As you wander through the deserted streets, you feel a distinctive prick on the side of your arm. Not surprising - the humidity's enough to drag out massive clouds of mosquitoes. With far more pressing matters on your mind, you think nothing of it to swat the thing and then brush away its remains, deciding to continue your search for... well, anything or anyone.
It only takes a minute or two for the itching to start - that familiar sensation, the mosquito venom working its magic. Even the irritation of it, the need to scratch for relief, is a welcome return to the ordinary after what you've been through. Besides that, it helps to keep your mind off of everything else, so in a sense this tiny little bite is almost a boon, and you're happy to scratch away at it while you wander about. For a while you lose yourself, almost feeling like you're just on a regular morning walk, when you start to hear the faintest sound of rubber squeaking somewhere around you, no doubt emanating from one of those monsters. Looking about like a deer that's just seen signs of a predator, alert and seeking the threat that you know is somewhere near but can't place, you almost fail to notice as the itching in your arm goes away, still scratching frantically out of reflex while the squeaking becomes louder, faster... and then you're brought out of your trance when you feel the source of the noises at your own fingertips.
Looking down to where the mosquito had bitten you, you see that the bite is nowhere to be seen, a rather large indigo bruise in its place. Or rather, what looks like a bruise - others might leave it at that, but your eyes catch the latex glimmer that gives it away as something far more sinister. Worse yet, you can see it spreading. Slowly, to be sure - the movement is barely even visible - but at a steady pace. The infection that had taken the rest of your world seems to have made its way to you, and now slowly infests your arm. All you can hope for is that your arm is all that it takes.