It’s not easy to find a good starting point for epics such as these, so I suppose I shall start with myself. I am writing this while imprisoned and awaiting my execution for crimes against The Overlord, political differences, treason, and dissent. I am Freak Boy, a survivor of the plague that shattered the earth in the early years of the millennium. With the help of a caravan of other survivors--both immune and afflicted--I made my way to the new center of civilization, Washington DC. For a long time, survival was the most important thing to my companions and I. When we got to Washington, it became organization, and restructuring. Ratifying and approving, blah blah blah--it all seems rather pointless now. I have learned the hard way democracy is impossible in human society--the closest we can get is a form of dumb-ocracy in which the elite pollute the minds of the unintelligent masses. This book is as much a homage to the destruction of what once was (and what could have been) as it is a warning to future generations to not trust in mankind. The events in this story are all true--some are a bit exaggerated, but they are more or less as true to life as they can be while fitting within the time length so as to not bore you, the reader, to tears. I stand by my convictions and decisions. To accept these charges and confess to my crimes would be a disservice to my fallen comrades, a dishonor to my companions, and above all a betrayal of my character. History looks back on the Salem Witch Trials, The Moscow Trials, and McCarthyism with a frown and shakes its head at the ignorance of man. Future generations shall do the same when looking upon the trials of New Washington--that is, if the future generations are even allowed to look back on history and see how great we once were. I die with but one regret: I failed to kill him when I first laid eyes on him. I shall attempt to recreate what happened those years ago with as much accuracy as possible. Death to The Overlord!

-- Freak Boy

It was 3:00am CST when it happened. Dr. Stuart Sampson had been enjoying a nice cup of coffee as he prepared to exit the underground facility. He would’ve left at around 2:30ish, but he felt like having a cup of coffee before heading home.

When Dr. Sampson got to the break room, the coffee pot was empty. He let out a sigh and set another pot up to brew and went over Dr. Gregoire’s report on the vaccines they should cook up for the most likely strains of the flu this year.

‘Looks like a real piece of work is on the horizon,’ Dr. Sampson thought as the coffee brewed.

---

Stu poured himself a cup and left the break room at 2:50am. He would’ve left then, but he bumped into Dr. Sarah Redman and stopped to talk.

Sarah was relatively new at the base--fresh college grad from the University of Pennsylvania’s med-school. She was roughly 27 or so, no one knew for sure, as it’s terribly rude to ask a woman her age. She was a beautiful, albeit pale, woman. Her face, dotted with freckles, always had a smile upon it. She had shoulder length red hair and beautiful green eyes behind a pair of stylish glasses. Much too pretty a woman to see Dr. Sampson as anything more than a colleague, mentor, and possibly a friend.

Dr. Sampson--Stu or Stuart to most of the staff--was in his mid-forties. His skin was semi-tan, occasional patches showing signs of skin cancer. He wore a set of coke-bottle lenses on his face, giving him big brown owl’s eyes. His hair had started graying at the age of 37, and ever since then he’s shaved his head. If he did let his hair grow out, roughly 75% of the makeup of his hair would be gray.

“So, Dr. Redman, how are you liking the nightshift,” Stu asked.

“Takes some getting used to,” she said with a laugh/yawn. “Haven’t been up in these hours of the night since college, but the coffee sure helps.”

“Gets to be your best friend ‘round these parts,” Stu said. They both laughed. 3:00 rolled around.

Their laughter was cut short by the insufferably loud wailing of a siren. Most nights, if an alarm went off, it meant there was a drill, or one of the animals in the testing facility got a hold of the tranquilizer gun again. Both Sarah and Stu thought it was another drill, until they saw a stretcher pushed by men in radiation suits carry the burnt body of Dr. Zepata down the hall.

“Radiation leak! Move,” Stu shouted, dropping his coffee, taking Sarah by the hand and running. Other doctors must’ve heard Stu shouting, because a panic was starting up.

“Turn here--this hall has air-tight rooms,” Sarah shouted.

Stu, Sarah, and maybe 20 more doctors ran down the hall and into an unlabeled door. Stu punched in the proper codes to have the doors hermetically sealed, and within the next 10 seconds they were all safe behind the locked air-tight doors of… whatever this room was.

Questions flooded the room immediately.
What’s going on?
Was that Dr. Zepata?
What were they thinking?! Bringing his body down the hall--if he’s irradiated he can irradiate others!!
What if we’re all irradiated too?! We’re all going to die!

It was during this temporary chaos that one Dr. Gladstone leaned against a large shelf containing several sealed glasses, labeled in some sort of code. As Dr. Gladstone reached for his cell phone--to call his wife and explain the situation--his elbow bumped a glass containing a light blue liquid--most likely a sedative of some kind. It fell to the floor and shattered. Not to worry. Anesthetics are only effective when in the system. After all… what else could have been in that bottle?

Well, truth be told, the room these poor men and women were in was unlabeled because the contents of these vials were top secret and didn’t officially exist. If there was a label on the door, it would’ve read something like this:

HIGHLY COMMUNICABLE DISEASE STORAGE!
DEADLY CONTENTS!
DO NOT ENTER!

---

In the super concentrated form of the virus that Dr. Gladstone had knocked over, it took a total of 10 minutes for everyone to succumb to the virus. All that could be seen from the security cameras were 22 rumpled piles of clothes, and a gathering of 7” individuals, clad only in pocket protectors, handkerchiefs, and bandannas for clothing.

A total of 8 doctors died from shock/heart failure during the shrinking process. Currently, all eyes were on Stu as to what to do. Stu was just as clueless as any of them.

“I’ll tell you what we’re not gonna do,” Stu said. “We’re not gonna panic, and we’re not gonna descend into the depths of anarchy and mob rule. There’s a security camera in the corner, we’re in plain’ sight, I’m sure someone will come eventually.”

“And then what,” Sarah asked. “This isn’t pneumonia, or some known disease with a cure--this is… I don’t even know what this is! This shouldn’t be physically possible!”

“Did it happen,” asked Dr. Gladstone.

“Yes, but--“

“Then you’d better believe it’s physically possible! It’s happened, so don’t state the contrary!”

Sarah looked ready to cry.

“Dr. Gladstone, that outburst wasn’t called for. Dr. Redman is scared, just like the rest of us,” Stu said, adjusting his pocket protector on himself so that it stopped drooping off his shoulder.

“Sorry, Stuart… I just--”

“Don’t apologize to me, apologize to her.” Stu gestured to Sarah.

“Sorry, Dr. Redman.”

Sarah nodded meekly, unable to see much without her glasses. She did see Stu though, and she saw the way he carried himself in this situation--calm, cool, collected. For that fleeting instant, Sarah saw Stu as more than a colleague or a mentor. Much, much more.

But it was just as Sarah was about to say something to Stu that the doors slid open. Into the room stepped two gargantuan figures in radiation suits. At first they were greeted with cheer, but it soon became evident that the arrival of these hulking figures was not something to celebrate. For they came into the room bearing large metal cages.

---

Dr. Gregoire was in charge of operations at the base in the Texas Panhandle. A radiation leak was supposed to be the most of his worries tonight, but it looks like fate has other plans.

‘To think, after all these years, that virus is still just as potent as when we cooked it up--’ Dr. Gregoire’s train of thought was cut off as General Bergenson entered the room.

“Dammit, Gregoire, what the hell is going on,” he barked.

“A simple accident, sir, not to worry. Everything is under control. The afflicted are all being quarantined and we’re about to do some blood tests on one to see if we can’t come up with a cure.”

“A cure for what, son? A cure for what,” he barked again.

“Oh, right. You don’t know--this is all very classified information. Well,” Gregoire began in a know-it-all tone, “back in the 60’s we were scared shitless that the soviets were going to invade us. Cuba being the most obvious point of possible invasion. Well, even though neither country made declarations of war against one another in a direct sense, Uncle Sam wanted to be prepared if the black bear should wander into our community. This little cocktail was supposed to be a nasty surprise for Brezhnev and his gang. Unfortunately we never used it, the Soviet Union collapsed on it’s own, and it’s sat in that room collecting dust with the other communicable diseases we’ve either cooked up or saved over the years--the Spanish Flu Virus of the early 20th century, small samples of the Black Plague, a severely mutated case of Small Pox, etc. etc. It just so happened that they were exposed to this… particular virus.”

“You mean to tell me… we have all that stuff just lying around, no locks, no nothing,” the General asked, wide eyed with disbelief.

“Hey, give us a break, we don’t have any funding down here,” Dr. Gregoire said, removing his glasses to polish them. “Besides, we’re not the first instillation to keep deadly diseases out in the open--and we won’t be the last.”

“And just what do you plan to do about the victims?”

“I already told you, Sir. We’re going to do our best to find a cure… but first, I must find a… volunteer,” Gregoire said, putting on surgical gloves with a loud snap. The grin on his face was… unsettling, to say the least.

---

Sarah had been in the cage with everyone for almost 30 minutes. Dr. Gladstone flipped out. He’s claustrophobic, and couldn’t stand the confinement. At the moment he was flinging himself at the bars of the cage, frantically beating at it. His face, hands, and chest were bruised beyond belief from all the frantic slamming into bars.

“Let me out, damn it!! Let me the fuck out,” he shouted, over, and over, and over again. Finally Stu walked up behind him and slammed his head into the bars, knocking him out.

“Thanks,” Sarah said, sitting down and bringing her knees up to her chest.

“No problem,” Stu said, sitting beside her. “We’re scared enough as it is--we don’t need to watch him bloody himself up too. You doin’ ok?”

“Well, as ok as I can be in this situation, I suppose,” she said glumly. “I… this is the first time I’ve truly been afraid--I don’t know what’s going to happen. Normally you can make an educated guess--predict what’s gonna happen, so to speak. It’s easy when you understand how things work… but I don’t know what this is, or how it works, or what’s going to happen, or what standard procedure is for this type of disease… I don’t know anything anymore!”

“Shh, shh,” Stu said, bringing her close to him. “It’s ok, you’re still in shock and you’re on the verge of panic--we’re all there right now. We just have to stay calm, and I’m sure--”

The doors opened with a loud hssss. All eyes were upon the men entering the room. Two men in radiation suits, and Dr. Gregoire wearing nothing but surgical gloves and a facemask.

“Dr, Gregoire, thank god! What’s going on,” Stu shouted so Gregoire could hear him.

Gregoire did indeed hear him, but he was ignoring him. He made his way to the cage, eyed everyone for a few moments until his eyes found Sarah Redman. Yes, his eyes looked over her for a very long time. He paused to remember.

Dr. Gregoire approached Sarah at the Christmas party. She was standing by the punch bowl, talking to Dr. Fishburg. Gregoire waited until she was alone.

“Sarah, I--”

“Dr. Redman, please,” Sarah corrected.

“… Dr. Redman… I just want to say--”

“Dr. Gregoire… please don’t say what I think you’re about to say.” Sarah had noticed all to well the looks she was getting from Dr. Gregoire. The thought of that man groping her with his eyes… it made her sick every time.

Dr. Gregoire was a very old man, with slicked back red hair. Somehow it hadn’t begun graying yet. His brow was large and full of wrinkles. His thick glasses always seemed to shine, making seeing his eyes very difficult. He was a strange kind of man, with a slouch and a limp in his left leg. There was some suspicion as to what happened to his ex wife, but the courts said he had nothing to do with it.

“I’m sorry, Dr. Redman, but I can’t hide it anymore. I’m in love with you.”

“I’m not in love with you,” she said simply. Sarah was a free spirit. She didn’t like the idea of being tied down to anyone, especially not Dr. Gregoire. He was a very creepy person.

Gregoire, despite being a doctor, always smelled of that cancerous thing called cigarettes. To Sarah and the other victims, the smell was overpowering.

Despite Gregoire’s failed attempt at winning Sarah’s heart, he continued to pursue her throughout the year. He tried to put the moves on her a month or two ago. The sexual harassment case was building in the courts, but wasn’t scheduled until a few more weeks. Now it looked doubtful if that would ever happen.

Gregoire, without saying a word, opened the cage and reached for Sarah. She let out a scream and ran to the far corner of the cage.

‘No use running--nowhere to go,’ Gregoire thought, no longer playing Mr. Nice guy and simply grabbing her as quickly as he could. He yanked her out of that cage, hurting Sarah’s neck she traveled at such high speeds. Sarah struggled and fought with his hand, but to no avail.

“Struggle all you want, Dr. Redman, but this is for the good of you and everyone else involved in this incident--a cure must be found,” Gregoire stated, eyeing her tiny little bod. She was clad in not more than a mere handkerchief. “You stay in here--make sure they don’t leave the table. IF they attempt to escape, you have the right to use lethal force.”

“Should one of us not--”

“No,” Gregoire said. “I’ll conduct this examination myself. I feel I’m more than competent enough to create a vaccine.” Sarah screamed and Gregoire increased his grip, knocking the wind out of her. “I shall return once my work is done. Until then, they are not to leave the room.”

Gregoire left the now quarantined area and made his way slowly to his office, his thumb occasionally caressing Sarah’s ample bosom. “Too good for me, huh,” he asked, a malicious smile upon his face. “What is it that I didn’t have? I have money, intellect, I’m good looking… what more could a woman want?”

“How about a little class, you oaf,” Sarah shouted.

Gregoire’s eyes flashed with rage. He squeezed Sarah so hard she was worried she would snap in half. His grip released after about 5 seconds or so.

“Well…” he said, a quiet rage building up within him. “time is of the essence. We don’t have time to wait for the anesthetic; I’ll just have to do this the old fashioned way.”

Dr. Gregoire slammed Sarah down on the table, causing her to cry out in pain. He held her in place with one hand and taped her to the table with the other. “You little bitch!” His voice was now frantic--no longer the voice of a madman quietly contemplating his vengeance, but the voice of someone whose mind had finally snapped. He was insane--more so than usual--right now. This was possibly the most dangerous situation one could find oneself in.

Sarah struggled against the tape, but to no avail. Dr. Gregoire went into a large closet in the corner of his office, and returned with a scalpel, a hypodermic needle. “And now, a little music,” he said, his glasses shining upon the dark silhouette of his form. He turned on the radio and began advancing on Sarah. Stuck in the Middle With You was playing.

Sarah tried to speak. Her throat locked up and refused to move. She couldn’t help but be reminded of the torture sequence from Reservoir Dogs. She could only hope this turned out better, although the outlook for such luck was bleak.

“Now… let’s begin,” Gregoire said, grinning like a cat. He jammed the needle into Sarah’s calve. She screamed. “No, that won’t do… we’ll have to fix that.”

Gregoire looked to his left towards the tape. He tore off a small piece and jammed it over her face. All that could be heard from Sarah now were muffled screams of terror. The screaming was what Gregoire wanted. When it stopped, he would know his work was done. There never was any hope of finding a vaccine. This was just business.

“Now let’s try this again,” he said with sick pleasure. He jammed the needle into her calve and drew as much blood as he could. Sarah continued to struggle and scream. “Was that as good for you as it was for me,” he asked with a laugh, looking at the needle. He grabbed the scalpel. “We may need a tissue sample too--never know. This disease could be transferred by dead skin particles!!” There was a quick slash and another muffled scream of pain and terror. Gregoire laughed a menacing, sickening laugh as Sarah’s left arm began gushing blood.

This was the happiest 5 minutes of Dr. Gregoire’s life. Dr. Redman died a horribly painful death that no-one but Dr. Gregoire would know about. She was thrown out with the trash the next morning, wrapped in a bloody paper towel.

Dr. Gregoire delivered the news that no cure would be found at around 9:00am, although he was done mutilating Sarah at around 5’ish. He spent most of the time after that cleaning the room of blood, disposing of the body, and coming up with a story in his head. The story thus far was that Sarah died from the disease somehow. Not the most clever story, but it seemed to convince General Bergenson.

“And so you see, General, the disease is highly communicable--should infect roughly 48% of the population without a hitch after it’s been diluted in the real world. But in the concentrated form here in the lab it has a 99.4% communicability rate. There really is no other option--a cure simply can’t be found.”

“So what are you suggesting, Gregoire? That we kill 20 American Citizens in cold blood?”

“Not in cold blood--for the good of the nation. And it’s 13 American Citizens. They’re too dangerous to let live, sir.”

The General paced back and forth. He pulled out a cigar and began fumbling in his pockets for a lighter.

“Sir, this is a no-smoking sect--”

“Fuck off, prick. There’s more dangerous things in the air than cigar smoke,” Bergenson said, lighting the cigar and taking a large puff of it. The room fell deathly silent for almost 5 minutes before the General nodded.

Death befell the unsuspecting victims of this product of the Cold War. Not in the form of poison gas or the guillotine or any of the traditional weapons of wanton slaughter used in modern warfare. This time death took the form of Dr. Gregoire’s cat, Fluffy. No use wasting taxpayer money on something they could get for free. The scientists killed by Fluffy were listed as AWOL and their families were fined by the US Government. There was no struggle. Like a tank mowing down an Afghan Calvary. Rocks against cannons. Mice against razor sharp claws.

From 12 of these scientists, there was no struggle. But from Stuart Sampson, there was a world of trouble. Screams rang out all around as Fluffy shredded scientist after scientist, scarfing them down as a meal. In the chaos, some of the more athletic doctors made it to shelves. Fluffy made it to them in a mere matter of seconds, knocking over vials of who knows what diseases in the process. As the fighting died down, only Dr. Sampson was left. Fluffy was biting through Dr. Gladstone’s ribcage on the other side of the room, giving Stu some time to strategize.

Stu saw a broken test tube on the floor. He dashed for it and managed to pick it up just as Fluffy spotted him. The cat jumped up and broke into a run. Stu stuck the broken edges out, shaking his weapon wildly.

“Alright you sonuvabitch, let’s see how you like bleeding,” Stu growled in a low voice.

Fluffy let out an earsplitting roar as Stu jammed the test tube into his eye. Blood matted Fluffy’s fur, and he began swinging wildly to try and hit Stu.

“Bleed you mother fucking bastard, bleed,” Stu shouted, again jamming the test tube into the cat, this time puncturing the throat. Fluffy slowly bled to death over the next few minutes.

---

From the vantage point of the security cameras, Fluffy leaped behind the island table in the center of the room and blood started flying.

“And that’s 13,” Gregoire said, probably a lot cheerier than someone who just contributed to the death of 14 American citizens should. “You did the right thing, General. We should send a cleanup team in there to get rid of the bodies--there can be no evidence that this ever happened.”

General Bergenson nodded. “It’s funny… this thing we cooked up to give the commies hell, defend the country… instead, it’s turned against our own people, and they die because of our mistakes… damn shame…”

“Are you going to be alright General,” Gregoire asked. Bergenson nodded. “Good. Then send that cleanup crew in there. The bodies should be thrown into the incinerator ASAP.”

“Good God, man. Don’t these poor men and women at least deserve a proper burial?!”

“And risk transferring the disease via plants that produce oxygen?! I think not, sir. Burn the bodies. They’re AWOL. The families will be billed for their absences. Make Uncle Sam a few more dollars.”

“You’re one twisted son of a bitch.”

“I’m a patriot, and nothing more. My loyalties lie with my country, not my employees. You should see where your allegiances lie, General. Good day.”

---

The cleanup crew got into the lab at noon to remove the bodies. When they stepped into the room and the sliding doors opened, Stu made a mad dash out into the hall. No-one noticed--why should they be on the lookout for a doll sized man on the run? After all, they were all dead.

