Rotting flesh. You hated the smell, especially as it oozed off your lover.

John — or what was left of him — growled and hissed as you paced the room. He did a quick once-over of his molted hand. His eyes were glazed over, and he lethargically glanced around the room.

“Jesus…” You mumbled, bringing a hand over your face. You had to find a cure — and soon.