The stench of disinfectant choked the air—thick, viscous, cloying—a physical assault forcing its way into nostrils, clawing into the brain. Eyes burned, raw and stinging.
Inside the armored quarantine transport, air hung thick and stifling—a sealed cauldron of decay. Wrought-iron bars divided the space into cramped steel cages crammed with villagers wracked by hacking, soul-tearing coughs. Outside, blinding white light sliced through the darkness like surgical scalpels. Condensation fogged the windows, droplets tracing crooked paths down the glass.
The chassis rattled like a beaten gong—CLANG! CLANG!—vibrations rattling teeth, shaking marrow. Each jolt hammered the chest. Coughs, groans, muffled sobs of despair—all trapped within this suffocating iron drum—threatened to burst eardrums