Stu ran down the hall and towards the lobby. On his way out, he passed the lounge where General Bergenson was sitting and drinking a cup of coffee. Dr. Zepata had just been returned from the burn ward and was drinking a cup of water. Simply by running past the room they were in, he infected both of them with the disease.

He infected the Janitor, Miguel Rodriguez, on his way through the main entrance hall. And on his way out the front door, he infected Dr. Ethel Goldburg, who decided to come to work an hour early in case they were out of coffee in the break room.

Stu made it outside and away from the laboratory, but not before he was able to infect at least 21 people with the virus. Of those 21, one Dr. Emmanuel Freeman was scheduled to go on vacation to Cancun and infect the whole town. Each of the others who were infected had family in friends to infect.

Let’s say each person should be able to infect about 10 people a day unwittingly. In turn these 10 people each infect another 10 people. After going through this cycle, in merely 5 days we have a minimum of a million people infected with this virus. And as it turns out, it was much more communicable than Dr. Gregoire initially predicted. This was the beginning of the end.

The following are excerpts from newspapers, press releases, and radio.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Press Release from the Secretary of Health on the new strain of the Flu Virus
June 4th, 3:00pm
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“…and again, I would like to stress that this new strain of the Flu is simply that--the Flu. These claims of death or ‘evaporation’ are completely false. There is no vaccine at the time, but one is being developed. I would like to stress again, this is just the Flu. We get it every year, it’s nothing to be afraid of, ladies and gentlemen. A vaccine should be out by the end of the week…”

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Radio Broadcast on WOAI 1200
June 4th, 7:00pm
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“People have been issuing all kinds of reports to the police station, missing persons reports claiming they witnessed their friends disappear right out of their clothes. Nuts or what? Give us a call at 1-356-WOAI. Bob Parr, you’re on the air. What do you think?”

“These people aren’t disappearing, they’re just fallen into their clothes, man. My buddy Frank, here, happened to him man. We’re freakin’ out!”

“Freaking out as in rocking the gonge?

“No, man, freakin’ out as in panicking, man! We don’t know what the hell is going on!”

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Press Release from the Secretary of State covering a speech to be given by the President
June 5th 8:00am
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“…The President is simply addressing the nation because of the panic in the streets, not because there is something to worry about. This is just a bad strain of the flu, possibly making people a little delirious. And these rumors that the President isn’t going to be broadcasting from the White House and instead from an underground bunker made up to look like the White House are completely absurd, and I don’t know where they originated from, but you can rest assured…”

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
News Broadcast from CNN
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“We have with us tonight a Dr. Gregoire who works down in South Texas. He’s here to talk to us today about this new Flu Virus. Doctor?”

[Coughs from off-screen]

“As has been stated before, sir, this is simply another strain of the flu. A vaccine is in the works, and I am making it my personal responsibility to create one. This virus shouldn’t be too hard to crack. In the meantime I suggest you--”

[Coughing from the newscaster]

“I suggest you drink plenty of liquids and get plenty of rest. You have nothing to worry about, I assure you.”

“Thank you, Doctor. And in other news, the missing persons reports have skyrocketed in the last three days, nobody knows why. We’ll be taking calls if anyone would like to offer an explanation, but first, the weather.”

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Excerpt from the Presidential Address to the Nation on the Flu Virus
June 7th, 9:00pm
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Now these rumors are an outright falsity and should be treated as such with utter disregarditude. This is just the flu, and not a disease of mysterious origin. We know where this came from. It’s a strain of the Russian A Flu. It came from Russia. If this is anything more than the Flu, I’ll guarantee you that it’s those terrorists at work, and you and I both know they could never come up with something like this. It’s just the flu. Anything stating otherwise is an outright falsity, and I would again like to stress…”

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
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The media was like this for the next few days. The government did a very nice job of covering everything up for a while. Eventually it came to holding the media at gunpoint and forcing them to read scripted documents. Here is an excerpt from one of the few people willing to tell the truth:

“And so, in other news--NOW!”

[Gunshots from off-screen]

“Holy shit!” [Newscaster ducks under his desk as bullets spray the area.]

[Screams from off-screen followed by four thuds and silence.]

[Newscaster pops back up from under his desk.] “Ladies and gentlemen, since the 5th of June, we have been broadcasting the news with the Armed Forces in our newsroom. I have been held at gunpoint and forced to read the scripts handed to me by these armed soldiers, in violation of the constitutional right to freedom of the press. We have just now staged a coup to regain control of the broadcasting floor of the newsroom. We have accepted the consequences of our decision, well aware we will most likely be shot for treason. We do this for the good of the people, damn it, and if anyone should be shot for treason it should be the leaders who allowed this to happen! Here is the truth about what is going on.

“There is no vaccine, the government has been lying to you. There never was one, and I truly doubt there ever will be one. And this is not the Flu--well, not just the Flu anyway. We have with us today a Doctor. Khroenen to explain to us more about this strange virus, right out of the pages of science fiction.”

[Newscaster reaches into his pocket and pulls out Dr. Khroenen, placing him on his desk.]

“Ladies and gentlemen, this is not a special effect. Dr. Khroenen has fallen victim to this unprecedented virus. Dr. Khroenen, please tell the people what you know.”

“This virus was cooked up during the Cold War as a nasty surprise for the Soviets. With the end of the Cold War, no disposal method was decided safe enough for this highly communicable disease. It was locked away in an unlabeled room and was eventually leaked somehow or another. It mutated in this room somehow, we do not know how.

(It mutated twice, actually. Once when it was exposed to the other viruses while Stu fought the cat, and Once when it got into the outside world and mixed itself with the Flu Virus. -- FB)

“But during the mutation process, 3 separate, but similar, viruses were formed. Type 1, the rarest and the one which I have contracted, feels like the Flu. Signs of Type 1 include rapid weight loss, nausea, general aches and pains, stinging while urinating, swelling of the glands, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera. The end result is what you see here, in the time it takes your body to rid you of the Flu, you shrink to a height of roughly 8 inches or so, depending on your initial height. Other than the diminutive size, there appear to be no long lasting side effects.

“Types 2 and 3 of the disease are much more sickening I’m afraid. Type 1 merged with the Flu Virus ever so slightly, but not to a degree where you’re very sick at all. Type 2 merged with the Flu and the Common Cold in a very bad way. As you shrink, you will die from one of two things. You will either choke to death on your own mucus, or the fever will break through your body so quickly you will simply get heat stroke and shut down. I’m sad to say Type 2 has, from our best estimates, a 98% mortality rate.

“Type 3, we’re not sure what happens, but for some reason the body doesn’t develop an antibody to the disease and you will simply continue to shrink until you cannot be seen. This is either a different disease altogether, or simply the result of poor antibodies. These are the facts, and it’s all we know at this time. We--”

[Banging noises off-screen.]

“I’m sorry, Dr. Khroenen, we’ll have to cut this short. Ladies and gentlemen, the good Doctor here has told you--[cough][sneeze]--all you need to know. There is no vaccine, this whole thing is being covered up, and--”

[Something breaks off-screen. Gunshots ring out. The Newscaster falls over dead, blood spattering the desk and Dr. Khroenen. More gunshots. Khroenen is blown up by three bullets.]

Alex and Eryca were a young couple who seemed perpetually stuck in the 80’s. They lived in a one bedroom apartment which was decorated with posters and pictures of all sorts. On the door was an autographed poster from the concert Pink Floyd gave at the Berlin Wall. There were various other AC/DC, Led Zeppelin, Foreigner, and Boston posters around the apartment.

The main room was divided in half by the kitchen counter. Next to the kitchen counter was a small card table with a stool and a folding chair at it. The rest of the main room consisted solely of a TV, a couch, a recliner, as well as a large stack of Video Games, DVDs and Movies by the TV.

The room was rather dim at the moment, the only light in the room coming from the static on the TV. The steady glow illuminated the dark carpet and grey walls. The occasional drip drip of a leaky faucet could be heard along with the staticy noise coming from the television set.

Alex lay on the couch in a deep slumber. He was clad in not more than a wife beater and some boxers. He was 18 and of Mexican descent. He was the one most clearly stuck in the 80’s--as was easily seen when looking at his lengthy mullet. He was an aspiring writer, but until he wrote something to get published, he worked at a theme park in the area as a costumed character for $7 an hour. It was unbearably hot, but they needed the money.

Eryca walked into the room and saw Alex was asleep. She was about the same height as Alex--5’4”ish. Eryca was a Filipina and looked very Asian with dark skin. She had shoulder length dark brown hair with highlights in it. At the moment she wore one of Alex’s black Led Zeppelin shirts that came down to her knees.

She smiled as she approached him with a blanket--she knew he’d be asleep on the sofa. They knew each other well enough to almost predict what the other was going to do. She slowly crept up to him and put his red blanket over him. Alex’s eyes fluttered open.

“Hey, sweetie,” Eryca said, smiling down at him.

“Hey,” he whispered groggily.

“What are you doing sleeping on the couch?”

“I got home late--James called in sick and couldn’t come to relieve me, he’s got the flu or something. I didn’t wanna wake you,” Alex said with a sleepy smile, adjusting himself on the sofa. His eyes drifted to the static on the TV. “Shit… I forgot to pay the cable bill again, didn’t I?”

“Yes, but its ok. That’s what we have all these movies for, isn’t it,” she said, smiling lovingly at him. Alex smiled back.

“I love you,” he said.

“I love you too,” she said.

Alex pushed himself against the back of the sofa, making room for Eryca. She smiled and curled up on the sofa with him.

“So, did that publishing company write you back?”

“Unfortunately, yes,” Alex said with a sigh as he wrapped an arm around Eryca.

“What happened?”

“They hated it. The only thing I’ve been able to publish was that children’s story with the vampire that I wrote. I’m starting to think I should stop waiting for my big break and maybe get a real job,” he said with a sigh.

“Hey… look at me,” Eryca said. Alex obliged. “Never say that. You’re a talented author. I love everything you write, and I’m sure I’m not the only one. One day you’ll get published, and it’ll be a best seller. Then you can tell these publishing companies to go shove it up their ass.” Alex laughed. Eryca kissed him.

“Thanks, dear… you always know how to make me feel better.”

“I do what I can.”

As they held each other tighter, their dog Spike woke up and decided to join in on the fun. He jumped on top of them and started licking Alex’s face.

“Heh. Hey, boy. How you doin’,” Alex said, scratching him behind the ear.

“He misses you. You’ve been working really long hours lately. And he’s not the only one who misses you.”

“Hey, I’d be home more if I could, dear. But we need the money or we’re gonna lose this place… man this is sad… here we are in the prime of our lives and already worrying about losing our place. I certainly never envisioned this in my future.”

“Me neither, but it’s fine with me. You know why?”

“Why?”

“Because I’m spending it with you. And as long as we’re together, everything will be fine.”

“I love you so much, Eryca.” They kissed.

“Alex, when’s your next day off?”

“A few days. Why?”

“I think you need to take Spike to the vet.”

“Why, what’s wrong with ol’ Spike?”

“I think he’s getting a cold.”

Michelle was a struggling actress, trying desperately to make her way into the spotlight. She had a few minor roles in TV shows as background characters and was once a waitress on That 70’s Show a few years back. She was a beautiful woman, although she was a tad on the thin side. She had short cropped blonde hair and frequently wore a pink tanktop and a faded blue-jean miniskirt. She had a perfect face--just classic beauty. She was a fair actress, but always was overshadowed by the big stars who showed up to the auditions.

It seemed she had the worst luck in the world when it came to this. Every audition she went to was also attended by Laura Prepon, or Mila Kunis, and once even Melissa Joan Hart. Always when these people auditioned, all attention was focused on them and--needless to say--they received the part on general principal, since the bigger the name, the more likely the show is to succeed. It was this constant failure that lead to the problems in her relationship.

“You’re a worthless bitch and that’s all you’ll ever be,” shouted a big muscular man in blue jeans and a wife beater. “I come home after working my tail off and when I do I expect a hot meal, not some sob story about another failed audition!” He flipped the dining room table over and proceeded to punch a hole in the wall.

The shouting gentleman’s name is Bobby, and he’s Michelle’s husband. Bobby is a dock worker, and works sometimes three shifts. For those of you who don’t know that’s an eighteen hour day. Michelle and Bobby have been living together for about five years, and they’ve been married for two.

It’s understandable that Bobby is upset that they never have any money, and that they live in a rat hole of an apartment. However, as justifiable as this anger is, he is part of the problem. Aside from being an alcoholic, Bobby has a drug problem. He does cocaine, crystal meth, and pot. These are what suck most of the money up, and the real reason he works that third shift.

“I’m sorry,” Michelle said, hanging her head low. “I… I didn’t get back until late. I thought I had a shot this time--I really did. But they gave the part to someone who could fill up the outfits a little more.”

“Mother fucker! Why the fuck did we waste all that money on those fucking acting lessons--we should’ve gotten you a fucking boob job!”

“I only took two lessons, and then you said we couldn’t afford it and I had to stop,” she whispered, still looking at her feet. She heard a loud crashing noise. Kind of like a TV going out a window. “How much have you had to drink?” Her voice was meek, still almost whisper like.

“Not enough, apparently,” he grumbled, stumbling to the fridge and grabbing a can of Coors. “Shit… now I gotta work another shift to try and pay for the TV… no more auditions--you’re getting’ a real job, I’m sick and tired of supporting us both!”

“I pay for everything I have with the money I make at the restaurant,” she whispered defensively, biting her lower lip.

“Don’t talk back to me.”

“What?”

“I said don’t fucking talk back to me!” He struck Michelle--hard. She flew into the kitchen counter with a grunt. “I work my ass off so you can live like you do!” He hit her again, this time bringing her down to the ground. “And what do you do? You bitch about how bad you have it--you ungrateful little shit!!” A kick to the gut. Michelle grunted and curled into a little ball, tears streaming from her face.

“I’m… sorry dear…” she got out between grunts. She let out a sneeze after he stopped hitting her.

“Oh, hell no, you better not give me a fucking cold! I gotta work, I can’t get sick!! Don’t you fuckin’ DARE go getting a fucking cold,” he shouted, delivering a strong kick to her shin. “You know how many people are out sick--I’m getting’ paid extra for filling in shifts!”

Bobby beat her for about twenty minutes before stumbling into the living room and falling asleep staring at the wall. Michelle continued to lay there for almost an hour, silent tears streaming down her face. Tears of pain, tears of remorse for the love that had gotten away from them, tears of distraught for the acting gig she feared was never coming, and tears for all the years she wasted on that stupid idea.

She stood up finally, knowing that her leg was broken as soon as she did stand up. She hobbled into the bathroom to wash up. She was a bruised and bloody mess. No auditions for another week or so. Just as well. She should probably start thinking realistically. She reached for the faucet to wash off the blood, when something peculiar happened. Her wedding ring fell off.

‘Strange,’ she thought to herself. When Bobby bought her that ring it was a tad too small--he didn’t have much money and figured getting her a ring a size or two too small would be cheaper and not make much difference. She became worried. She was already too skinny, if she lost more weight, she’d never be able to act anywhere.

“Forget it--you’d never act anyway,” she sobbed, collapsing to the ground in a heap of tears for the second time tonight. “… you could disappear, and nobody would care… you’re nothing Michelle… nothing.”

After having a good cry, she made her way to the bedroom and slipped out of her skirt and tank top. She threw on a nightgown that fit her much more loosely than she remembered, climbed into bed, and fell asleep. When she awoke, Bobby would either be at work, or doped out on the floor… or so she thought.

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Bobby showed up in their room at around 3:00am, a thin white residue still remaining where his mustache was growing in. He was breathing heavily, and that look in his eye was unmistakable. Michelle let out a whimper before he pounced upon her. Her protests were soon muffled as he shoved her head into the pillow. What the two of them didn’t know, especially in the dark, was that Michelle had by now shrunk to about half of her normal height.

“Hold still,” he growled. He positioned himself, controlling her struggling with ease, and was soon inside her. After satisfying his lust, he got up, got dressed, and went to work. Michelle sat there, teary eyed, and in pain. It always hurt when he raped her, but tonight it was ridiculous. She thought she may be bleeding, and would’ve checked, but she felt as if moving would be an exercise in futility right now.

“Kill me now,” she whispered aloud to no-one, yet silently hoping someone would hear her and fulfill her wish. No such luck.

Paul and Stephanie had been dating for almost two years now. They lived together in a nice house in suburbia. Paul was a musician. He sang, he danced, he was good looking. He did a lot of musical theatre, wrote many songs and performed at clubs, but most of his stuff was done at a local playhouse where he performed in plays. He was, as Time put it when he made the cover, “The accumulation of the best things to ever hit the stage!”

Stephanie often acted alongside him as the leading lady. She was good, but Paul always overshadowed her. She didn’t mind though. Truth be told, she enjoyed staying out of the spotlight. She was content, and what more could people ask for than to be content? Although sometimes even that is too much to ask for.

It was a bright and sunny day. Stephanie was on the porch, enjoying the breeze and reading a book. Paul was at rehearsal again. When he got home the two of them--well, Paul--would start preparing dinner, and she would set the table. Tonight they were having Chicken Parmesan. Stephanie had already gotten back from the Wal-Mart with the necessary ingredients.

She enjoyed the alone time she got. She loved being around Paul, but whenever he was here he was all she thought about. It was strange, almost like some sort of obsession or addiction that only plagued her when the substance was within eyeshot. When he was around, he was all that mattered to her.

Steph only had deep inner monologues when she was on her own. Seemed to be the only time she thought about life, or where she was heading, or when she was going to head to college, if at all. At the moment she found herself thinking about perhaps starting a garden in the backyard. Her thoughts were interrupted by a phone call however.

She made her way inside and answered the phone. “Hello,” she said in a singsong voice.

“Hey, Steph, it’s me,” Paul said.

“Hi hon, what’s up?”

“Not much--listen, I’m coming home early. Rehearsal is cancelled.”

“What? Why?”

“Well, half the cast is out with that new flu-bug, and half way through rehearsal our director started having coughing fits and collapsed on stage. We sent for an ambulance and then the Assistant Director/Stage Manager said we should just head home.”

“Oh my god, that’s horrible!”

“Listen, pack your bags, I think something more sinister is at work here. We’re moving. This flu bug seems to be really big on the East and West coast. I figure if we head further inland we can maybe wait out the storm somewhere in the Rockies. I heard from some people it’s getting’ real bad. Call up your mother and--”

“Why? She’s three states away from us.”

“Don’t interrupt, damn it! This is important. I need you to call her and tell her to pack as well. We’re taking her with us, as well as anyone else we can get to come. I got a bad feeling.”

“But--”

“We don’t have time to debate this, Steph!! Fucking do it!” Paul hung up.

Stephanie tried to call her mother, the line never rang. Just silence and then a message stating that all lines were temporarily down. She quirked a brow and tried again. Same thing. As Stephanie continued to fiddle with the phone she discovered that the phone only made local calls, and whenever a call was made to anywhere outside Georgia it played that same message. Something was very wrong.

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Paul got home and quickly threw his things into the suitcase.

“Paul, I--”

“Not now, Steph, I need to pack. Toss your stuff in the car, quick,” he shouted.

