I was the first person to win a Nobel prize for not what I did, but what I was, my blood.
When I first realised I was immune to the disease taking over my village, I drove across many borders to reach the United States and to announce my discovery. The military stationed at strategic points ignored me as I raced down their highways; there was a more pressing issue at hand.
For six months I donated blood, so much so, I was too weak to get out of bed. But it was worth it, to vaccinate the world and stop the undead invasion.
It wasn’t like it is on TV. The outbreaks were contained in small pockets throughout the world. The military did a good job containing it, just like the Ebola outbreak at the start of the 21st century.
I told the story to my grandchildren, who sat in awe, not knowing the horrors that I experienced twenty years earlier.
But now, I’m getting old, and I am worried. If I didn’t know better I’d think my skin was necrotising, but my vision is failing so I am unsure. I am beginning to feel a craving I’ve not felt before, is it for pork? No, that doesn’t seem to satiate me.
I think I made a huge mistake…