Typhoid followed the woman into the corridor, wrinkling her nose in disgust at the bodies strewn over the floor, their fluids staining the walls. The corpse nearest the door had it's head ripped half off and she immediately recognized the handiwork. It must've got real bad to go straight from mewling Mary to the bloody one; Typhoid was used to being the first that Mary let in to deal with her problems. It happened with a frequency that Typhoid appreciated (though she would appreciate it more not to be cleaning up someone else's mess all the time) because Mary was practically afraid of her own shadow. Understandable given what that shadow was capable of. The shadow, the bloody one, was always the last resort.
There'd been others in here once, a long time ago, but Mary and Typhoid had found ways to silence them. Although Typhoid wasn't exactly fond of her roommates in this head space, she had the sense to at least respect the worst one because without her they'd all be dead. Which wasn't to say that Typhoid wasn't equally capable of being dangerous and keeping the body alive. She had a few tricks up her sleeve.
While she mulled over the woman's question (Typhoid was Typhoid, she knew that, but she was a who and not a what, so what was Typhoid?) she leaned down and pressed her fingertips to the shoulder of the nearly decapitated body. It burst into flames, smoke and the stench of rotted burning flesh wafting its way lazily up to the sterile white ceiling already mottled with gore. That felt nice, real nice, like stretching her legs after a long time in captivity. Being out was pretty good, too, but not like using her fire. The meds kept her at bay, kept Mary from doing anything fun at all, but this was fun, the burning.
"Disease," she finally offered and looked up at Li Hua with a crooked smile. "Typhoid is disease."