After a rushed packing and a quick jump in the car, Paul hopped in the driver’s seat. He quickly adjusted the seat, and took off speeding towards the quickest route out of town.

“Paul, what do you know that I don’t,” Stephanie demanded.

“I can’t explain right now, I just have to--SHIT!” Paul slammed down on the brakes. The main road out of town was blocked off by a car crash between a red sports car and a white pick-up truck. Off in the distance he thought he could see… military trucks? They were just sitting there. And there was a cleanup crew to remove the sports car and the pick-up truck… but they were carrying sub-machine guns… and it really didn’t look like they were doing any work. “Ok, we’ll take one of the back roads.”

But the same awaited them at every exit. A car crash, a road block, or a missing road completely. Some spots looked as if TNT had been detonated simply to prevent anyone from leaving. And everywhere they went, they had the unnerving feeling that if they attempted to cross these obstacles… they would be shot.

Paul cursed again, adjusting his seat for roughly the 5th time today. “FUCK!!”

“Paul, I’m scared.”

“Not now, just be quiet and let me think.” Paul’s mind began racing. The roads were blocked, there was an ominous sense of dread and death, and to boot construction workers now had sub-machine guns. “Steph, was the phone working when you tried to call your mom?”

“Yes, but only for local calls. If I tried calling out of the state--or even out of the city--I just kept getting a message stating that all lines are down.”

“Shit. That’s what I was afraid of,” Paul said with a sigh, pulling his pants up, fixing his shirt, and adjusting his seat. “The city’s been quarantined.”

“What? Paul, you’re not making any sense!”

“At rehearsal a day or two ago, I heard from Jim that the flu-bug was no flu-bug. He said he was watching the TV when a riot broke out and… well, the military has been forcing the media to tell us things. I didn’t believe him until it was too late. He already left town a little while after he told mea bout it. The military… they’re trying to cover some disease up. I think someone fucked up big-time and they don’t want us to know about it. This disease is… sunuvabitch. You’re gonna have to drive.”

“What, what’s wrong?”

Paul let out a mighty sneeze. “I’m sick. My feet can’t reach the pedals anymore.”

Barbara had worn glasses since elementary school. She hated it. She remembered the taunts of the cruel schoolyard bullies well after she had graduated from high school and moved on to college. She was an attractive woman, but her family had little money. The glasses she wore had thick frames, and as such she was deemed a dork. Although the glasses were not entirely to blame--she was a skinny vegetarian, tied her long hair back into a tight pony tail, and in general had a horrible sense of fashion. She received her first kiss her senior year in high school.

She had gotten a job on the college campus, working as a barista. After saving for a few months, she finally was able to get enough money to purchase contact lenses. She was amazed at the results. With her glasses gone, she received much more male attention. She was overwhelmed and very happy. Then the plague set in.

Her boyfriend got it and died after two days of coughing and delirium. Then Barbara felt herself getting a cold. Barbara spent three days alone in her dorm room, tossing and turning in bed, coughing her lungs out. And all the while she couldn’t ignore the burning in her eyes. She couldn’t see a thing--the world was a blur. By the time she realized that she was suffering the same small fate as her boyfriend, it was too late to remove her contacts. On the third day the pressure her skull exerted on the contacts caused them to shatter, blinding Barbara. Alone, blind, and 8 inches tall, Barbara was going to have to fend for herself.

Dianne came down with the disease on the second Tuesday of the month. Ken, her boyfriend, immediately rushed her to the hospital, but they were turned away before they even got into the parking lot. There was total pandemonium all across the area. Nobody was getting into the hospital. All Ken could do is try and make Dianne comfortable as the worst of the Flu bug hit her. He was always by her side, and always fearing she would die.

This never happened. She contracted Type 1. Dianne became a nervous wreck.

“Shh, it’s ok,” Ken said, holding her against his chest, his steady heartbeat southing her and calming her down. “I love you, I’ll never leave you, and I’ll always be here for you,” he assured her.

“Promise,” Dianne asked with a sniffle.

“I swear.”

That was two months ago, and Ken had kept his promise. The two remained very much in love, and still maintained a very good relationship. However, every day from 8:30am to 9:00pm, Ken left for work to support them. Yes, large amounts of the population had died out, and yes there was chaos and pandemonium for about a week or so, however, it didn’t take too long before structures returned to normal, albeit on a much smaller scale now. After all, the whole world didn’t die/shrink. Just most of it.

“I have to go now sweetie,” Ken said, kissing Dianne as he passed her on the kitchen counter.

“Alright--I’ll see you when you get back,” she said, embracing him as best she could while his head was level with her.

With that, Ken grabbed his suitcase and headed out the door, leaving Dianne to wonder what to do for the rest of the day. She’s spent much of her time listening to CD’s. Reel Big Fish, mostly. She would get so bored during the day. At first, listening to music and merely exploring the apartment was more than enough to keep her occupied. After all, at her new height, the apartment was like a brand new place. But soon that got boring and she found herself doing the one thing she promised herself she would never do: watching daytime TV. Her thoughts were plagued all day by what Oprah would talk about next, and why Ramido had to die leaving Isabella with his unborn child--well they weren’t sure if it was his, but Ramido didn’t care, he promised he would love it even if it belonged to Jason.

“Good god, I’ve sunk low,” Dianne said with a sigh. More like shrunk low she thought with a laugh. A commercial came on for some sort of cleaning product and Dianne muted the TV. Commercials were always louder than the program itself. They wanna make sure we hear it, I suppose. But with the TV muted, Dianne was hearing another sound now. A sort of wailing noise.

Dianne looked around. It wasn’t coming from her apartment--sounded like it was coming from the apartment next door. She scurried across the apartment, the sound of the wailing man growing louder and louder. She grew worried. Somebody was clearly in pain. She ran to the door of her apartment, and shimmied under it. She ran to apartment door next to hers and crawled into it. What she saw would haunt her dreams for the rest of her life.

Louie DeSoto was a mob boss. Big fish. His nickname was Screwy Louie, so named because he had a tendancy to kill his targets with power tools--usually a drill and an industrial size screw. After working his way up, he was now regent boss for West Philly. However, sometimes when people simply didn’t get the message, he would take things into his own hands. This was one of those days.

Louie was waiting in the lobby of a very nice hotel. He had on a brown trench coat and matching fedora. Beneath that was a nice, fine-fit Italian suit. In his right pocket was a DeWalt 1/2 In. 18 V Compact Drill. For accuracy and precision every time you drill, this model couldn’t be beaten. He had a friend of his customize it, so that the drill bit spun a tad faster. In his left pocket he had roughly 5 or 6 screws.

Louie was a big man, about 6’4”. He had dark brown hair which he combed back into a mullet. His beard merged with his sideburns and mustache. His face was riddled with scars. Half a life in prison will do that to you. He wasn’t overly muscular, but he was still an intimidating figure. If for no other reason, he was intimidating because of his piercing gaze. When he looked right at you, it looked like he was stabbing you with his eyes. As if he could see into your very soul.

Louie’s target today was an elderly Jewish man named Hyam West. He owned a deli a few blocks down. It was gonna go out of business if sales didn’t pick up. Louie was more than happy to lend him some money and keep the deli open. Hyam’s Delicatessen stayed open, Hyam kept his house and everyone was happy. Until Louie wanted the money back plus interest. Hyam didn’t have it.

First they broke Hyam’s thumbs. The money still didn’t appear. Next they broke his kneecaps with baseball bats. The money still didn’t appear. They killed his wife. He fell even further into debt since the mob paid for the funeral expenses. After killing his daughter, concussing him, and shooting him twice, he still hadn’t been able to come up with the money. Now all they had left to do was kill him, steal all his stuff, sell it, and hope they broke even.

Louie flipped through the newspaper, waiting for Hyam to come back to the apartment. At 9:00pm, his waiting paid off. Into the lobby rolled an old Jewish man in a wheelchair. His hands were in casts, as were his legs. His face was bruised and swollen, and he was missing several teeth. His head looked almost lopsided. He rolled his way to the elevator. Louie followed and stepped in.

“Four please,” Hyam said. Louie abliged. “Thank you, young man.”

The elevator made it onto the floor.

“Here, let me help you. Which way is your apartment,” Louie asked, getting behind the man.

“Just down the hall. It’s the last door on the right. Oh, thank you so much, young man.”

Louie wheeled Hyam to his apartment.

“Let me get the door for you.” The door was unlocked. Louie wheeled Hyam inside. He closed the door and locked it. “You owe me money.”

“Wha--oh no. Oh no, no, no, no, no…” Hyam stuttered. He began crying. “What more can you take from me? You’ve taken my wife, my daughter, my dignity, and my deli closed down. I’m unemployed and I’ll be homeless in another month or so. Leave me be, damn it, there’s nothing more you can do to me.”

“Oh, I beg to differ,” Screwy Louie said. He pulled out his drill and a screw. Hyam screamed, but only for a second. He was quickly silenced as Louie’s hand gripped his throat. “This is a DeWalt half inch 18 Volt Compact Drill with a magnetic bit. Every ounce of pain you feel is thanks to the magnetic bit. See, since I don’t hold the screw in place, we have to drill several times before I finally get one clean straight path. So for each screw I have you can expect about 5 different tunnels into your skull, but a total of 3 or 4 tunnels that lead to your brain.” Louie looked around. “You got some nice stuff. Looks like we’ll get our money’s worth after all.”

Since the plague hit, police interference in anything has been to a minimum. Louie slipped up. Hyam did scream quite a bit as Louie relished in the torture. Little did he know that a woman named Dianne was in the doorway, watching as he sent the old man’s brains all over the place.

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Louie got home a few hours after killing Mr. West. He lived in the Pennsylvania Countryside in a large manor-like house. It was always full of servants and mob flunkies to do his bidding when needed. And right now he was more needy than ever.

Maria was Louie’s wife. She was a beautiful Hispanic woman with the best looks money could buy. Big fake breasts, a facelift, some botox, plastic surgery, blah blah blah, but in the end it was all very well paid for, and therefore, done with expert skill and making her look at least ten years younger than she really was. But a lot of good that did her now. She too contracted the disease. Early on she complained of her breasts hurting, and before she shrank, the doctors had to remove the silicone to prevent it from breaking through and causing her to bleed to death. After recovering from her operation, she came home, and Louie watched over her as much as he could. But now things was getting busy.

Men were dying or getting sick left and right. By this point in time the hospitals were so full that nobody was getting seen. The disease was common knowledge it was so wide spread. The military’s best attempts at covering it up failed, since they all seemed to contract it as well. So, Louie had his lower ranking cronies waiting on Maria hand and foot. All day it was:

“Fix me dinner, worm.”

“Did you just roll your eyes at me doofas? Idiot, punch doofas in the face.”

“Run to the store and pick me up the following--be back in an hour or it’s your head.”

Maria was used to having power and being in control, and the disease didn’t change things. No longer because they were afraid of Maria and her antique derringer, but because of her marriage to Screwy Louie. Anyone close to him commanded quite a bit of respect.

Before the disease struck, Maria was a hitman for the mafia. She used to kill people with a piano wire--her weapon of choice because it made little noise, and was easy to slip past security. But when threatening people, she used the derringer. It was a beautifully crafted antique, compact, and it got the point across. It was a gift from her father, and in a sense when she threatened people with it, it was as if he was standing there with her.

But those days were gone. She was now a full time bitch, barking orders left and right, until her husband came home and the two could please one another. It was a truly good life. Not having to work for a living, being waited on hand and foot--granted the mob flunkies were kind of dirty and not all that good looking.

“Hi, hon, how was your day,” Louie asked, leaning down so he was level with the counter-top and planting a kiss on his wife.

“It was good. And yours?”

“We got our money back and then some. Mr. West went down like a paraplegic sack of bricks.”

“Oh, that’s wonderful,” she said with a smile. “So our money didn’t go to waste.” A phone rang in the background. “Somebody get the fuckin’ phone!”

A lanky man in his mid twenties left to go pick up the phone.

Steven was 17. He lived with his mom, dad, and younger brother in a nice apartment building in Manhattan. The kind of guy who worried about school, but not as much as he worried about when the landlord would finally throw him and his family out of the building.

He was a relatively average student, but was forced to drop out of school when his family contracted the disease. He was never any good at remembering dates. He’d always fail that section of his tests. But he’ll never forget the days his family died. First his mother, June 10th. Next came his father on June 12th. And finally his little brother on June 13th. All three of them died in the palm of his hand, in a state of delirium as the fever melted their brains and the mucus deprived them of oxygen. Before he had time to mourn, he too began developing cold like symptoms.

‘It won’t be so bad,’ he thought to himself. ‘I’ll see you guys soon.’ But he didn’t die. He got progressively smaller each day until he could no longer fit into his clothes. He lost sight of things he placed on cabinets, he could no longer open doors. He had contracted Type 1.

Steven wept every night as he mourned the loss of his family and, in essence, his humanity. The landlord, assuming he died like the rest of his family, cleared the room of all their possessions--sneezing the whole time. Steven moved into the rat holes. The rats weren’t immune to the disease either, so the holes served as a nice mode of transportation throughout the apartment complex.

As the weeks went by, Steven started becoming skeletal in appearance. He was eating rather poorly. Crumbs and bad bits of food left here and there. Occasionally there would be a hole in a trashbag that would allow him access to food, but most of the time he was on the verge of starvation.

‘So hungry,’ he thought to himself. Steven looked at his hands. They were dirty and covered in blood from maneuvering his way around in the darkness. He was half blind since his glasses no longer fit him.

An aroma rose over his nostrils. Steven’s eyes teared up at the smell of a hot meal. He made his way to the source of the smell. There, on the floor, was a meatball. How it got there, Steven didn’t care. But he burst forward at speeds thought impossible to man, and tackled the meatball face first, taking a large bite out of it. It wasn’t until he attacked this meatball that Steven realized how hungry he truly was. He was starving.

It was at this point, while Steven gorged himself on the meatball, that the tenant of the room entered carrying a dustbin and a broom. Her name was Jade and she was a beautiful Australian woman. A bit of a clutz, constantly dropping things, but who cares.

Steven looked up with all the ferocity of a savage animal defending the kill he’s worked long and hard for. Jade looked at him, and he looked back. They stared at each other for the longest time. The silence lasted an eternity. Finally, it was Jade who broke it.

“You know, I’ve got a whole bowl full of spaghetti and meatballs. I could heat you up some and that way you don’t have to eat off the floor.”

Steven tried to speak. His throat closed up and he seemed unable to recall how to make sounds. After a few seconds of trying, the thoughts and memories all flew back to him. “That sounds nice,” he croaked.

Steven didn’t realize his luck. Since the dissipation of the virus, treatment of survivors varies from place to place. In some areas of the United States, the survivors are protected under the Americans With Disabilities Act and receive tax breaks and free government aid so that they might live easier lives. In other parts of the USA, they’re treated like lepers. Shunned, some killed in violent mobs. They are outcasts for whatever reason. Sadly it is this treatment that is most common on the streets. Much like the treatment of homosexuals when AIDS was discovered, or the shunning of the survivors of the atomic bomb in Japan. Lepers have a higher status quo than the victims. Everyone’s worried they’ll catch it.

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Steven dived into the steaming pile spaghetti, burning his hands. He didn’t care. He’d gnaw one of his legs off to get to food if he had to right now. As he ate with the ferocity of ten starving men, Jade looked at him with a combination of pity and amazement. Steven ate until he felt his gut would burst, and even then, he still kept a handful of meatball just in case.

“Wow, you must’ve been starving--how long has it been since you last ate,” Jade asked in a concerned voice.

Steven thought about for a while. “I dunno--a few days, maybe.”

“Have you had anything to drink,” she asked, a little panicked.

“Yeah. This building has really leaky plumbing. Once you learn the difference between the shower/sink pipes and the sewage pipes, it’s easy,” he said. Steven didn’t realize he was giving out more information than necessary. He was still feeling delirious and still too excited to have someone to talk to to be quiet.

Jade didn’t want to think of the implications of that statement. She decided to change the subject. “Why are you crawling around in the walls like a rat?”

“Well, my entire family was wiped out when the plague struck. The Landlord--the old one, not this new woman--came in and started cleaning out the apartment. I didn’t want to get thrown out onto the street with all the cats and stuff so I just sorta found a mouse hole and made a dash for it.”

Jade was unable to hide the expression of shock and utter sorrow upon her face. “Oh my god, you poor thing!” She couldn’t help it. She reached down and picked him up, holding him against her cheek in a loving embrace.

Steven had been denied human contact over the past two weeks or so. During this time he had managed to build up a mental wall around him. With no other humans around it wasn’t hard. The thoughts swam around in his head, but he did nothing. Steven had no time to weep--he had to stay alive. Now here, in the arms of a generous benefactor, with a full stomach, no longer having to worry about starving to death, he began to cry.

Jade patted him on the head and ran her index finger up and down his back. “Shhh,” she said. “It’s ok. You’ll be ok now. You can stay with me…”

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After Steven let everything out, he ate again. A few days went by and Jade and Steven developed a sort of understanding of one another. They became good friends. Then they became close as if they were brother and sister--at least that was Steven’s understanding of the situation. Then Jade brought up a small problem he had developed over the last few weeks.

“You smell… like… really bad.”

“Everything smells,” Steven replied. “There are rotting corpses everywhere.”

“Corpses can’t help it if they smell,” Jade said, placing her hands on her hips and rolling her eyes. “We’re alive, and we can bathe.”

“Where am I going to bathe--the sink,” he asked with a laugh. Jade just smiled. “I was kidding, dammit. I’d fall down the drain if I bathed in the sink.”

“That’s why you won’t be bathing in the sink,” Jade said with a smile. She placed her hand down in front of him.

“Not now, Jade, I’m watching the thing on the TV,” he said absently.

“Steven, you can watch The X-Files after you’re clean--I have every episode on DVD.”

“I’m tired,” he argued, lying back and stretching himself out.

Jade rolled her eyes. “Well, if you don’t want to listen,” she said. She reached down and picked Steven up before making her way to the bathroom, ignoring his protests. She placed him on the side of the bathtub and began filling it up with water.

“What are you doing--I’ll fuckin’ drown,” Steven said to Jade in a less than friendly tone.

“No you won’t. I’ll be here with you,” she said in as seductive a voice as possible. Steven did a doubletake.

“I’m sorry, what?”

Jade was an interesting character. She had recently gotten out of a bad relationship--not really gotten out of it. See, her last boyfriend contracted Type 2 and died alone choking on his own mucus. He was an asshole and he was not missed. After this she ran into Steven which was a nice change of pace. Unlike Rick, her last boyfriend, Steven was actually a nice fellow. A bit sarcastic and sometimes kind of depressing to talk to, but he was generally a nice person--and to boot, he couldn’t beat the shit out of her, which was a plus. As much as she tried to prevent it from happening, she hadn’t been able to help it. She was in love with Steven.

“You heard me,” she said, stepping out of her blue jeans and unbuttoning her shirt.

“Uhm… Jade…”

“Yes,” she asked.

“… What the hell?”

He didn’t have tome for any further protests. Once she was undressed she climbed into the tub and placed him in there with her.

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It wasn’t so bad. Steven enjoyed it, Jade enjoyed it, and the two became an item. Love blooms in the strangest places. Even in the midst of the rival of the black plague, people can fall in love.

