The Golden Circuit
The rot began in the left hand, a dull, greyish peeling that Major Elias Thorne had initially mistaken for the dryness of the subterranean air, but which now, three weeks into the quarantine, had spread with a terrifying, geometric precision across his knuckles and up the tendons of his forearm. He sat at the steel desk in the center of the bunker, the fluorescent lights buzzing with a...
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