• "Pass the ketchup."
    Napkins rustled. Plastic baggies made 'sth' noises as they were moved around. Someone was chewing with their mouth open. Someone else was having a sip of water. Cora raised her gaze and cocked her head to the side, thin brows raised expectantly while she chewed a bite of her sandwich.
    "Ketchup," she repeated, a little louder.
    "What the hell do you need ketchup for?" Elijah asked thickly through a mouthful of his own sandwich, pulling a napkin to him to wipe his lips.
    "I like to dip my chips in it," she responded.
    "Ew," Jeremy remarked over the rim of his water bottle before skulling back a swig.
    "Just give me the damn ketchup," she sighed.
    "I don't think we have any," Elijah said.
    "I told you to put some of those little ketchup packets in the friggin' lunch bag."
    "I didn't pack anything."
    "Well who did?"
    He shrugged and she looked around at the others like a homicide detective searching for their mass murderer. Miria coughed into her shoulder, set her sandwich on her paper plate and leaned back, reaching a hand toward the duffel bag that had their lunch fixings in it. Hope rested forward on his elbows to give her a little more room, and the bag was slid across the floor and pulled up into her lap.
    She unzipped it and started rummaging through its contents. Cora licked her lips and took a sip of her water, staring across the table at Elijah. He mouthed the word 'what' defensively, to which she to rolled her eyes and then directed them toward the nearest window.
    They were on the first floor of the hospital, which was actually the second, if you counted the basement, seated in rickety, old plastic chairs from the waiting area around the long abandoned front desk. It was annoyingly quiet and fairly dark. Little sunlight could penetrate the thick coats of dust and dirt that covered the windows, and what could, merely highlighted the dust floating in the air for the group to see. The stench of death and decay was so strong, it was hard to eat. But they needed their energy, so they did what they had to do.
    "Here," Miria spoke, tossing three packets of ketchup across the desktop to Cora.
    "Thank you," she chimed.
    She tore them open with her teeth and poured them out onto her plate, discarding their barren shells in an already over-flowing waste basket. She dipped her first chip, popped it in her mouth and smiled. Jeremy made a gagging noise, and the rest chuckled. He cracked a smile at her to let her know he was just messing around, balling up his napkin and letting it fall to his empty plate.
    Even in the midst of all the insanity that consumed their lives, they were still able to find the time and will to actually live. Have fun. Like everything was normal. And that is just one of many things that separated Ruins Naff from all of the other Ruins teams. They knew their jobs were serious, but they never took them or themselves too seriously.
    "I feel like...," Hope started, pausing to swallow some food, "I think I've got like, a blister or something that popped on my ankle. ********' hurts."
    "Maybe it's because you tie your boots too tight and wear girly ankle socks," Gabriel prompted.
    "You got scratched," Iseigha told him in a playfully frightening voice, "Bitten! You are damned, damned I say!"
    "Shut up," he laughed, flinging his plate at him like a frisbee.
    He pushed his chair back a bit and kicked his left foot up on the desk, causing the few plates that had food left on them to bounce up and their owners to send out words of protest. Cora watched him lazily, as a medic required to at least act mildly interested in any injury.
    The tan, camo patterned fabric of his pants was torn and blood stained at the back of his ankle. He arched an eyebrow in suprise and pulled up his pantleg to see just what, exactly, had caused it all, swearing under his breath at the sight of a bite mark. It was somewhat faint and only the size of petite fist, but it was definitely a bite mark.
    He winced and swallowed hard. Soon, everyone had gotten a look at it. Just as soon, everyone was robbed of their light-hearted, relatively happy demeanor in order to make as much room as possible for panic. Utter, chaotic panic.
    "He really did get bitten!" Iseigha exclaimed, practically leaping out of his seat.
    "Holy s**t! What the ********! What do we do?" Elijah fumbled, "Do we shoot him? Do we ******** shoot him?!"
    "Don't shoot him! Don't...Just, don't do anything! Calm the hell down, and...Well, let me do my ******** job," Cora interjected.