Story: 12 Carry on my Wayward Son

The news broadcasts played over and over in his head. “Billions dead…” “Global epidemic…” “The End of the World…”

He couldn’t help but think that maybe it was the end of the world. “And the seven vials were opened…” sounds a hell of a lot like the plague. Stu had been walking for weeks. Everywhere he went he saw the same things. Dead bodies, traffic jams, vultures pecking the eyes out of the corpses. Every city was a ghost town. Every street was a pile up of cars, all heading to the same destination: oblivion. Car crashes towards the end of the plague’s first wave were not uncommon--as people shrank too small they could no longer control the hulking beasts and such crashes were imminent.

Every time he saw a body, every time he saw a child in the street wondering where its mother was at, every time he heard the vultures swooping overhead, Stu thought one thing: “It’s all your fault.”

At the moment Stu was somewhere in the mid west--he had left the borders of Texas a few days ago, so he could only assume he was in Kansas. He walked down the street, watching the mayhem and destruction. The whole city was frozen in time, showing what happened as the world ended. A man in a white Cadillac hit a woman as he swerved off the road. Damn shame. She was immune to the disease… but not immune to a 2 ton vehicle plummeting into her at 60mph.

A little girl sat in the middle of the side walk, eyes rolled back in her head. Her mother’s arms were wrapped around her, eyes also rolled back. Both choked to death on their own mucus at roughly half their original height--assuming they were of average or larger height before they shrunk.

The more Stu walked the more he realized what had to be done. He looked around until he found a place that would suffice. The Dog Pound. The door was wide open--a corpse acting as an impromptu doorstop. Stu walked by apathetically. He had a task and he wasn’t going to weep until it was completed.

He walked down the halls--a few animals were shrunken and running around. Most of them were dead in their cages. But in the back he heard an angry, low, guttural growl. He knew this was what he was looking for. He walked until he found a large cage labeled “Keep Sedated At All Times”. Inside he could see--through the cracks in the cage--a large dog, apparently vicious. Stu approached the cage, eyes closed, hands held in prayer.

“ Our Father which art in Heaven,
Hallowed be Thy Name.
Thy Kingdom come,
Thy Will be done,
In Earth, As it is in Heaven.
Give us this day our daily bread,
And forgive us our trespasses,
As we forgive them that trespass against us.
And lead us not into temptation,
But deliver us from evil.
[For Thine is the kingdom, the power, and the glory,
For ever and ever.]
Amen.]”

Stu opened his eyes. While reciting the Lord’s Prayer, the growling from the dog stopped. When he opened his eyes, he was already in the box. He looked at the dog, and it looked back at him. Stu nodded, and closed his eyes again. He was torn to pieces within the next 3 seconds.

Private James Koulav was in the US Marines. After the invasion of Afghanistan in late 2001, he went AWOL. Fearing the battlefield of the Middle East, he hopped the border to Mexico where he made a decent living helping out tourists in Cancun. While on the outside he appeared just fine, he was a mental wreck. He had become increasingly paranoid that the US Government would find him and send his ass to Iraq. His greatest fear was being forcibly removed from his new home and thrown into the battlefields of the Middle East. He had seen what Desert Storm did to his father, and he didn’t want to wind up like that.

The Plague hit Mexico before it had even spread all across the States--as a matter of fact, Mexico had succumbed to the plague before it even reached New York and Washington. There are many reasons--both cultural and economic--why Mexico fell so fast, but I’ll not bore you with the details. Just know that the biggest factor is probably that they had no knowledge whatsoever that this new brand of flu was a constantly shifting antigen.

The last few days were a haze for Private Koulav--when people started getting sick, the whole city kinda shut down. Tourism was virtually nonexistent, and it was not uncommon to see signs saying “Closed Due To Flu”. Being an alcoholic, this created a problem for James. He spent the last few days breaking into liquor stores and drinking their products--leaving money on the table, weighted by a shotglass or two. For the last three days, he has been sleeping off a wicked hangover, and he’s in for a rough wakeup call.

************************************************** **********************

James awoke to the sun beating down on him. It was wicked hot, and the sand beneath him seemed to be the only thing cool in the area. The world around him was dark… he couldn’t breathe. He sat up with a start. His front torso was covered in rocks and pebbles.

“Where the fuck am I,” he wondered aloud. He looked behind him and saw the tattered remains of a large tent of some kind… he felt the wind blowing strongly, and he saw the endless desert before him. Cold realization dawned on him. His greatest fear had come true. He was in the middle of Iraq, and the sole survivor of an attack on his military base.

“Good God…,” he said. He looked to the base, and looked to the endless desert before him… he fell to his knees. “My God… they did it… they finally did it… damn them… Damn them!! Damn them all to hell, this isn’t my war!!” James looked to the ground, noticing his lack of clothing. He went to the collapsed tent and tore himself off enough cloth to make a sort of wrap around cape. He found a rock in the sand and held it by him--he could only assume the terrorists took all the weapons. Once he had himself wrapped in the olive-drab garb, he concealed his rock and began the long walk to… he wasn’t sure where. All James knew is that he had to head North. If he could get to Europe in one piece, perhaps things would work out.

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James traveled for two days across the desert, looking like a Middle Eastern merchant with his garb set up much like a keffiyeh. The large wrap around cape made it seem like one piece of clothing, and he looked strange to say the least. He hadn’t seen anyone around for miles--that wasn’t a good sign. He didn’t know where he was… and then he started hearing explosions.

Instinctively James dived to his chest and crawled towards the sound. If any of his fellow countrymen were in danger, he was going to help them. Instead the sight that greeted him was one of horror and dismay. He saw the large, hulking figure of a Middle Eastern woman--appearing to be roughly 50 or 60 feet in height. She was carrying a shovel and was burying two large bags… James wanted to scream but his throat simply locked up.

She put the bags into the hole she was digging and began speaking some Arabic gibberish.

************************************************** **********************

Josephine Rodriguez was 17 years old. She was a normal girl, attended public school, and worked in her family’s diner. A few weeks ago, her parents got very sick. They closed down the diner, deciding to open it once this nasty strain of flu went away. It didn’t go away. They died. For a few days, she didn’t know what to do with the bodies. She left them there for about a day, before concluding that they needed a proper burial. With the priest gone, she would conduct the ceremony herself. A few Hail Marys, a moment of silent prair, and then she would have to try and survive in this new ghost town. So far as she could tell, she was the only survivor of this… strange plague. But something was amiss. Windows were broken, money was left on tables, and empty liquor bottles were everywhere. She supposed it could have been from the rioting towards the end, but she didn’t remember any of these things being broken once everything died down. There may be someone out there. She would like that. She hated, more than anything, that feeling of being alone.

She placed her family’s corpses into the hole she dug for them, and buried them. She began the ceremony.

“Ave Maria, gratia plena Dominus tecum; Benedicta tu in mulieribus, et benedictus fructus ventris tui, Iesus. Sancta Maria, Mater Dei ora pro nobis peccatoribus, nunc et in hora mortis nostrae.

“Amen,” she said, and stood up. She heard something from the bushes. She looked over and saw what looked to be a mouse in a keffiyeh running towards her at top speed. Being terrified of mice (for she believed it was they who spread plagues) she screamed and began to run towards her home.

************************************************** **********************

James, once he got over the woman’s skin color, began listening to the words coming out of her mouth. It was not Arabic, it was Latin. She was a God fearing Christian, and maybe she could help him get to Europe. He rushed forward, shouting at the top of his lungs to try and get her attention. She looked, shrieked, and set off running.

James was fast, but not fast enough to keep up with this titaness’s long strides. But, she wasn’t hard to find. Her footprints--to him--were large enough and easily seen. He made his way after her constantly thinking ahead to how he would get help in Europe, or at the very least live a relaxing life there. Little did this warrior know just what was in store for him.

He reached the house she ran into. The door was closed, but it wasn’t exactly air tight--few local Mexicans can afford that sort of thing. Cleanliness is for the white tourists. James wriggled under the door to see the woman sitting at a table, head in her hands. Whether or not she was weeping was not yet apparent.

“Excuse me, ma’am,” he said. She didn’t hear him. “Excuse me!” She looked up. She gasped and backed up. “Please, ma’am, don’t be scared. Look, I don’t know what happened but--”

“Stay away from me! I don’t want to catch it, get away!”

“Catch it--what the? Holy shit!” Before James could do anything else, a shoe was hurled from across the room at him. He was knocked out and given a concussion on impact.

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James awoke several hours later. On either side of him were… black walls of some kind. It was dark. He looked up and saw, looking back at him, the giant visage of a beautiful Hispanic woman with long hair that cascaded around either side of him, creating the illusion of being in a building.

“I’m sorry--are you hurt?”

“I… I’ve had worse.”

“I didn’t mean to… I just… I’m so scared right now, and I--” she began weeping. “I hurt you, I’m so sorry!”

“Relax, I’m fine,” James said, brushing off the tears as they hit him. He was getting soaked. “Don’t worry, I understand--I know I look like a terrorist in these rags, and I’m pretty sure this area has been ransacked by Al Qaeda over the last few years but--”

“What? Al Qaeda? That’s… I think you’re a little confused.”

And so Josephine told James of the plague, of the countless deaths, of the fall of civilization as we know it. James sat in silence for a long time, contemplating the loved ones he’d never see again.

“Are you ok, James,” she asked in her thick Hispanic accent.

“I’m fine. The question is, what do we do now?”

“I don’t know. We’re running out of food though…”

“Washington.”

“What?

“You and me are going to Washington DC. Capital of the USA. If nothing else, they would’ve put the important political figures in underground bunkers, safely away from the virus. You and I are alive, so it stands to reason that others will be too. I think DC is the most likely place for civilization to start up again--that or New York, but DC is closer. So let’s go.”

It took some convincing, but Josephine agreed. They set off the next morning, leaving behind their old lives in Cancun.

All his life, Mark had been… different. He was a loner--a philosopher in a land of the brain dead. He was shunned for his intelligence. And for many, many years he had been developing a little black book of names. His sniper rifle arrived a few months ago, and he had been tracking down a few of his more prominent targets. And then the plague hit. Much to Mark’s dismay, the play did most of the work for him.

Mark checked the houses of all known targets. Most were dead and he could do nothing but A) Desecrate the corpses or B) Burn down the house. After a few days of no survivors, he thought about killing himself. When, by a stroke of luck, he found a survivor. She was in the kitchen of her house, eating part of a peanut butter cracker when he found her.

His first victim was named Susan Mortem. She was in his high school class. He helped her with her Algebra homework. She would always flirt with him and make him feel special when she needed his help. And as soon as the test was over, he got the cold shoulder and she went to go fuck the football team. He never forgot her kind--the leech.

Shooting her wouldn’t be very satisfying. So he came up with another way of getting revenge. He decided to go Hannibal Lecter on her. For a being this bitter, he decided to wash her down with some white wine, and serve her with plenty of butter and salt. It was then that he learned why he survived the plague. He was a righteous man--as were all survivors of the plague, no doubt. But some who were afflicted survived too, and they were wicked of heart. He had to see to it that justice was served. It was his job--nay, his sacred duty… to wipe out those who the plague didn’t quite finish off.

Mark’s holy crusade took the lives of 32 innocent people--ranging from a 6 year old boy, to an elderly woman who was rendered immobile because her artificial kneecaps didn’t shrink with her body. The deaths of all these individuals varied--some were, much like Susan, lunch. Others were put through more rigorous tortures. Labyrinths on heated sheets of metal, maneuvering through series of fans, tossed into the dryer, and any number of other cruel torture methods. This brings us to where we are right now.

Toni was born in the Bronx. She went to college in El Paso, where she met Mark. She helped a bunch of kids pull a prank on him. She pretended to like him, took him to a dance--anyone who’s seen Carrie knows the rest. Just minus the setting the building on fire and stuff. When the plague hit she was attending her final year before receiving her Batchelors in Psychology. And that’s when Mark found her and stuffed her into his aptly named Duffel Bag of the Doomed.

“You know, I’ve always been a fan of Stephen King,” Mark said as he held Toni in place in his hand. She struggled and squirmed, but couldn’t get anywhere. “I suppose I should’ve seen it coming… in fact… some of your speeches to me came right out of the book. Right up until the ending. I do hope you got a good laugh from the whole experience.”

“Mark… I was a kid… I--I… I wanted to fit in, I didn’t mean to hurt you. I’m sorry.”

“Anybody can be sorry, Toni. Anybody can fuck up. But not everyone has the balls to take what is rightfully theirs--the revenge they so desperately crave.”

“Mark please I--”

“Silence,” he growled, squeezing her tightly in his grasp. She winced and uttered a gasp of pain. “Although… it is a shame. Such a pretty piece of flesh you are. Your disposal has plagued me much. I can’t seem to come up with a method quite worthy of you. There’s the microwave, but I don’t feel like going to hunt for cleaning supplies in people’s houses. Not to mention it’s just a waste of flesh. You see, human flesh is… delectable. I see now why Albert Fish was so drawn to the taste--and how Issei Sagawa was able to write about it and recall the taste with such longing.”

“I see you’ve done your research.”

“Oh, yes. I am an endless source of useless information. I’ve been trying to find a parallel to my own longing, but I can’t find one. Albert Fish was a pedophile, and while I’ve eaten child before, I certainly wouldn’t call my cannibalism sexual. Alexander Spesivtsev murdered for no reason--or at least so the Russian Police have decided. But Russia’s so underfunded we can’t really trust anything they say. Iseei Sagawa attempted to devour women he loved--and succeeded. Once and only once. He never did it again, and that disappoints me. But no, my actions are not sexually motivated. I am on a holy crusade--a mission from higher powers. This plague was meant to cleanse the planet of all impurities. I was not stricken--therefore I am good. The law of higher powers has spared me. I can only assume the powers that be have many many souls to claim, and in the process some were… shall we say forgotten. I believe that people like you--the victims who survived--were meant to be cleansed. And I am here to administer the law and finish that which the powers that be had intended. Do you understand, Toni?”

“I… Good lord, you’re insane. In a world so full of death, what could possibly justify the slaughter of the humans that are still left?! How could you--”

“I didn’t think you would understand. It’s just as well I suppose, all though this would have been somewhat easier if you had decided to be cooperative. I really did like you. It’s a shame you liked popularity more than what we could’ve had. You learned your lesson too late.” Mark stood up and made his way to a skillet. He sprayed it down with Pam and tossed Toni onto it. She screamed, but her pleas fell on deaf ears as Mark turned the burners on. And in the midst of the screaming and the sizzling noise as the Pam began to become hot, another sound was heard. The sound of a motorcycle approaching. Mark looked out the window at the approaching biker, and Toni tried to escape. No use. The Pam made the skillet too slick--she had no friction, and any time she touched anything she immediately had to recoil. It was starting to get very hot.

“Hello?” A knocking sound came from the door. “Anybody home--I saw you in the window. Hello?!”

“Oh, I must see who that is--don’t go anywhere… not that you can.” Mark laughed as he approached the door. Toni kept squirming, trying not to get burnt too badly. Already her hair was starting to shrivel.

************************************************** **********************

Mark opened the door to see a young man of Hispanic descent--maybe 17 or 18--standing at the door. He wore a red shirt with a yellow hammer and sickle of the 4th Internationale on it. He wore a leather jacket with patches from YSA, 4I, and other revolutionary Trotskyist organizations. He had a god awful hairdo--a mullet. He stood at about 5’7” and had an average build.

“Hi, I saw you in the window--I was looking because it’s one of the few houses with the light still on. Sorry, I haven’t introduced myself, I’m Freak Boy,” the Hispanic man said introducing himself.

“Hi, I’m Mark. Pleasure to meet you, my good man. I wasn’t aware anyone else in El Paso was immune to the plague.”

“Oh, I’m not from around here. I’m just passing through. I’m--”

“Where are you going? I thought society is dead now.”

“Oh, not quite. I’ve heard on the CB that civilization is sprouting up again in three major locations. New York, DC, and Vegas. Those are going to be the pinnacles of the new world in the Americas, I believe.”

“Oh? Please, do tell more--I was just fixing breakfast. I do hope you’ll stay.”

“Sure, that sounds great. What do you want to know?”

“Well, what do you mean civilization is sprouting up again?”

“It’s like this: All throughout the world, this plague devastated us. But many survived--some were immune, much like us, and others… well, as best as I can figure it out, their immune system kicked in after the initial effects of the virus shrank them. Based on figures I’ve gotten over the CB we’re guessing 25% of the human population is still alive--we do not yet have figures on how many are plague survivors, and how many are immune.”

“Hmm, interesting.”

“I was making my way to DC if you’d like to join me--a few others have been caravanning with me, I just set down this street to search for survivors. Normally we run into at least three or four right off the bat, but you’re the only one we’ve found.”

“A lot of people fled, fearing the worst,” Mark said simply. “Well, I guess I’ve got nothing left to do here. I’ll go grab myself some clothes, eat my breakfast, and then we’ll be off. I’ll be right back, just make yourself comfortable.” And with that, Mark made his way to his bedroom to pack.

Freak Boy paced back and forth for a while before deciding to see what exactly Mark was cooking. He stepped into the kitchen to see--

“Oh my god,” he gasped, rushing for the stove immediately.

“Please help me,” shrieked Toni. Tears streamed down her face--her once long hair was now short and in some places non-existent. She was red all over, and in some places starting to get very severe burns.

Freak Boy reached his hand down, and immediately recoiled from the heat. He gritted his teeth, reached down again, and with lightning speed and precision pulled Toni from the skillet, and placed her into his hand.

“Water, cold water,” he said, making his way towards the sink. Toni simply sat in his hands crying. She whimpered and shrieked and began kicking and screaming. “It’s ok, I’m here to help y--”

“Behind you,” she shouted.

Freak Boy turned around just in time to see Mark charge at him with a baseball bat. Freak Boy placed Toni on the counter and was barely able to dodge the swing.

“So, I see now that even those immune aren’t meant to be saved, Lord. Very well, I shall do thy bidding and finish what you started--that is why I am here, to do your will.” Mark charged at Freak Boy again, striking him in the rib cage with the bat. He coughed up blood, but was able grab Mark’s wrists and force the bat from his grasp. Freak Boy tackled Mark and the two began wrestling on the ground. First Freak Boy had him on the ground--he would’ve snapped Mark’s neck, but Mark bucked at the last second, sending Freak Boy toppling into a chair. In the confusion, Mark lunged upon him and jammed his thumbs into Freak Boy’s eyes. Freak Boy howled in pain, Toni shrieked in terror. Mark pressed and pressed, and then there was an explosion.

Toni watched with horror as the scene became deathly still. Finally Mark slumped down, revealing Freak Boy holding a .357 in his hand. He stood up slowly, blood trickling from his left eye. He hobbled towards Toni.

“Relax, it’s ok now. He won’t do you, or anybody else, any more harm,” Freak Boy said, placing his hand next to her. Toni slowly moved into his hand. “One of the guys in our group is a doctor--I’ll see what he can do.”

Toni tried to speak, but no words came out.

