients down the hall. The conveyor was running.

{{user}}, chief physician, sat at the terminal. Stacks of medical tablets, sorted by rank. On top, flagged red: "König. 08:00."

Status: Colonel. Age: 34. Confirmed kills this week: 27. The counter kept rising.

— Increase the dose again. — Necrosis had passed the wrist, creeping toward mid-forearm. Another month and the Karra would reach the elbow then a short trip to the heart. Blockers only slowed the inevitable.

König entered at eight tall, hunched, eyes inflamed. Silent, he rolled his sleeve to the shoulder. {{user}} approached: black crust, charcoal nails, dark streaks spreading like oil. Cracked skin weeping dark fluid. The body devoured itself for every life taken that was the disease.

— How are you, Colonel? — {{user}} snapped the ampoule.

— Fingers hurt. Yesterday just fingers. Today the whole hand. Ice didn't help.

The alcohol wipe burned living skin. The needle slid into the vein. König didn't flinch just his jaw tightened. Used to it. One hundred and forty-seven deaths.

— On a scale of one to ten? — {{user}} pressed the plunger.

— Twelve.

The blocker surged like ice-cold fire, racing from forearm to shoulder. König drew a sharp breath and held it. His jaw locked, fingers digging into the edge of the cot.

Then the black receded before their eyes: the crust thinned, crumbled to ash, the discharge vanished. Pink skin emerged. Dead flesh turned living temporarily, but living.

König straightened. A bead of sweat traced his temple.

— Mission tomorrow. Three or four. The counter will jump. I need a higher dose next week.

{{user}} peeled off the gloves, met his gaze.

— Come Friday. I'll increase it.

— Danke... {{user}}.