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When Bryan swallowed that scientist, all he could think was “Oh, shit, I’m such a fucking cannibal.” What he did not consider was that said scientist was still holding the syringe with the cure.
Under typical circumstances, this would have meant nothing if not more issues for his already tired, hurt body. However, these circumstances were anything but typical. With the amount of mutation happening inside his body, his bloodstream was fully exposed the moment the syringe’s glass was crushed by the teeth protruding out of his stomach.
For a brief moment before the cure kicked in, Bryan felt the amalgamation take over his mind. And when a bright light covered everything he could see, the last bit of humanity in him wondered if he was seeing God.
When his ears stopped rushing with adrenaline, he could hear the sound of chopper blades as they cut through the air. The feeling in his hands came back to him just in time for him to catch himself from hitting his head as he fell to the floor.
“He's infected! We need to put him down!”
“I said ‘do not shoot.’ Do you want to deal with Stratt's legal team over this?”
“I don't want to die over a delivery boy!”
That was all the conversation that Bryan could make sense of. The rest was garbled together. There may have been people speaking different languages.
There were definitely dozens of whoever they were. He could tell that much by the way his senses were going into hard-drive trying to account for being surrounded on all sides.
“I'm still in fight or flight mode,” he thought. Then, “That might be the smartest thought I've had all night.”
His eyes cracked open, just to slam shut as soon as they registered the fluorescents above. Instead, he willed his fingers to move. He could barely get his pointer to lift. Eyes, it is. As slow as he could, he opened them to a small squint.
There was a person to his right. A nurse, maybe. A woman in scrubs.
“Hey,” he croaked. She didn't react. “Hey,” he repeated, louder, though it pained his throat like he was pouring alcohol over an open wound.
She heard him, but she didn't respond to his call with the coddling kind of sympathy he expected when one is a patient in, presumably, a hospital. Instead, she grimaced and looked at someone over his head.
“He's awake,” she announced.
“It's probably the infection. Might be resistant to the anesthesia,” the mystery person replied. Bryan tried to lift his chin to see who it was. He couldn't get his eyes far enough back to get a clear picture.
“So, up the dosage?”
“Do what you have to do.”
That made the hair on Bryan's arms stand up. He wasn't ready for surgery or experimentation or whatever-the-fuck they were planning for him. Aren't you supposed to get consent before you do things like that, anyway?
The fear of what was going to become of him fueled his muscles enough to lift his chest. Stuck in the world's worst crunch, he could see his clothes, ripped and bloody. His eyes landed on his hand - on his fingers, which weren't fingers at all but some sort of tentacle-looking mass, and however much blood was still left in him, rushed from his head.
He barely felt the spike of pain from his head hitting the gurney. He had fainted before the nurse could even up his anesthesia.