How does one describe the sensation of shrinking? When questioned about it, the initial response is something along the lines of “Go fuck yourself.” But after the shrinkee has calmed down quite a bit, they can give a rather fitting description. The best documented account comes from the would-be writer’s memoirs which he wrote while imprisoned for dissent--but that’s another story. Here is the excerpt from one of the early chapters:

“I spent three or four days in a constant daze. I was always slipping in and out of consciousness. From what I could recall, Eryca was always by my side--usually weeping. I noted nothing of particular irregularity, except perhaps that I was cold. Yes, I found it odd that I felt so cold--as if I were in a freezer as a matter of fact--but I still had a fever of 102. I didn’t even realize what had happened until the symptoms faded and I saw Eryca’s giant face looming over me as she cradled me in her hands. Upon realization of my predicament, I let out a shriek and promptly passed out.”
-- Memoirs from the Dark Times, Alex H. Coy.

When Alex came to and found that it wasn’t a dream, he had a small breakdown. Alex kept his sanity knowing that there were certain possibilities and impossibilities that kept the world spinning. For one who temporarily was insane, knowing things are absolute is a great comfort. This is how things played out when Alex regained consciousness.

He sat up, still cupped in Eryca’s hands. He felt wet--she was crying again. He looked up at her. She forced a smile.

“Hi,” she said.

“Hi,” he said in return. You’re… shrunk. Being held in your girlfriend’s hands… this isn’t physically possible! Well, it happened, so that means the laws of physics no longer apply. And if the laws of physics no longer apply… I can fly. “I can fly.”

And with that, he leapt from Eryca’s hands. With sudden shock, he realized he could not fly, and was plummeting straight for the ground. Fortunately for Alex, Eryca responded with lightning fast Jedi-like reflexes and caught him immediately.

“Oh my god, are you ok,” she asked quickly, bringing him up to eye level, grasping him just a little too tightly.

“Yeah, I’m fine, just testing a theory. See, I figured I could fly and--”

“What were you thinking?! We’ve lost enough lives already. I don’t need you to die on me now that you survived the plague.”

“Plague? So, humans can catch it too?”

(The plague, so far as historians and scientists have been able to tell, affected most mammals. Horses in particular seemed to shrink in numbers nearing the point of extinction. Dogs as well. Rats, mice, cattle--all suffered from the plague. Cats, for some reason, seemed to be immune--as were birds. There was a sudden dip in the cat population, since without rats there was nothing to eat. But the surviving rats began dining on the corpses of the fallen, and in some cases hunting survivors, and their numbers began booming. Within a matter of months, cats, rats and mice were back to their normal populations. This kind of ecological balancing was not unique to cats and rodents, and took place throughout a great deal of the animal kingdom. Checks and balances of the natural world fell into place after some radical shifts. -- FB)

“You tell me.”

“Ok, dumb question,” Alex said. He let out a sigh. “Think you can loosen your grip on me?”

“Think you can resist trying to fly again?”

“Yeah, sure.” Eryca stopped holding him, and placed him down in her palms. Alex tried to stand, lost his balance on the fleshy surface, and fell down on his ass. He stayed sitting. “So… what happens now,” he asked.

“Well. We get on with our lives. We need to try and survive in this new world--see if there are any other survivors, and try to tough it out. If you and I are alive, then others are as well, and that means sooner or later the government will do something.”

“Haven’t all your years of being a revolutionary socialist taught you anything about government responses under Capitalism? All they did was run to their hidden underground bunkers and try to wait out the storm. Whether it did them any good or not is all we’ll know when government resurfaces or… just doesn’t exist anymore.”

“Don’t be so pessimistic, Alex.”

“Why not? Look at me--I’m helpless! I mean… I can’t do anything anymore!”

“It’s ok. I’ll take care of you.”

“But--”

“No.”

“What about--”

“I don’t care.”

“How can--”

“Stop it. I still love you. And I can only assume you still love me.”

“With all my heart, Eryca--I’d do anything to--”

“Then it’s settled. We love each other. Everything will work out fine in the end.”

“I love you so much,” Alex said, teary eyed.

“And I love you.” Eryca cast him a loving smile.

“Hold me.”

“I already am.” Alex was the one doing the weeping now, and Eryca stroked him and held him lovingly against her bosom. “Everything will be alright.”

While on the outside, Eryca made everything seem alright. But on the inside, Eryca’s mind was just as much of a mess as Alex’s. Questions flooded her head:
Why haven’t I gotten sick? Am I going to get sick--if I do what’s going to happen? Will I die if I get sick--or will Alex still die for that matter? What if I screw up--if he dies and it’s all my fault? And… what about sex? Oh shit.

It was odd. Very odd. Dianne hadn’t felt like this since she and Ken first started dating. He was so loving. It was amazing the spark this plague sent into their relationship. Perhaps it was the fact that the plague reminded them of just how precious life truly was, or perhaps it was because there were less people around to tempt them to cheat on each other, but whatever it was it worked. Dianne and Ken fell in love even more so, and their sex life (which before the plague was almost non-existent at times) had picked up very quickly. They did a turn system. Every other night the other serviced the one who serviced last night first, and then vice versa. Depending on what mood the other participant was in, returning the favor might not even be necessary until the next morning. But we’re getting off topic. While Dianne and Ken’s blossoming relationship is certainly a thing of interest, we’ll have time to touch up on that later. For now, let’s focus on the murder she witnessed.

After witnessing the murder of Mr. West, Dianne ran back to the apartment and hid underneath the couch until Ken came home. He came home tired and wanting to go to bed when Dianne ran out from under the couch screaming bloody murder. After explaining everything to Ken, he threw his coat on and they rushed out the door and drove to the NYPD. There Dianne told them everything she witnessed. It would be enough to put Screwy Louie away for good, according to the DA. Since then, Dianne and Ken have had police officers guarding their house to prevent any Mafioso figures from silencing the little witness.

At the moment, Ken was preparing dinner while Dianne channel surfed. For about three weeks, only three channels have been available: The snow channel, the rainbow channel, and the blue ocean channel. Still, not much else to do. Nothing on the radio except static, weird beeping noises, and the occasional loony that got his hands on a broadcast station.

“What are we having tonight, Ken,” Dianne asked, staring at the moving rainbow image.

“Pasta putenesco. Most popular dish on Post Apocalyptic New York,” he said with a smile.

“Sounds good. When will it be ready?”

“Within the hour, Dianne.”

There was a knock at the door. Ken went to answer it, but the door swung open before he could. A tall man in a suit stepped through the door.

“Is this the home of Dianne and Ken Ryan?”

“Yes, it is. Who are you,” Ken asked, grabbing a knife from the kitchen. They were high up on the mafia’s hit list. One could never bee too careful.

“I’m Special Agent Brown. I’m heading the case against the DeSoto Crime Family. I’m here to speak to Dianne Ryan.”

“That’s me,” Dianne said, climbing onto the backrest of the couch so she could be seen. Agent Brown walked over to her and knelt down so his face was level with her.

“Mrs. Ryan, here’s the situation. New York currently has no certified judges within the city. As I’m sure you noticed, civilization here is only just getting back on its feet.”

“Yes, that’s true. Only the very basics are running--not even some of those.”

“Correct. DC is, however, already up and running almost like it was before the plague. No electricity still, but we have the basics up and we have the radios up and running. We also have a Judge. He’s the only judge we know of so far, and in order for this trial to proceed, we feel it is essential that you and your husband be taken to DC to act as witnesses.”

“What?”

“Your testimony will be vital in bringing down the DeSoto Crime Family. Please, Mrs. Ryan, we need you to do this. This world is a bad enough place after the plague without crooks like the mafia running around freely.”

“Is there even a legal system up and running yet,” Ken asked.

“Sadly, no. We barely have any governmental structure. Various parties of people have entered DC, most of them tend to follow their caravan leaders advice. Sort of like having mini nations within a city.”

“Without a legal system up and running--or a jail for that matter--I hardly see the point.”

“Here, you’re in more danger, Mrs. Ryan. It’s as simple as that. In DC we can offer you much more protection.”

“Well, I don’t think we--”

“Ken, no. I think he’s right. I don’t think we should just go to testify either. I suggest we move there.”

“What? But, Dianne… this is our home. This is where we grew up, where we lived for the last three years. We--”

“That’s great, Ken. But this isn’t the world it once was. America was the new Roman Empire, and New York was Rome. In this new world, though, there is no empire. Just a few small city states--like we backtracked through the history books. And now I want to live in Greece, the center of a future empire. Washington DC.”

Ken thought about it for a long time, thinking over what she said. In New York food was scarce, crime rates were high, and overall organization was poor. Based on Brown’s appearance, demeanor, and working ear-piece, he could only assume DC was better off. There was a pause, seeming to stretch for an eternity before Ken finally nodded his head in agreement.

“I guess we’re off to Greece.”

Dr. Gregoire sat in one of the many underground laboratories still desperately working to find a cure for the after effects of the plague. He had been wracking his brains trying to come up with something, anything, that explained the immunity to the virus by the select few who didn’t die or shrink. So far he came up with nothing. All the statistics showed were pretty basic information: The old and the young were the most sesceptable to the virus. Individuals between the ages of 15 and 33 were most likely to survive/be immune in general. Blah blah blah, it all meant nothing if he couldn’t find out why!

But still, Gregoire had no regrets. He created this monster to fight the soviets. True, it never saw use against them, it did work and he was proud of the job he did. Not everyone can say they created the perfect killing machine. The only regret Gregoire had, if this can count as a regret, is that people are so clumbsy.

Currently he was mulling over a string of unintelligible data charts showing no distinction or clear pattern, when the air-tight doors his office sat behind swung open.

“This is a restricted area,” Gregoire said without looking up. “If you want to schedule an appointment, talk to the front des--”

“Save it, Doctor,” a strong southern voice said. Gregoire looked up and saw a familiar face. The only man in the White House who was immune to the virus, accompanied by two members of the secret service.

“Mr. Vice President--”

“President, now.”

“Sorry, Mr. President, sir. How are you? It’s good to see you again.”

“I wish I could say the same, Gregoire.”

“I’m sorry, what?” Gregoire’s arthritis began acting up again. He started massaging his hands, both to dampen the pain, and out of nervous habit. He had a pretty good idea what was to come.

“Leave us,” the President said to the secret service. They turned and left. “Gregoire, from the reports I’ve received and unearthed, I now know that it was you who was head of the Super-Flu project. It was you who contributed most to it, and--”

“Wait, wait, wait… wait just a damn minute here,” Gregoire shouted, standing up. “You’re not suggesting what I think you’re suggesting, are you?!”

“I’m sorry, but someone must shoulder the blame. Dr. Gregoire, you are going to be the scapegoat of the country. If they don’t blame you, they’ll blame me, and that will be disastrous. What little is left of our once proud nation will launch into civil war--perhaps many. We’ll be torn apart, and our enemies will have us by the balls.”

“What enemies, they’ve all been infected too!”

“China is already restructuring itself. So is Japan--but Japan’s gone Red too. Russia looks like it’s becoming the USSR again--the nations that broke away want to rejoin. They’re lost, they don’t know what to do. Everyone’s getting their shit together except us, and that’s because they know it was their own government that fucked up. I’m sorry, but something must be done to put the people’s faith back in the government. You are going to be blamed, and they’ll know the government is doing everything in its power to have you punished for your crimes against humanity.”

“And why the fuck are you telling me this, you pompous ass!”

“Because I like you, Gregoire. I know it isn’t your fault--it isn’t anybodies. We were at war, we made things that never should’ve seen the face of the earth,” said the President. He turned around and began pacing. “I’m telling you this so you can flee the country--get out of here before they demand that we lynch you. Nobody else knows what I know, and they won’t for a few more weeks at least; I’ll see to that. But I want you to run. Your name will go down in the mud, Gregoire, but you will be the salvation of the Americas.”

“So… that’s it then? I’m officially the most hated man in US History?” Gregoire’s eyes glanced around the room. He was not going to accept this. No. There must be some other way…

“I’m sorry it has to be this way, ok. Don’t think this decision didn’t come without much debate. I just--AUGH!”

The President fell down in a heap, skull shattered, blood spilling profusely over the floor. Gregoire stood there panting, bloody shovel in hand. He opened the doors and sliced the shovel through the air like a sword, cutting the first secret service agent in the jugular. He fell down, hands clasped around his throat as he bled to death rapidly.

Gregoire let out a primal scream of rage, charging for the other agent with his shovel raised in the air. The large man pulled out a magnum and fired a round. Gregoire blocked it with the shovel. The shovel was sent back, and no longer in a striking position. Gregoire simply kicked the guard, knocking him to the ground. Screaming another primal shout, he brought the shovel down on the man’s face over and over again, smashing it into a thousand pieces.

Gregoire, now as bloody as the shovel and the floor, tossed down his weapon and looked around. No witnesses. The security cameras went offline days ago. Nobody else knew the location of this base. He made his way to the exit. While leaving, he swiped his access card and punched in the codes to send the base into lockdown mode. Gregoire was the only one to leave that base ever again. 32 souls were sentenced to a slow death of starvation. Gregoire left, making his way to the new center of civilization: Washington DC.

Alex and Eryca’s relationship had reached a rather rocky point. While, yes they were in love, complications arising from the plague were rudely presenting themselves in their faces. First and foremost, Alex was like a baby. He was either always by Eryca’s side, or always in constant danger. Alex felt useless and despite Eryca’s attempts to assure him he wasn’t a burden, he knew she was lying. Not to mention the personal problems arising from the shrinking:

“Hey… Alex, dearheart…”

“Yeah,” he said groggily, sitting up on her stomach. That had become his new bed as of late. That and occasionally her left breast.

“It’s been almost a week since you shrank.”

“Yeah… it has… I wanna thank you for doing all these things for me--looking out for me, and still loving me.”

“Well… I know how you can thank me.”

“How?”

“Since you shrank… we haven’t done any… you know… sensual things. And while I certainly love you, I still have urges to do stuff… so… can you?”

“Uhm… I don’t know how well I can satisfy you at this size, but--”

“Well… just crawl in and--”

“No!”

“But if--”

“No, absolutely not!”

“Just try--”

“Hell no!”

“Well why not?!”

“I’m not particularly fond of downing, and I’m claustrophobic,” Alex grumbled, turning away from Eryca.

“Well, I’m sorry… but I have needs too, you know.”

“Yeah, and so do I. I need oxygen.”

“Are you really claustrophobic?”

“Well… kinda…”

“You’re just afraid you’ll get crushed down there, aren’t you?”

“Yes, damn it! I’m not fond of death! How about I play with your boobs while you play with yourself down there? That sound fun? You know where everything is down there, why have me clumsily groping around and facing possible death?”

“Damn it, Alex, I have needs too. Women are just as entitled to their right to be horny as men are, and I haven’t gotten any sensual feeling all week!”

“Alright, fine, you have needs. You know what, I’ll do what I can. Take your damn pants off. Bitch.”

Alex stood up, grumbling something under his breath as Eryca giggled and slid off her pants.

Conversations like that have been fairly common. Unfortunately, Alex’s size makes bringing Eryca to orgasm rather difficult. Oh, it’s not that he doesn’t try. He does all the right things, massaging the inner walls with his hands while rubbing the clitoris with his chin, or feet (depending on what position he’s in.) He tried, lord knows he tried, but in the end the only sexual feelings he was able to bring to Eryca was the equivalent of foreplay. She always had to finish the job herself. When she had to do so, it would only reinforce Alex’s feelings of helplessness and utter unimportance.

Alex was sitting in Eryca’s hand as she channel surfed. It had been almost three weeks since he shrank. Eryca turned off the TV and began giggling.

“What, what’s so funny,” Alex asked, looking up to see her smiling face hovering above him.

“You’re sooo cute!”

“You’ve said that ever since I shrank.”

“Well, it’s true. You’re adorable. I could just eat you up.”

Alex cringed, and Eryca laughed at his shuddering. “Do you have to do that--make fun of me and scare me like that?”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” she said, planting a kiss on his head. “It’s just so fun to tease you now. It was fun when you were normal too, but now--”

“Well, I’m glad you’re having fun making fun of my handicap.”

“Oh, don’t be such a Grumpy Gus. ‘I only make fun of you--‘”

“’Because I love you.’ Yeah, yeah, yeah--I invented that quote, dear.”

“I do love you.”

“And I love you.”

They kissed. Yes, they still loved each other very much, and for a long time it did seem like things would work out.

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It was three in the morning. Alex had fallen asleep on Eryca’s bosom, snuggling up to her hand. He woke up his bladder feeling like it was going to burst.

“Eryca, wake up, I need you to take me into the bathroom. Eryca. Eryca, move your ass,” Alex shouted, smacking at his girlfriend’s face. She smiled and uttered something between a giggle and a snore. “Eryca, I have to pee, this isn’t funny. Wake up, damn it!”

Still Eryca slept on. Alex walked to the edge of the bed… no way in hell he was jumping. He looked around for anything he could use to shimmy to the ground. Nothing. He was trapped on the bed, nowhere to go, and he had to pee like never before. It was at this moment Alex realized just how helpless he was in this state, and went through the long awaited relapse into a state of dementia and insanity.

Louie had been arrested for multiple counts of murder, assault with a lethal weapon, and torture. It was an open shut case. And that just left one matter to be attended too…. Maria treated all her employees like dirt, including Jimmi Donatelli. She threatened, taunted, and teased him even as she was eight inches tall. Well, without having to worry about the wrath of Screwy Louie, Jimmi had a score to settle. He walked into Maria’s bedroom.

“About time somebody showed up--what the hell is going on! You’re an hour late! You’re a dead man, Jimmi. You’d better hope that--”

“Actually, I think it’s you who should do the hoping, Maria.” Jimmi pulled out a gun. “Do you recognize this?”

“My… my derringer! How the--”

“Yep. Your derringer. You aimed this thing in my face so many times. Thought it was time for a change of pace. Tell me, how pretty do the barrels look from that angle?”

“Have you lost your mind! When Louie hears about this he’ll--”

“Piss and moan from behind bars.”

“What,” Maria asked, her stomach sinking like stone.

“Louie’s been arrested. The prosecuting attorney won. He’s getting’ the death penalty. And I think I’m gonna go ahead and put you on trial too. I’m Jimmi, your judge, jury, and executioner.”

“But… but…”

“Hasta luego, bitch.” Jimmi pulled the trigger. The derringer exploded in his hand, killing them both.

The power went out exactly three weeks after the plague escaped the underground testing facility in Texas.  For Paul and Stephanie, this was the beginning of a rapid decline.

 

“What the hell are you doing, Steph?!”

 

“I’m sorry--what’d I do this time!”

 

“You’re supposed to skin the animal first, damn it.  Smell that burning nasty smell?”

 

“Yeah… I thought it was just--”

 

“That’s the hair being cooked.  Shit, do you know how to do anything?!”

 

When the power went out, the non-perishables were toast, and they had to resort to hunting and gathering.  It took Paul almost three days to coach Stephanie through shooting a firearm.  Fortunately in the weeks following the decline of man, the woodland population has increased exponentially and they’ve gotten dumber.  It didn’t take too long before they ran into a deer dumb enough to approach them.  Boom.  Right between the eyes.  But Paul had always done all the cooking, and this was a new challenge for Steph.

 

“I… I’m sorry, I just thought--I mean, in the movies they never--”

 

“This is real life, Steph!  This isn’t a movie!”

 

“But--”

 

“Save it.  Shit, this is a fine mess you’ve gotten us into.  We need to--Damn it, Steph!  Stop turning the deer over the fire!!”

 

“Huh--oh God!  Sorry!”

 

Stephanie removed the deer from its position above the flames, the hairs still on fire.  She stared at the burning carcass for a few seconds before Paul finally shouted for her to pat out the flames.  After a moment of protesting, she did as she was told.

