"Someone died over here!"
"Move the body out quickly! Arrange for cremation as soon as possible!"
Amid the shouted calls was a numbness and despair. Large numbers of people died every day; once too many had died, everyone became numb.
Unlike the previous deaths among the wounded, this was a plague—a plague that spared not even medical personnel. Even a French major general had entered the crematorium because of it.
Protective measures? Regrettably, precautions in this era were exceedingly primitive; they could not even manage basic disinfection.
From time to time, the wails of patients drifted from the corners of the quarantine zone. This place had become a dreaded land of death. Every day, medical staff came only to hurriedly distribute medicine before leaving at once.
Checking on patients' conditions? That simply did not exist. How many doctors did the French army have, after all?
Besides, there was no miracle cure for the plague. The medicines currently being used offered patients more psychological comfort than actual therapeutic effect.
The soldiers responsible for distributing provisions avoided this place like the plague. They left food at the entrance, shouted a warning, then quickly departed.
"Adolf, can you still hold on?"
"No problem. Thank you, Alfonso. I feel much better. I should pull through this time."
"Get some rest. Once you pull through, you'll be fine."
Alfonso had this sort of conversation many times every day. As one of the earliest people infected by the plague, Alfonso had been fortunate enough to survive.
By convention, having escaped one wave of plague meant God would not summon him again anytime soon. Thus, he had no choice but to stay behind as an attendant.
According to the doctors, he still needed to remain in the hospital for further observation and treatment, and could not