Greta reels back against the exterior wall when Iman drops her hand, feeling unmoored, feeling sick. Her leg looks bad, all right, she knows that, but surely it's not worth this kind of panic, not from a woman who lost an arm and soldiered on. What unspoken understanding have these two shared? She feels a hot stab of anger at the thought; she hates being in the dark.

"What's going on?" she demands, releasing her skirt and letting it drop back over the wound. "What aren't you telling me?"

Rita looks at Iman for a moment, then meets Greta's gaze squarely. She doesn't look as upset as Iman, but her gaze isn't entirely devoid of pity. When she speaks, her voice is almost gentle. "It's the plague - the illness these things have." A twitch of her sword indicates the crumpled, bloody heap near the door. "That's how it spreads."

It spreads?

Oh, god. Greta slowly slides down to the floor, lifting a trembling hand to her face. She was so foolish. She knew there was something wrong with people, she'd seen healthy individuals dragged down by the horde, but she hadn't stopped to watch what happened next, she hadn't thought of it as--as catching. She doesn't know what she thought. She supposes she wasn't thinking at all, she'd been too scared to think, and now... and now...?

"Am I--I'm going to turn into...?" she can't bear to look at the remains of the thing, and she especially can't bear to look at Iman. She hides her face in her hands, gasping for air.