 

It went like this for many days.  The sad truth is that Stephanie was not an independent person--she always had someone to look out for her, be it a parent, boyfriend, or simply a close friend.  So in this new world--where she was one of the few able bodied individuals still around--where she must look out for others instead of the reverse, she was lost.  From attempting to use appliances that had long since stopped working thanks to the lack of electricity, i.e. the fridge, and her seeming lack of ability to do anything, Paul seemed to simply turn into an angry midget.  Things were not looking up.

 

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The cataclysmic explosion that would pit these young lovers against one another came in the form of a bumbling accident and a hot temper.  The two fused and erupted like a hydrogen bomb.

 

Paul had been taking a shower in the sink, same as every day.  However, Steph hadn’t noticed this.  She was eating dinner.  Paul wasn’t dining with her so she did what she often did when alone: Zoned out and thought.  She thought of many things.  How the rest of the world was faring, why she seemed to be the only one in town normal sized and alive.  What kind of virus could do these things.  Whether this should even be physically possible.  Above all she thought about the rest of the world.  What would happen to civilization.  So lost in thought was she that when it came time to put her plate up, she scraped her scraps into the sink and turned on the garbage disposal.

 

It rained leftover food scraps on Paul, who had just been finishing his shower.  He was covered in tomato sauce and messed up noodles.  And to boot, the water sent a current down towards the grinding metal blades below.  Paul tried to grab on to anything he could, anything at all, but the surface was too slick.  There was little to no friction on the inside of the sink.

 

“Steph!  Stephanie, turn off the disposal,” he shouted, trying in vain to be heard over the loud grinding noise coming from the drain.  He managed to grab hold of a chunk of meatball.  Once a baseball superstar in high school, he aimed for Steph’s eye and fired away.  He tossed the meathunk, hitting Steph square in the pupil.  She shrieked as she rubbed at her eye.  Then she caught a glimpse of a pink fleshy thing in the sink.

 

She gasped.  “Paul!”

 

With lightning speed, she reached in and yanked Paul out of the sink, just as he was hitting the disposal blades.  His heel got nicked.  He wouldn’t be walking for a while.

 

“Good God,” he shouted.  “What the hell is wrong with you Steph!  You almost killed me--I mean, does it really take all that much focus to notice your boyfriend bathing in the God damned sink!!”

 

“Paul, I--”

 

“No, no fucking excuses!  Fuck… I’m bleeding.  Well, don’t just stand there and watch, get me some cloth or something.”

 

“Oh, right.”

 

“I swear, you’re worthless sometimes!  You burn all our food, you almost kill me, what kind of cruel God grants immunity to the one doomed to die of starvation and--”

 

A lesson most people learn very quickly: Do not anger a woman who holds you in the palm of her hand.  Paul felt himself falling.  Paul and Stephanie were both strong Christians.  Steph had kept her faith in the weeks following the outbreak--after all, she was alive and well, and so was her boyfriend.  Paul however had grown increasingly cynical and borderline blasphemous.  He could bitch and piss and moan at Steph all he wanted, but when she heard him insult God, it was time to fall.  Paul fell all the way from Steph’s bosom to her knees before she extended a hand to catch him.

 

“That was a warning,” she said angrily.  “And you know, you could show some more appreciation.  I’m doing my best.”

 

“Wow, shows what kind of girl I decided to shack up with.”

 

“Fuck you!  At least I’m trying--left to your own, you wouldn’t survive for five minutes!  You’re too small to pull off any surviving!  You can’t kill anything, you can’t travel anywhere, you can’t even satisfy a woman!”

 

“Oooh… that was a cheap shot.  Low, low, low, low, low.  Well, you know what, you wouldn’t survive on your own either.  You’d live off reheated TV Dinners for a while, but sooner or later you’ll either run out or they’ll expire.  You’d die.”

 

“Of what!”

 

“… I just explained it.  You’d starve to death, or die of stupidity.”

 

“Die of stupidity?”

 

“You know, doing stupid shit that common sense would tell most people is a bad idea and then getting injured and infected because we no longer have medical facilities.”

 

“Shut up!  I am not stupid!  I’m very smart!”

 

“Yeah, I’m sure math, English, and US History are going to do you wonders in this brave new world.  You can survive in a classroom, but if tossed into the real world, you’re doomed to failure.  Darwin was right.

 

“Shut up, shut up, shut up!”

 

“No, you may not like what I have to say, but you need to hear it!”

 

“Shut up,” she shouted, this time letting Paul fall all the way to the ground.

 

“Sunuvabitch,” he shouted as he hit the ground.  His leg broke--hell, it didn’t just break, it shattered.

 

“You have ten seconds to get out of my sights.  If you’re still there, I’m smashing you.”

 

“My leg’s broke, I can’t go anywhere!”

 

“Ten… nine… eight…”

 

Paul took a commando crawling position and immediately began doing a soldiers crawl towards a space behind the kitchen counter.

 

“Seven… six… five… four… three…”

 

Almost there.  A few more feet.  Paul stood up and hopped towards the crack.

 

“Two… one.”

 

Stephanie’s foot came down outside the crack leading behind the kitchen counter.  It smashed the spot Paul had been standing on only a few milliseconds beforehand.  Paul sat there, clutching his broken leg and watching blood trickle from his other foot.  All in all it was a sucky day.  He was no more than an intruder in his own home.  An unwanted rodent.  A pest control problem.  And he knew they had Raid in the garage.  Hopefully Stephanie would remain blissfully unaware of that fact.

Alex realized how truly helpless he was in a matter of seconds. Yes, the catalyst of the breakdown that had been averted for a few weeks came in the form of a warm yellow liquid that forced its way out after several hours of holding it in. He did well, considering how long he held it. It got to the point where he could feel his kidneys throb every 15 seconds, producing slightly more liquid. That was two weeks ago. Since then, Alex hasn’t said a word. The only noises he’s made are occasional growling and screaming noises. He was little more than an animal.

Eryca tried and tried to get him back to normal, but all that yielded were some nasty bite marks on her fingers. To prevent him from hurting himself, she took a cage from a pet-co and placed him in it.

“Alex, please, just… talk to me.”

“Hssss…”

“I love you… please say something.”

“Grrrraaa! Hsss, ffft,” Alex shouted, flinging himself against the bars of the cage. He would do this every now and then--he seemed to be attempting to find a weak spot in it. All he had done so far was bloody his face and bruise his body. Alex was beginning to look like Tom Hanks from Castaway, clad in naught but some tattered clothing fashioned to look like a loin-cloth and a scraggly beard growing in. Nevertheless, Eryca remained by his side, only leaving to gather food. The apartments below and above them were running low on non-perishables, so she found herself taking longer journeys to the supermarket. In town a few of her friends were immune, but they were not lucky enough to have their significant other contract Type 1. Almost everyone anybody ever loved or cared about had died in the onset of the plague.

It was on one of her ventures to the supermarket that she met him. Damien Rodriguez. There were 31 Plague survivors in San Antonio. 15 were immune, 16 contracted Type 1. Of the 15 immune, Damien was one of two males. The other male was a young boy with hemophilia. He didn’t talk so everyone called him Alexander; as homage to the son of Nicholas II who likewise had hemophilia.

Damien was tall, dark and handsome. He was a high school dropout who worked at a video game store before everything went to hell. A Hispanic man of 18 with a rock hard body that came with using all his free time in the gym--and when your job only requires you to work 4 hours a day, that’s quite a bit of free time. He had a strong chin, a manly face, and perfect hair. If not for the fact he was an idiot and an asshole, he’d probably be the perfect man. Needless to say, he was the object of affection for all 13 of the surviving women, including the 12 year old Melissa, the 8 year old Megan, and the 15 year old Anna.

Alexander was 5, and did little to no talking. He was found hugging his father’s corpse. As best they can tell, he was killed in the rioting that came as the disease spread. Alexander carried a pillow and blanket around with him, never letting them out of his sights. Aside from the pillow, the blanket, and the clothes on his back, Alexander had a CD Case full of music and a ratty CD Player from about 3 years ago. He had a thing for Opera. The one he listened to most frequently was Mozart’s Don Giovanni--which Mozart wrote in memory of his dead father. How fitting.

The group set up shop in a mansion. The plague victims were admitted a shared room, except Alex. I believe it was best summed up by Catherine Cadena when she said, “He’s fucking nuts!” And so Alex still remained with Eryca, and still remained just as crazy. It probably didn’t help that Damien and Eryca were now dating.

“I still love him,” Eryca had said. “But… the Alex I fell in love with died weeks ago. This new Alex is… he’s an animal, he’s lost his mind. I still love him and I don’t want anything to happen to him… but I’m not in love with him anymore.”

Still, things were not well for anyone. The women hated Eryca for “stealing” Damien, Eryca hated herself because Damien was an asshole, and Damien was growing increasingly short tempered with Eryca on the grounds that she “doesn’t appreciate how lucky [she] is to be with the only man in town!”

So, let’s recap. Alex is nuts, Eryca and Damien are an item and any semblance of the old Alex watches them “do the dew” every night thus driving him more nuts. All the survivors have banned together for survival and the general human need for company. Primitive civilization seemed to be sprouting up in San Antonio, and based on how things were looking, it would be tribal autocracy with Damien at the head (simply because he has a penis. Truly sad that in a post-apocalyptic world, that’s all it takes to be a leader.)

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Eryca woke up to the sounds of clanging metal. She sat up and saw Alex hurling himself at the cage walls again. She looked at Damien. He slept on. She stood up and went to the cage.

“Alex, stop, you’re going to hurt yourself. Go back to bed.”

No response. He continued hurling himself against the cage.

“Alex, please… you’re gonna wake up Damien.”

No response--he seemed to be deaf until he heard the words “Damien”. Upon the mention of that name, his eyes darkened, and a scowl formed upon his miniscule face. He began slamming himself against the cage walls much more frantically, shouting angry nondescript noises.

“Shh, please. Go back to bed.”

“Aaaaah! Hssssss, grrraaaar!! Fffft, ffffft, raaaa,” he shouted, slamming himself against the cage door.

“Shut the fuck up,” Damien growled, placing a pillow over his head.

Alex let out an angered hissing noise, banging his fists furiously on the door of the cage.

“Shut him up, babe, before I do it,” Damien mumbled.

“Sorry, sweetie.”

That did it. Alex became infuriated. His bangings grew more frantic, his shouts more wild, and tears streamed down his face. He spun in circles, jumping up and down and thrashing about. He truly looked and sounded utterly bonkers. It brought a few tears to Eryca’s eyes. Damien felt another emotion entirely.

“I said shut the fuck up,” he growled, chucking a lamp at Alex’s cage. The cage was knocked off the shelf on which it rested, and fell to the ground with a loud clang. There was silence.

“Damien, how could you!”

“Hey, it shut him up.”

Eryca opened the cage and picked Alex’s limp body out of it. She held him to her cheek. His heart still beat, and he was still breathing lightly. He was alive. Just unconscious. She put Alex in her bra and stood up.

“I’m spending the night in Mary’s room. Goodnight, Damien.”

“Babe, I--”

The slamming door was all that greeted Damien as he called after Eryca.

Eryca held a sleeping Alex in her hand. She lightly stroked him from his mullet to the small of his back. He was much calmer now. He enjoyed her affection it seemed. Perhaps, if given time, the old Alex would be back. With a deep breath, Eryca set about to do what had to be done. She opened the door and entered Damien’s room.

“There you are. I knew you’d be back,” Damien said with a smile. “Come on in, the bed’s missed you… so’s Little Damien.”

“Damien, that’s not why I’m here.”

“Huh?”

“Damien, last night I realized something. You’re never going to change. You’re an asshole, a prick… and I don’t want to be with you.”

“Wait, are you saying--”

“Yes! God damn, what do I have to do, spell it out for you?! You’re an asshole, you tried to kill Alex! Fuck you, damn it. We’re done, it’s over!”

“Nobody breaks up with me,” Damien growled through gritted teeth.

“I just did.”

“I would not say such things if I were you.”

“Fuck off.”

Damien leapt out of bed, lunging for Eryca. She screamed for not even half a second before his hands were clasped around her throat. She gagged and fell over, dropping Alex to the floor. Damien dragged Eryca to the bed, proceeding to tear off her nightgown. When he couldn’t work the buttons with one hand, he just tore it off.

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Alex woke as he hit the floor. He jumped up, gazing around alertly. He saw Damien, he saw Eryca, and anger flared up within him. Eryca screamed out again, but it was stifled once more by Damien.

“Shut up, bitch. You didn’t complain any other time!”

Alex was ready to start screaming and pitching a fit, when suddenly something happened. A switch went off in his brain that said “Cut the shit.” One thought entered his mind. ‘Dart gun, hallway closet.’

Alex ran out of the room and dived under the door of the hallway closet. There the previous owner of the house had kept a Kenyan Blowgun complete with Poison Tipped Darts. Alex grabbed a dart and ran back for the room.

Eryca was naked and weeping. She was gagged and Damien was rounding second base, taking his time knowing she could do nothing.

“Your mouth says no, but your body sure seems willing,” he chuckled.

“Hey, asshole,” Alex shouted.

Damien turned around and saw the miniscule psychopath standing there with a poison tipped dart.

“I don’t believe it,” Damien said in a dumbfounded way.

“Believe it or not, mother fucker, you’re still gonna die.” Alex jammed the dart right into Damien’s Achilles. He howled in pain as Eryca got to her feet. “A rattlesnake is not immune to its own poison--brute force can be used by anyone against anyone, Damien.”

“You Sunuvabitch,” Damien growled, reaching for Alex. As soon as his fingers clasped around Alex’s form, popping noises and snapping bones were heard. Only for a very few seconds though. Damien fell over, veins turning black, eyes rolling back in his head. He went out just like humanity, not with a bang, but a whimper.

“Ohmigod,” Eryca said softly. Alex breathed deeply for a few seconds before letting out a primal scream. Eryca reached down and picked him up. “Are you ok?!”

“I’m a murderer…”

“You saved my life!”

“But took another. In a world where so many have already perished, I cannot see justification to take another life under any circumstances… my god… Man really is just an animal. We lust, we kill… we love… the only thing that sets us apart from the beasts of Africa is the degree of damage which we can deal--a nuclear bomb is much more lethal than any form of claws. But in this new world, we don’t even have that. We’re just animals with less survival skills… we are doomed to kill each other… and I have proven it! Mankind is doomed!”

“Alex, calm down!”

“I am calm, and I see things clearly. More clearly than I ever have before… I--”

“Alex, listen to me,” Eryca said, tears streaming down her face. “I love you.”

“And I love you, but--”

“No ‘buts’. We love each other. Things will work out.”

“I’m glad to be back,” Alex said, teary eyed.

“Good to have you back.” Eryca held him up to her face. The salt tears streaming down her cheek burned to the touch, but it was worth every second of stinging sensation. They sat there, embracing one another for the longest time. Ten minutes, thirty minutes, an hour. Sitting there in complete silence, just feeling the love. Finally, Eryca spoke.

“What are we going to do with the body?”

“Shove him out the window,” Alex said calmly. “He’s just another victim--a death in the second plague to strike the survivors. The plague of survival and stupidity.”

Ms. Johnson was the neighborhood “crazy cat lady”. She owned 32 Cats. They were her only friends, and so it remained as she lay in her deathbed, mucus flowing as she babbled insanities. For nigh a week she lay there in a constant state of delirium. Whence that week was over, she rose to the sound of her stomach growling. She sat up and looked around. The room was different. Very different. The walls were farther away, and sheets rose to mountainous proportions above her head. It was then that it hit her. She realized the room wasn’t different, it was her. She was the one who changed, and became a Barbie doll. A haggard, overweight, elderly Barbie with warts, but a Barbie nonetheless.

She began screaming and freaking out for the next few minutes, calling for help, seeing if anyone was there.

--- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---

Mr. Whiskers awoke to the shrill screaming of something in Ms. Johnson’s room. He was not the only one awake. Snowball, Fluffly, Patches… all of them too were awake. They could hear it too. A panicking animal. The door to Ms. Johnson’s room was being guarded, the animals awaited their prey. They hadn’t been fed in weeks…

--- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---

Ms. Johnson calmed down after a few minutes. ‘Panicking and screaming will get you nowhere… you have to get to the phone. Call 911 or a doctor or something. She slowly slid down the sheets of her bed, making it to the floor without breaking any bones. She made her way to the door. When she crawled under the crack, she saw 64 eyes looking at her. The result was bloodier than a Saw movie.

(Another filler parenthetical. I need 77 words. Well, 70 now. Skip ahead and go to the next chapter. The rest is filler nonsensical stuff. Look down and see the beggers at your feet. Look down and see the sweepings of th estreet. Look down and show some mercy if you can. Look down, look down upon your fellow man. I play Thernardie in Les Mis. I rock. Anyone here play Guitar Hero? Through the Fire and Flames is an awesome song. Go to www.projectplaylist.com and look it up. It's badass. On with the story! -- FB)

The road was clear for the first time in almost three hundred miles. It was upsetting that they had ditched their motorcycles because traffic was too thick. Near all the major centers of population before the outbreak, there were insane amounts of stalled cars on the roads, the rotting corpses of their masters sitting behind the wheel--almost as if they still hope to escape the fate which has already befallen them.

The only sounds in the barren plains that was Kentucky were the heavy footfalls of a boot wearing man in jeans and a leather jacket, the clicking heels of a woman in high heels and a mini-skirt, and the sound of their singing.

“Oh what’s the sound of the world out there,” the man sang in a booming baritone voice.

“What, Mr. Todd? What, Mr. Todd? What is that sound,” the woman sang back in a pleasant alto voice.

“Those crunching noises pervading the air!”

“Yes, Mr. Todd! Yes, Mr. Todd! Yes, all around!”

“It’s man devouring man, my dear!”

“And who are we to deny it in here,” they sang in unison.

The man was known as Freak Boy. He wore an eye patch, a faded leather jacket from the late 70’s, loose fitting blue jeans, a red CCCP shirt, and a pair of heavy steel toed boots. His mullet was still there. The woman’s name was Kelsey Kramer. She stood about 5’4” with a beautiful body, and a pleasant face with a pony tail and bangs. She was very pale with freckles and smiled frequently. She wore an REM tank top from a concert they gave shortly before the plague hit. On the back were the titles of the songs they sang. The last number was “It’s The End of the World as we Know It.”

They were the only immune survivors of the plague in the group. In addition to them there was Toni, the badly burned and almost bald survivor of Mark’s spiritual cleansing. There was Dr. Griggs, a round Irish man with short curly red hair; Andy, an annoying kid in his teens--the kind that seems like he’ll never grow up; Pete, a well rounded individual--good looking--who seemed to be the most mellow and sensible member of this group; and Chuck--the manly “I ain’t nobodies bitch” he-man. There were others with them--about 13 total--but I do not remember their names, nor do I care to for they were instrumental in my arrest.

“Here we are,” Kelsey said, presenting Freak Boy with an invisible pie.

“What is that?”

“It’s priest. Have a little priest!”

“Is it really good?”

“Sir, it’s too good, at least.
Then again they don’t commit sins of the flesh.
So it’s rather fresh.”

“… Got a lot of fat.”

“Only where it sat.”

“Haven’t you got poet,
Or something like that?”