    The desk was cleared and the team rose to their feet. Cora helped Hope onto the desktop and told him to lay back. She slung the strap of her duffel bag over her shoulder, letting it fall with a 'clank' to the same wood her current patient laid waiting on. She ignored the other five lingering behind her as she slipped on medical gloves and started searching for supplies.
    She ripped his pantleg so it split at the seam to give her a better look. She took a penlight between her slender fingers and shined it on the bite, grinding her teeth nervously. She poked and prodded, pinched and flicked, attempting to get him to register the severity of the pain if he felt any.
    "It hurts, alright? Stop ******** with it," he snarled, propping himself up on his elbows.
    "Just making sure it isn't dead yet," she countered.
    The anxiety in the atmosphere was so tense, it was as if it had locked around everybody else's throats, making it impossible for them to speak, and difficult to breathe. She continued with her work despite the uneasiness, wiping the wound with a chemical testing pad and unintentionally making him yell in pain.
    "There are two types of zombies out there," she told him, "The-"
    "Infected and sub-infected, I know. I had basic training, too," he said through grit teeth.
    "...Right," she commented, allowing a pause for nerves to settle, "Anyway...The infected are full blown, rotting, walking zombie corpses and when their strand gets transferred, there is absolutely no hope of the turning process being stopped or reversed. Sub-infected are different. If caught early, the process can be stopped, and, with the use of medication continued for a few weeks, reversed."
    This information, it appeared he hadn't learned in basic training, and it took him a moment before asking, "How can you tell which bit me?"
    "If the pad turns black...You're ********," she answered quielty, gaze dropped to the mentioned item, "If it turns yellow, there's a good chance I can save you."
    Silence fell over them like a blanket, and she gnawed at her bottom lip while she waited and waited for the white pad to change colors. A sharp sigh of relief escaped her when it finally did, and she held the now yellow pad above her head for all to see. Hope smiled at her, and she smiled back.
    "Crisis averted," Jeremy breathed, manging a smile of his own.
    Cora began to search for the correct concoction of topical ointments to apply to the wound and stunt the virus within's growth, leaving an opening for Miria to step forward and give Hope a hug. He chuckled and hugged her back, then Elijah, then Gabriel, then Iseigha and finally, Jeremy. The leader ruffled the gunner's short, dirty blond hair.
    "You gotta be more careful, kid," were his words of wisdom.
    He turned around to face the other gunner, mechanic and weapons specialist as Cora carried on with her work. He folded his arms over his chest and let a few minutes pass so everyone could gather themselves again, then made a 'tck' noise with his tongue.
    "We've still got a mission to run. We're way behind. Let's get our asses moving to the basement, yeah?" he started, clapping loudly, as he always did, "Go on, the basement ain't gonna ******** bite."
    He watched his fellows grab their weapons and lead the way out of the front desk area. He glanced over his shoulder and let the two behind him know that he'd contact them via radio when they had reached the generators to request their assistance, so they'd better hurry up, then jogged after the others.
    Cora finished wrapping a dressing around Hope's ankle and he sat up, smirking. A small grin tugged at the corners of her upper lip and she glanced away to toss her gloves and the used up ointment packets into the trash. She returned her attention to him, gripping the edge of the desk and leaning in, toward him. Their pale blues met.
    "I can't believe you," she said, her voice quiet but lively.
    "When do we ever get time to alone?" he inquired coyly, afterward taking her hands and tugging.
    She giggled and went with the movement, hopping up to join him. He laid back, and she laid over him. She brushed her fringe from her eyes and rested her chin on his chest.
    "You could've gotten yourself killed," she mentioned.
    "I know a sub-infected from an infected when I see one," he detested.
    "Still...Seeking a bite? What's the matter with you?" she asked, batting his cheek lightly.
    "All work, no play," he pouted.
    She gave a roll of her eyes and was forced to smile again when his lips met hers. She stradled him, resting a hand on the desktop above either of his shoulders as she returned the kissed. They laughed quietly, their passion rising and clothing quickly shedding to make a pile on the floor.