How Much Longer?

 It smelled like rotting meat. The bite was starting to hurt like a sonofabitch. The kid that bit him couldn't have been more than twelve but looked practically feral.

How long had it been since the attacks began; the bombs, the guns, the bioweapons? Six months? A year? Longer? Time no longer held the same meaning. Back then, time was measured by plans and productivity. Now it was a matter of survival. Make it one more day, another hour, another minute. Planning was impossible. The only plan was STAY ALIVE. The world had been reduced to what you could see in front of you. 

In the best of times, a human mouth was a disgusting thing. Even the most hygienic smile harbored bacteria. He remembered when he was a kid, being told that a dog's mouth was cleaner. God only knows what came with the bite he received. 

If there were any doctors left alive, they were stuck in the same hell he was. Poisoned air, poisoned water, dead bodies, and rubble. The weeds did their best to reclaim the land, but everything was so saturated with chemical toxins that most of them died. Same as he probably would. 

When he saw the kid, he was torn. He hadn't seen another live human in days. His initial reaction was a combination of curiosity and fear. Then something deeper, more primitive crept up inside him. Was it a paternal instinct? The hard-wired human urge to keep the species alive? Whatever it was, it cost him. 

He wanted to help the kid, if he could. But like any startled wild beast, the kid attacked. It bit his shoulder, clean through his shirt and broke the skin. It didn't bleed much but it left something behind. The kid ran off. He wondered for a minute where the kid ran to, and if there were others - but the new concept of time didn't involve such thoughts, at least not for long. Act and react. That's what was left. He reacted in the only way he could. He went off in a different direction. 

The bite mark was still red and inflamed. An infection of some sort. But why did it smell so bad? 

The air had been filled with the stench of decomposition since not long after the attacks began, but this was different. He was the source of the odor. Every movement brought a fresh whiff. Now his arm was feeling stiff, sore, and weak. This wasn't good, whatever it was.  He felt like he might have a fever, but it was hard to say for sure. Headaches were as common as breathing now. His frequently empty stomach always hurt, so it was difficult to gauge pain. 

He needed water. 

Fresh, bottled water was exceptionally rare. He'd looted enough old stores, houses, and flats to know that it was mostly gone. The rivers and streams were even more polluted than when all Hell broke loose. Between the bombs and chemical weapons, every drop was like Russian roulette. It just wasn't worth it. He remembered the time he tried. The stomach cramps and days of diarrhea that followed were a strong reminder to not be so foolish. 

But he needed it. He could still find diet sodas in old machines, but that crap just made the headaches worse. It wasn't much better than the poisoned water.

He could feel pus oozing from the bite. Whatever it was, it was getting worse. 

He saw an emaciated raccoon near a dumpster. If the trash pandas were starving, how much longer before he joined them?