“No you see the trouble with poet
Is how do you know it’s
Deceased?
Try the priest!”

“… Heavenly. Not as hearty as bishop, but then again not as bland as curate either.”

“And it’s good for business. Always leaves you wanting more--the trouble is, we only get it on Sundays.
Lawyer’s rather nice.”

“If it’s for a price.”

“Then again get something to follow
Since no-one should swallow it twice.”

This song, if you can’t tell by now, is about cooking people and eating them. Perhaps not the best song to sing in the company of an individual who was almost in that situation, and many others who fear that perhaps they are small enough to be put in the same danger. I’ll admit it wasn’t a good choice, and the upcoming conflict was inevitable.

Freak Boy and Kelsey stopped at around three to start cooking lunch. Freak Boy set down the backpack with the nonperishables and the cooking supplies while Kelsey set down the purse with the rest of the plague victims in it. Freak Boy began starting the fire and setting a pot with water over it. The plague victims stretched out and saw the endless expanse of road before them and the beautiful sunset that was beginning.

“Wow… you never appreciate stuff like this when you’re in the city,” Dr. Griggs said.

“Sun hurts my eyes,” Andy said simply. And with that he retreated into Kelsey’s purse again.

“Should we tell them now,” Pete asked. The whole group made a collective shushing noise.

“Tell us what,” Kelsey asked, laying on her stomach and bringing herself to eye level with the rest of the party.

“We were wondering--”

“Why the hell are y’all singing ‘bout eatin’ people,” Chuck demanded, cutting off Pete.

Kelsey and Freak Boy looked at one another. They smiled.

“Oh god, it’s true,” Toni screamed.

They began laughing.

“Don’t, I mean--come on, what the fuck is wrong with y’all,” Chuck growled.

“Dudes, you got it all wrong,” Freak Boy said, casting a warm smile. “Kelsey and I are into musical theatre--when the plague hit--” Freak Boy began laughing again.

“The two of us had the lead roles in the UCLA production of Sweeney Todd,” Kelsey finished. “It’s a show by Stephen Sondheim set during the famine in Britain. It’s a complex story, but basically what happens towards the end of Act I is they decide to start killing customers who come into Sweeney’s barber shop and turn them into meat pies to be sold in my pie shop.”

“My… what a lovely musical,” Dr. Griggs said.

“True story,” Freak Boy said, still laughing. “Only Sondheim, eh?”

“Yeah… well at least we know you aren’t planning on chowing down on us any time soon,” the doctor said.

“Sorry we ever thought it--we’re just scared is all,” Pete said. “Sorry, you understand I’m sure.”

“Don’t worry I’d be scared shitless too,” Kelsey said. “After all, I know I totally look like a murderer.” Everyone began laughing. Of the two of them, Kelsey was the one who looked attractive and sweet to a tee. Freak Boy was the one who looked like a murderer--he fit the description perfectly: Mullet, Hispanic, eye patch, nondescript scars on his knuckles, arms, face and who knows where else, rugged unkempt appearance, leather jacket, constant 5 O’clock shadow--the list goes on.

It was Freak Boy they feared, and as a result of this they seemed to expect the worst from the two of them. After all, anyone who can hang out with someone that creepy looking (and kinda nutso acting for that matter) has to be messed up.

The evening passed rather uneventfully after that. Freak Boy and Kelsey sang some more songs from Sweeney Todd--the ones that weren’t about eating people, like Johanna and Kiss Me. And after that they fell asleep around the fire. Well most of them did. Freak Boy had wicked insomnia so he tended to sit up all night with a shotgun in hand. Tonight Kelsey joined him, head resting in his lap.

“So… how long have you had insomnia?”

“Before I can remember--I know Kindergarten at the very latest, but I’m almost positive it’s before that.”

“Sorry to hear that.”

“Don’t be. You can’t help it.”

“No, that’s true… but I’d like to help make your nights more interesting.”

“You do, Kels,” Freak Boy said with that same warm smile. “It’s a lot more fun talking to you than it is talking to myself… and I feel more sane by comparison.”

Kelsey rolled her eyes. “Ha, ha.”

“Hey, what can I say, talking to any woman makes me feel sane. I don’t know how you guys can think with all that damned estrogen clouding your thoughts.”

Kelsey lightly smacked him. Freak Boy was something else… he was completely oblivious, for starters. Ever since her boyfriend died in the plague, she had grown… lonely. Freak Boy seemed to be a good decision to fill his spot. Why, she couldn’t exactly place. He was funny, but that wasn’t all… his cynical sarcastic wit was definitely appealing though. She can’t say she was fond of the new eyepatch. Perhaps it was simply he was the only man her size in the area. Whatever the reason, she wanted him… but it was clear she had been filed away in the “friend zone”. Still… she could hope, right? God… I hate writing about myself in the third person. It makes me seem like a narcissist… or some sort of chauvinistic pig. Oh well, the point is, I was blind back then. I suppose things may have turned out better if I simply knew Kelsey was feeling lonely. But we’ll never know now.

Alex and Eryca had been chased out of San Antonio for the suspected murder of Damien. No body was ever recovered, but suspicion and motive was everywhere. Alexander went with them, not wanting to be in the care of all the idiots still alive. I suppose even small children who have been traumatized by gory, disturbingly horrific sights of death can tell an idiot when they see one.

Alex, Eryca and Alexander had been wandering aimlessly for the past few days. They were now four miles outside the San Antonio city limits. Alexander was still silent, not having said a word since he was found.

“We should really try and think of some sort of gameplan,” Alex said. It was almost noon and they were still wandering around aimlessly in the middle of the seemingly endless Texas hill country.

“Hard to come up with a gameplan when you don’t know what game you’re playing.”

“We are playing the game of Life. There are no rules, there are no opponents, only obstacles which must be overcome.”

Eryca let out a sigh. “My, aren’t we deep.”

“Beats being primitive and insane.”

“True… very true.”

A silence fell over the group as they continued walking across middle of nowhere Texas. Alexander was kicking a small rock along as they traveled alongside Eryca. Alex sat on her left shoulder, holding on to the strap of her tank top with one hand and grasping some strands of her hair in the other.

“What do you thinks gonna happen,” Eryca asked after some time.

“What, to us?”

“Well, yeah… to us… to the world… humanity.”

“I don’t know… being social creatures by nature, we’re naturally going to regroup.” Alex suddenly stood up. It was as if he had just been struck by lightning. His eyes widened and a holler escaped his lips.

“What--what’s wrong! Are you having another relapse?!”

“No, it’s not that it’s--hot damn!! Stop! What direction are we heading?!”

“Uhm, I don’t know… Northwest?”

“No good, turn around. No, don’t turn around, keep going ‘til you find a car.”

“What the--what are you talking about?”

“We’re going to regroup.”

“Huh?”

“Humans are social creatures, I already stated that. Well, Americans are not only social, but they are dependant on one thing--the ability of others to govern. If mankind is going to regroup anywhere it’ll be in Washington DC. We’re gonna grab a car and make our way there--regroup with the rest of humankind.”

“DC… that’s half way across the country.”

“In life, the journey is more meaningful than actually getting to the destination.”

Eryca let out another sigh. “You and your wisdom.”

“Can I help it if I’m knowledgeable? We’ve got nothing to lose, if we wander around aimlessly we’ll end up dying from heat and exposure. If we head to DC, we at least have a drive--a motivation to get us through the journey. And when we get there, we’ll find other people. If reorganization hasn’t happened already, we can help it start.”

Eryca seemed unconvinced. “What do you think, Alexander?”

The small child looked Eryca in the eye, thought for a moment, and then pointed to the East.

“Alright, we’re goin’ to DC.”

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The Koudouris house was empty. The power went out two days after Paul and Stephanie resurrected their relationship. All nonperishables in the city had been removed, and a big van was hotwired and stolen from a used car lot. Left on the door of the Koudouris house was a note, in case anyone should come looking for them.

“We’re fine. Moving to DC.
-- Paul and Steph”

Freak Boy’s caravan had hooked up with many others. Travelling with him, in addition to Chuck, Andy, Pete, Dr. Griggs, Toni, and Kelsey, were now: James Koulav and Josephine Rodriguez, Barbara Barra, Steven and Jade.

Steven and Jade, shortly after hooking up, decided to head to New Orleans to see if Jade’s family survived the disaster. All forms of long distance communication--dixie cups and string excluded--had been eliminated, and the biggest worry for Jade was her family. On the way to New Orleans, they bumped into Freak Boy’s group near Nashville, Tennessee. Deciding that maybe DC would be a better destination than New Orleans, Steven talked Jade into going with them.

The group continued traveling and along the Tennessee/North Carolina/Virginia border James, Josephine, and Barbara joined the group. They were about a week away from Harrisonburg right now. It was three in the morning, but everyone was wide awake. Nobody knew why exactly. Freak Boy had set up a nice campfire, and everyone was just relaxing. Suddenly, Barbara’s pale, lifeless blue eyes rolled back in her head. She rose to her feet and in a strange, seemingly inhuman voice, she began to utter what sounded like a prayer. Nobody knew what was going on, and then she began speaking a rhythmic chant.

“And so from the ashes of the world shall rise newfound glory,
And peace shall spread. But balance must return to yang and yin
And so shall rise a dark figure, with his horsemen from the story.
Only the chosen few shall see the darkness that doth surround him.

“The scribe, the warrior, the vagrant, the minstrel and his maiden,
The philosopher, the officer, and the disciples of Thespis--though they be burden laden
Shall boldy set about their task, and the evil they shall fight,
Whilst all remain oblivious to this plight,

“And while they stand alone against a man loved by the world
Someday shall be revealed they are the heralds of the lord.
Though martyrs they shall be,
‘Tis they who shall set us free.” Barbara then fell to the ground unconscious.

“What the hell was that,” James said as he rushed to try and help her.

“Maybe she’s goin’ nuts--”

“Nuts, my ass,” Freak Boy growled. “That was… a prophecy, or some shit like that.”

“Or some shit like that,” Kelsey said, quirking a brow. “My… aren’t we enlightened.”

“Shut up, at least I’m trying…”

James managed to shake Barbara awake. She sat up, clasping her temples. “What happened… ugh, my head…”

“Are you kidding,” Chuck began. “You just--”

“Wait,” Freak Boy shouted, silencing everyone. “You don’t remember anything?”

“I remember watching the crackling of the fire, relaxing… and then getting a wicked headache… that’s it.”

Freak Boy sat, silent for a few moments. “You got a migraine, I guess. You must’ve passed out.” Everyone remained silent. “Ok, light out. Goodnight everyone.” Freak Boy put out the fire and everyone did their best to sleep. At around 5am everyone but Freak Boy and Kelsey were asleep.

“Any reason you didn’t tell her?”

“… don’t want to scare her… or the others. With any luck we can forget this ever happened…”

“What if it was some sort of prophecy… maybe God is speaking through this woman.”

“God… the same God that killed every 9 out of 10 people on the planet?”

“The same God that spared you and me from the same fate of those 9 out of 10 people.”

“I don’t think that we were spared… I think we are a plague--mankind is the cancer of the planet. Perhaps Earth needed to start over again--give itself a few thousand years to heal itself from our devestation… this wasn’t an act of God, it was history repeating itself--albeit a bit later than usual. We were long overdue for some sort of natural disaster for population control…”

“You’re changing the subject, Freak Boy.”

“Sorry… as for the prophecy… well I’m a bit scared.”

“How so?”

“‘Only the chosen few shall see the darkness that doth surround him.

‘The scribe, the warrior, the vagrant, the minstrel and his maiden,
The philosopher, the officer, and the disciples of Thespis’, she said. Those parts about a scribe and disciples of Thespis have me worried.”

“Why?”

“You and I are disciples of Thespis--and I’m technically a scribe, since I can only assume that the modern day equivalent of scribe is writer.”

“So… we’re chosen few? Survivors?”

“Not according to the next part of that lovely little poem… don’t you remember?”

“Not everyone remembers everything they hear, Freak Boy… I don’t think I’ve met anyone with such an acute phonographic memory as you.” Freak Boy sighed. “Well, what did the next part of the poem say?”

Freak Boy was hesitant, but finally conceded. “I suppose you need to know… she said…”

“Yes?”

“Though martyrs they may be.”

Michelle got the idea to go to DC about three days after the plague hit.  Bobby would hear none of it.  About a week later the power went out and he agreed.  They had nothing to lose, after all.  Things went much better than expected.  As soon as they got to DC, her movie career took a skyrocket.  She got the role of Crysta in a live action remake of Fern Gully, she’s playing Thumbelina on a children’s show, and is going to be in a remake of The Incredible Shrinking Woman.  For the first time in a long while, her talent was allowed to shine.

 

Right now she was in the studio, working with various costumes.

 

“Ok, and we were thinking something like this for your costume during the banquet in the hall of the faeries,” said the overly flaming costume designer.  “I’m telling you, sparkles, sparkles, sparkles everywhere!”

 

“Sparkles… on a dress supposedly made of flowers?”

 

“It’ll look like dew once it’s on screen--trust me babe, I know what I’m doing.”

 

“… Well, ok.”

 

“Alright, fabulous dear.  Let’s see… ok, that seems to be it… are you ok?”

 

“Yeah, fine… just tired I guess.”

 

“Oh, god, you’d be insane if you weren’t.  You’ve been working for the past three days.  Go home, doll.  Get some sleep.”

 

“I’ll try, Ted.”

 

“By, love.”  And with that, Ted left to start working on costumes.

 

Michelle had become a workaholic.  She spent as little time at home as was humanly possible--Bobby was still just as abusive as ever.  Not so much physically, but psychologically.  And he had begun to find it amusing to bring her to orgasm against her will.  Every time he did something like that, it chipped the delicate fine china of her mind.  The long hours and constant work weren’t helping either… she was beginning to los it.  Not to mention that she was feeling… a tad under the weather.  If she came down with the Flu… who knows.

 

(Catching the Flu is scary in this new world, not just because of the memories of the Super-Flu, but let us remember that for plague victims it can be lethal.  Plague victims who came down with a case of the flu had a much higher mortality rate than those immune to the super flu--nobody knows why, but I think it has something to do with the size of the white blood cells in comparison to the non-shrunk Flu Virus.--FB)

Eryca was driving an old pick-up truck filled with nonperishables from every city they stopped in. Refried beans and SPAM mostly. Alexander was in the passenger’s seat, Eryca was driving, and Alex was asleep, tucked safely in her bra. While driving near the Mississippi/Alabama state border, they noticed a van driving down the Interstate. Eryca began honking the horn like wild trying to get their attention. The van pulled over and out stepped an excited woman. Eryca likewise hopped out of the truck and rushed for her, excited to see other living people. The two embraced.

“I’m so glad to see other people,” the woman said.

“So am I,” Eryca said in a shrieking voice. Alex was pinned between to pairs of breasts, and would’ve complained, but he was being muffled and unheard. ‘Twas not until he began kicking savagely at Eryca’s breast that she remembered he was still in there.

“Oh, sorry dear,” she said, pulling Alex out.

“Sorry… indeed…” Alex said between gasps for air. “Hi… I’m Alex… pleasure to… to make your… to… to make your acquaintance,” he said, extending a hand to the woman.

“Hi. I’m Stephanie,” she said, shaking his hand with her thumb and forefinger. “And this is Paul.” She placed her hand by her shoulder and Paul stepped into her palm, emerging from the shadow her hair placed on her neck.

“Paul… Koudouris,” Alex asked.

“Yeah… why,” Steph asked, somewhat nervous.

“Mr. Koudouris, my name is Alex Coy. I’m somewhat of a broadway nerd, and just wanted to let you know that I loved ‘Free From the Script.’,” Alex said with a smile.

The five hit it off great. Humans are social creatures. They enjoy traveling in groups. And they did just that.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Alex was, as he so often put it, “An endless source of useless information.” Well, if you know enough useless information, sometimes it becomes useful. They stayed the night in a train station on the outskirts of Monroeville. Out of the corner of his eye, Alex spotted an old looking train with a cattle plow on the front of it. The roads were clogged, but the odds of running into another train were slim to none. And when they came across dead vehicles on the tracks, the plow would easily knock ‘em out of the way. Naturally the idea came to everyone’s head… but it was all just wishful thinking. The train had already been worn out by the elements in the month or so it had been sitting in the open. The inner workings of the train had fallen into utter disrepair.

The group was standing around, examining the train, feeling depressed at the prospect of having to continuously ride until traffic was too thick, and then walk until you could hijack another car.

“Well, it was a thought,” Stephanie said wearily.

“It’s more than a thought--what if I told you I could get this thing up and running.”

“Huh? What are you talking about, sweetie?”

“My uncle worked with trains. He taught me a bit. Assuming this thing hasn’t rusted up in a lot of rain, I should be able to get it moving. I know enough about the way it runs to talk someone through it--but if the wheels and shit are rusted up, there’s nothing we can do. Fortunately the weather this time of year is normally pretty dry, so let’s keep our fingers crossed… do I have any volunteers?”

Eryca volunteered, but she couldn’t get to some of the more far-back bells and whistles. Alex ended up coaching Alexander through the repairs. Alex and Paul went in to clear crap out of some of the steam vents, while Eryca, Stephanie, and Alexander went to grab coal.

Half a day’s work went into putting that train back into commission. By nightfall, they were en route to Washington DC.

Jennifer O’Conner was in an abusive relationship when the plague hit. Not much has changed since then. The only real difference is that she’s now too small to fight back. The asshole she was dating was named Padric Welch. They lived together in the slums of Boston. Used to be their biggest fear was paying the rent, now it was surviving. Well… now Jennifer’s biggest fear was surviving. Padric no longer had any fears. The debt collectors were dead, he no longer had to keep a job, no chance of his girl running out on him… things were looking up for ol’ Paddy. He’d never felt better.

Jen, on the other hand, was a total psychological mess. She had become little more than a toy--not even worthy of slave status. The worst kind of torture, is psychological. Bullet wounds hurt when you get them, but you forget the pain. You never forget the spot, or that it happened (scar tissue assures us of that), but you don’t remember the exact pain. Getting the shit knocked out of you hurts when it happens, but there’s no guarantee you’ll have anything permanent from that beating. You’ll forget the pain, and may very well forget it ever happened. But emotional abuse never goes away--you are able to recall in every exactness the feeling of psychological abuse. You can remember how it felt to be ostracized by gradeschool students, you can remember how it feels to know that people you love and respect are “disappointed” in you. But you can never recall the exact feeling of your father smacking the bejezus out of you with a belt, or of falling off the second story and into a frozen pool. You know it hurt, sometimes permanent marks are left behind, but the pain goes away. Psychological damage, emotional trauma… that never goes away. Ask any war veteran. He’ll tell you that his battle scars don’t hurt too much, but he can still remember the chipping away of his psyche that occurred every time he dropped an enemy to the floor. He’ll remember how their bodies looked as the bullet pierced them, he’ll remember the horrible, squishy “whump” they made as they fell to the ground, and they’ll remember the lifeless look in the enemy’s eyes… but he won’t remember on what date he got shot, or how much it hurt. Just the remembrance of murder becoming commonplace. Mental blows will always, and always have, hurt more than any kind of physical blow. That was what was so horrible about slavery. There was very little physical abuse during slave times. There was the occasional rape, and the brutal beating for would be escape-artists, but very little else. The true horror, the true atrocity of slavery was psychological. Few people can say they know what it’s like to be stripped of a name and individuality--to become nothing more than property. That feeling snaps a mind in two… and that’s just what it was doing to Jen.

Something was ready to give. Jen was ready to explode. Her normally quiet and reserved nature was slowly disappearing… and tonight, the buildup to the explosion would set her off like C4 coated in nitro glycerin and chucked off the 4th story of a building.

Paddy got home. He went out for food. Came back with some cans of refried beans, some potatoes, and a few bags of pasta. All water had to be boiled now anyway, so pasta was a logical choice of food.

“Jen, I’m home. You want food, you better get where I can see you!” Jen knew immediately what was on his mind. She scuttled underneath the couch, curling into the feeble position. “Jen, get your ass out here! Don’t make me hunt for you, damn it.”

Her breathing became shallow. Slower and more steady. She wanted to eliminate any possible way of being found. Suddenly, the couch flew away and there stood Paddy. He didn’t look happy.

“I told you to come out,” he growled.

“Fuck you.” It was a quiet response. Quiet, breathy and afraid.

“What was that?”

“Fuck… you.” Still quiet, but no longer afraid.

“I don’t think I heard you correctly.”

“Fuck you!” This time it was angry. There was malice and intent behind the words. “I don’t need you, Paddy! I’d do just as well out on the god damn streets! Fuck you!”

“Oh, so you think you can leave? You think you’re gonna leave? Go ahead, try and leave.”

Jen made a brake for it, but Paddy pounced and caught her in his grasp. “I ain’t gonna bother trying to rig it so you can’t escape. You’ve insulted me--made me feel unappreciated, babe,” he said, holding her up to his face. As he held her, his thumb felt up her tiny body. “Nobody insults me. Nobody, you hear?”

“Fuck you!”

“Say that one more time! Say that one more fuckin’ time and I’ll stop playin’ nice!”

“Fuck you! Fuck you! FUCK YOU!!”

Paddy had had enough. He went to the kitchen, opened the microwave and tossed her in. It took about a minute on low power and 30 seconds on high before she exploded--blood, flesh and entrails splattered all over the microwave. It was the most painful death one can imagine. Baking in intense heat and then being ripped apart from every possible direction while still feeling everything.

(In all truth, science has shown us that a head severed from its body continues blinking and trying to breathe for up to two minutes. One can only assume that some form of the mind is still functioning throughout some of the exploding process. -- FB.)

But the world is a funny place, rife with bitter and cruel irony. While cleaning Jen’s remains out of the microwave, Paddy was exposed to a concentrated form of the virus in her blood--not the wimpy aired down version you’d encounter on the streets. He was exposed to the virus direct. It took a few days, but he got the flu. He now enjoys his new home in the intestines of several rats.

Michelle was getting sick. She hadn’t been home in a week. She was having some symptoms that were rather frightening. Mild fever. Stuffy head. General aches and pains. This did not bode well. At the moment, Ted was trying to help her feel better. Michelle was in her trailer, resting on a sponge/bed which Ted placed on the dining table. He sat by her side with a bowl of chicken soup.

“Come on, sweetie. Drink the broth, it’ll make you feel better.”

Michelle grunted and tried to eat. She was weak and very sick. Not to mention broke. She could get all the movie deals in the world, but it wouldn’t mean a damn thing. However much money was raked in, Bobby would manage to spend all of it on coke--and no, I don’t mean the soda.

“That’s it, come on. Drink up.”

“Why me?”

“Huh?”

“Why me? I’m a good person… I go to church, I believe in God, I don’t have an angry or bitter bone in my body… why did he make my life so miserable?”

“God helps those who help themselves.”

“Which is another way of saying he doesn’t help anyone.”

“…”

“Ted?”

“What is it, Michelle?”

“I think God is dead.”

“Well, if you follow Nietzche’s theory, ‘God is dead and we have killed him.’ But I don’t think you can say with a straight face that God is dead.”

“Yes I can. He’s abandoned us to fend for ourselves.”

“Maybe he just doesn’t like what we’ve done with the place.”

“I think I’ve lost my faith, Ted… I just… I just don’t believe anymore.”

The phone rang. Ted stood up. “To be continued, dear. I’ll see who’s on the line.”

Michelle was tired and sick. She couldn’t feel more hopeless. She was just about ready to die. And then a miracle happened. Ted walked in, a horrified look on his face. “Michelle… your husband, Bobby… he’s dead. He had a cocaine overdose. I’m so sorry.”

Michelle took the next four months off to “grieve.” From that day on, Michelle would never stop believing in miracles.

(I only have 352 out of 400 required words.  Here's another segment of filler.  Like always, just skip it.  Do you hear the people sing, singing the song of angry men?  It is the music of a people who will not be slave again.  When the beating of your heart echoes the beating of the drums, there is a life about to start when tomorrow comes.  Will you join in our crusade who will be strong and stand with me?  Beyond the barracade is there a world you long to see?  Then come take a stand and join in the fight to be free.  Red the blood of angry men, black the dark of ages past. -- FB)

Almost two months had passed since the plague hit and at long last Alex’s journey had come to an end. The train had to stop about a mile away from DC. It could plow cars off the tracks, but not another train. The caravan of travelers marched into DC, weary and tired, but hopeful. Eryca and Stephanie led the group, Alex and Paul on their shoulders. Little Alexander was in the middle. En route to DC they must’ve picked up something like 24 people. The way it played out in most of the US had everyone gathering at their State Capitols and then from there deciding to head to the National Capitol.

“We’re here… we’re finally here,” Alex said, letting out a heavy sigh of relief.

“Howdy folks,” said an elderly man standing before the “South Gate” entrance to the DC city limits. The whole city was fenced off now, save for a few manned entrance gates. “How many in your party?”

“Crap… were you keeping count,” Stephanie asked Eryca.

“No, I have no idea.”

“30,” Alex chimed in. “Approximately 18 plague survivors and about 22 immune.”

“Alright,” the man at the gate said. “You’re gonna go down this street until you hit a statue, take a left and keep going until you reach the capitol building. You and your people will register there. Name, date of birth, your social, all that jazz.”

“Right, will do,” Eryca said. The group went down and filled out the paperwork necessary to be a citizen in this strange new world. The capitol building was a zoo. All over the front lawn were miniature houses fixed together with tin siding, blocks of wood, newspaper--whatever was available. A shanty town for the plague victims to band together in. Let’s face it, the world’s a dangerous place for those poor bastards and there’s strength in numbers.

“Wow... looks like a scene from the depression,” Alex said.

“Yeah...,” Eryca agreed.

“Do me a favor, dear.”

“What?”

“No matter what happens, promise me you won’t ditch me and drop me off in the plague shantytown.”

“Smallville,” said a hoarse smoker’s voice.

“What,” Alex and Eryca said in unison looking to the man who spoke.

“Smallville. It’s what the locals have dubbed the ‘shantytown.’ Name’s sorta stuck now, so that’s the name of the little city.”

“That’s not funny,” Alex said, crossing his arms. Eryca just smiled.

While filling out their forms a shouting match began at the steps of the capitol building between a rather shaggy looking man with an eyepatch and the few surviving members of congress.

“What do you mean this is your plan?” the young man demanded.

“Settle down, no need to raise your voice. We’re doing all we can.”

“No, you’re not doing all you can. You’re having everyone register here so you can buy yourselves some time to think of something to do to save your asses when it comes time to restructure everything politically. You’re trying to set it up somehow so you make a vote in the middle of the night, pass some new clause to secure your seat of power. It’s not going to work! The voice of the people will be heard, we demand action and aid for the plague victims!”

“Guards, please escort this maniac away.” Two out of shape officers ran up the steps to the building.

“Oh, I’m the maniac. I’m the maniac? I’m not the one suggesting bureaucracy when immediate action needs to be taken. We can register later, some people need immediate medical attention! Do you know how many injured we have? Almost every plague victim has an ailment of some sort--severe burns, wounds from fights with animals, not to mention diabetics, asthmatics, epileptics--we've got a few cancer patients who need to get back in hospitals! What are you doing for them?! And what about housing? Look at this! You’ve got a veritable mini-Hooverville in front of your capitol--call it Smallville or whatever the hell you want; it’s a fucking slum! And you’re willing to just let them live like homeless rats instead of the American Citizens they are! What are you doing to help them?!” At this point the guards got to the top of the stairs. “Don’t touch me, pig! I’m leaving.” The man with the eyepatch began walking down the stairs. “Just you wait, senators. The people will not stay quiet much longer. They’re fed up with your bullshit.” And with that, he disappeared into the crowd.

“Who the hell was that,” Eryca asked Alex.

“Don’t know… but I like him already.”

***

Freak Boy’s caravan arrived about a week before Alex and Eryca’s group. I don’t know what they were expecting to find when they got to DC, but I suppose they were hoping for some sort of organization. We were all under the delusion that getting to DC would be the end of the journey and that this traumatic ordeal would all be over. Getting to DC was just the beginning.

There was no political structure. At all. A few senators survived and were trying to stall for time by having all refugees register at the capitol building. People were living in the streets, nothing was working like it should, and overall things were just downright pitiful. Freak Boy, being the passionate revolutionary he was, was able to keep quiet for only so long. If not for Kelsey, he probably would’ve made a scene much sooner. It was probably a good thing he brought these problems to the public eye. He said what was on everyone’s mind that nobody wanted to believe was true. Hearing it from another person proved that they weren’t crazy. The people liked what he had to say. Within three days of the outburst on the capitol building a meeting was held in the convention center. Standing room only. One of the balconies was rigged up with various platforms and doll furniture and was reserved for plague victims. Volunteers--like Kelsey, Stephanie, Eryca, and Josephine. There was a podium at the far end of the huge room and a large white screen behind it. They went all out. The only working cameras in DC were hooked up to one of the few laptops that still functioned which was in turn hooked up to a projector that they stole and upgraded from a local BestBuy. (Computers, gaming systems, TVs would all have been looted during the first chaotic weeks of the plague. You could go into any poor neighborhood and somehow all homes would have 42” Plasma Screen TVs. No cable, but they’d have the TVs. But projectors, drawing tablets, and other fun gadgets weren’t as mainstream demanded and so they sat in the empty stores collecting dust. -- FB)

“Ladies and gentlemen, Senator Hank E. Smarmann will now say a few words.”

A fat and balding white man stepped up to the podium. He had a few hairs on the center of his mostly bald head which were slicked back to meet with the hair that encompassed the bottom half of his shiny skull. He had shifty, beady little eyes and a gap between his two front teeth. He spoke in a tiresome southern drawl that reeked with the foul stench of lies and deception. “American perseverance, blah blah, struggle together, blah blah, 9/11, blah blah, re-ratification of the constitution, back on track, status quo, blah.” It was all bullshit. Then he made a mistake. He opened the mic up to anyone who wanted to speak. I would’ve gone, but some plague victim’s girlfriend beat me to it. She placed her miniature man upon the podium.

“Ladies and gentlemen, my name is Alex Coy... look, Senator Smarmann has made some good points... but he’s just scratched the surface. ‘We need to pull together’ that’s fine. ‘This is a tricky situation’, yeah tell us something we don’t know. But look, let’s not focus on how hard this will be, but instead look at what we can gain from this. We have a chance to start over from scratch! The system as we knew it was a corrupt, decadent monstrosity and was ultimately responsible for the crisis we’re in now. We can build a better tomorrow, go back to the concept of democracy--power to all people. The founding fathers had a great idea, but when they formed it they were dealing with uneducated and scattered masses. The system was designed with the notion that people are too dumb to vote in mind. Now our society is concentrated enough that we can have a one person one vote system. We can take the good of the old system and toss the bad out the window. Let’s not cling to a system that destroyed itself. It’s time for a political revolution. We have the means to build utopia--if we work together.”

Thunderous applause. The kid had talent. I’ll never forget that much. Good kid. Nice head on his shoulders. He went on.

“I propose that, as our first means of business, we elect a temporary town council which will deal with the immediate problems at hand, and then as soon as possible will create a new constitution and restructuring of the government which will be ratified by the people when such time comes. This way we get things taken care of now, and once we have electricity all over the grid, hospitals and law enforcement working again, we can worry about electing new leaders and restructuring a new government for a new world.”

Again, thunderous applause. Senator Smarmann never stood a chance. He was a politician, trying to play to everyone at once and, as a result, played to nobody. Alex told it like it was. He pissed off the elderly and the conservatives, but the majority of the survivors were young and pissed off. Sitting in the back of the convention center, an elderly man with red hair and glasses couldn’t help but smile. A dark and sinister smile as he watched the young idealist preach his utopian ideals to an eager audience. It was cute... and nothing more.

***

Nominees were to meet at the capitol building the next day (a minimum of 100 people had to sign a slip of paper nominating you for you to be allowed in), their names were taken down and put on ballots, and within the week the town council was elected. It consisted of roughly 30 people--about 18 men and 12 women. Senator Smarmann somehow got re-elected. Some old friends like Kelsey Kramer, and Ken Ryan made it as well. I’m not going to bother listing all of the Temporary Council because A: I don’t remember all of their names and B: most of them really weren’t that important. Some of the more noteworthy council members included a lanky blonde kid from Iowa named Rick Gruder, nice enough, but young and easily influenced; a feminist who had a thing for black turtlenecks, pants, and berets named Ariel Zinner (Zinn for short), probably one of the smartest on the council; and noted singer/songwriter Bruce Springsteen. The man was truly awesome to be around. Oh, and last but not least, yours truly, Freak Boy. (The other council members didn’t hang around with me, and quite frankly they weren’t very interesting. -- FB). We were all set to start changing the world... Unfortunately there was a problem...

“What the hell, there aren’t any plague victims on the council,” Zinn said.

“So what,” Smarmann asked.

“We can hardly call ourselves a council which is representative of the people if we don’t have even one member of a group that makes up almost half of our population now, can we,” Freak Boy said.

“Kid’s got a point,” Springsteen agreed.

“Look, the people have spoken, the nominees ran their campaigns, gave speeches, and the best won.”

“The immune have a slight advantage over the victims in campaigning--especially since no news networks are really up and running, it’s all word of mouth. Hard to campaign to someone’s ankle,” Bruce said, leaning back in his chair and kicking his feet up on the table.

“Well, maybe it’s better this way,” some old bat said. I wanna say her name was Eileen. “After all, in order to guarantee their safety some of our policies may be a little restricting. If we gave them the vote we couldn’t protect them as well. It’s for their own good, maybe.”

“What the fuck? I would expect that from Senator Smarmann over there, but you’re talking about the victims the way that men used to talk about women before the 1920’s!”

The next few hours was basically a back and forth shouting match between the liberals and conservatives. “It’s for the greater good!” “Those who are willing to sacrifice essential liberties in the name of security will find they receive neither!” “Control the masses to protect them!” “Fuck off!” “Your mom!” “I know you are, but what am I?” “I’m rubber, you’re glue!” That sort of thing. Welcome to Capitol Hill! Makes me sick just thinking about it. The council eventually agreed to appoint a plague victim for fairness sake. He’d represent the victims point of view. The conservatives agreed because they figured just one would get outvoted every time, but they forgot to consider that it was pretty much guaranteed the liberals would be backing him.

***

Alex and Eryca had cleared out a small apartment near Capitol Hill. They registered their new address. They had set up quite a place. Before the world changed they had a ratty apartment with a couch, a TV, and a bed. There was a folding card table that they ate on, and there was no other furniture. The new place was awesome. They raided a Sharper Image at the mall on the North Side of DC. Their new place had a 32” flat screen HDTV, a Playstation3, XBox 360, and of course the Nintendo Wii. They built up a DVD collection that put the impressive stack they had back in Texas to shame. Alex had, of course, all the strange and artsy ones. A share of foreign films like Good Bye, Lenin! and Joyeux Noel and of course his brand of TV. Chris Carter’s X-Files and Millenium. Gene Rodenberry’s Star Trek and Next Generation--not to mention all the old Star Trek movies.

Eryca and Alex were in the middle of a very heated match of Soul Calibur II. Alex had over the course of the last few weeks managed to master using the Gamecube controller with his hands and feet. Eryca was Kilik. Alex was Link. It was a truly marvelous spectacle. Kilik would attempt to bring down his staff, but wherever it swung Link would guard reflect, duck or jump. Likewise as Link’s sword flew through the air, so Kilik’s staff would meet it and counterattack.

“You know… this match would be a lot less frustrating if we didn’t know the characters so well,” Eryca said. “You know all of Kilik’s moves so you can tell what he’s going to do as soon as he starts doing it.”

“This match would be less frustrating if I could play like a normal person. If I weren’t eight inches tall I’d be kicking your ass right now--maneuvering a joystick with your feet isn’t exactly easy, y’know.”

There was a knock at the door.

“I should probably get that,” Eryca said.

“Nah, I’ll do it. I’ll open the door with my psychic powers--who needs to be able to reach the knob to open a door.”

“Hah hah, very funny.” Eryca got up and paused the game. Alex got off of the Gamecube controller and let out a heavy sigh. Video games take a lot out of you at that height.

A few moments later, Eryca entered the living room with Senator Smarmann and the man from the capitol building--the one with the eye patch.

“Alex, these men want to talk with you... it’s pretty important,” she said, biting her thumbnail.

“What’s up,” he asked. Senator Smarmann was silent. Eventually, the man with the eye patch spoke.

“Well, Mr. Coy, it’s like this... we would like to appoint you to the town council as a representative for the interests of plague victims.”

“Wait, what?”

“You see, none of the plague victims were elected to public office--but we suspect that had campaigning been more thorough and had more plague victims shown up to vote this would not be the case... we just can’t see ourselves as being true representatives of the people unless we have at least one plague victim on the council.”

“Listen, Mr…?”

“Freak Boy--Councilman Freak Boy.” The look on Alex’s face very clearly said wtf?!

“Right, well… Freak Boy. I’m an activist, no questioning that. I enjoy picketing, I’ll voice my opinion, I like helping in campaigns. But that’s all I am. I’m a soldier of the revolution, one of the masses helping put change forth. I’m no great orator or leader, I’m just a guy. I think you’ve got the wrong guy.”

“No, not at all. You see, the people are already familiar with you. They’ll recognize your face from the speech you gave earlier.”

“If it’s not you,” Smarmann interjected, “the people might try and fight the decision.”

“But I wasn’t elected, isn’t this illegal?” he asked.

“Technically, nothing’s illegal at the moment. We have yet to draft a new set of laws, our sole purpose right now is to get things up and running. Hospitals, roads, etc. We’ll deal with constitutionality and legal issues later. But right now, as far as anyone else will know, you’re just another elected member of the council.”

“Don’t know… doesn’t sit right with me. Feels a lot like lying.”

“Welcome to politics, friend,” Smarmann said with a smile.

Alex had to think this one over. He was youthful, idealistic, intelligent--just what was needed in a leader. But he didn’t want to be a leader. Some people try to be great. Others have greatness thrust upon them. There is an old saying, a very old saying: “Those who are most suited for a position of power are the ones least likely to accept it and those who want said position are the ones least qualified to fill it.” It took some convincing, but eventually we were able to talk him into it. And so it seemed we were set. Things were mutating, slowly but surely, and we may have been able to pull a utopia out of our asses. Who knows, anything’s possible. We were on the right path, and everything was perfect... unfortunately, unrest would rise in ways we least expected.