Enjoying the Outbreak (Fiction)

[Kamikaze189]

Despite the "undead" parts, this will be L4D-ish in zombie aspects. So, here's the stuff:

Enjoying the Outbreak.

My name’s Vince. I used to be just a normal guy in a shitty town, with a shitty job, who lived in a shitty house. That changed one day. You can call them what you want. The living dead. Zombies. The undead. Take your pick. Whatever you want to call them, it made the situation quite a bit worse... in most people’s opinion.

Nobody ever came up with an official name for the day of the outbreak, but I’ve always called it Cannibal Day. (Inter?)National Cannibal Day, alternatively. Anyway, it was the first annual National Cannibal Day, and I was driving to work in my shit car. Everything seemed normal. People were walking their dogs, other people were driving their automobiles in ways that regularly violated traffic laws, some people stayed in their homes and read books while listening to music, and old people croaked without coming back to life. People much unlike myself would tell you that things were going well.

I arrived in the early morning so I could start pumping out heart-stoppers at Fried Chicken, where I worked. It was home to the most unhealthy food imaginable. Although I was no hitman, as a worker at Fried Chicken I could honestly say I kill people for a living. Maybe if I made more money you could call me a hitman. Think about it.

I parked my car around back, and was happy to see a blue car, among the other employee cars, I recognized as Kurt’s. (You may notice that "Kurt" sounds like a tough-guy name, but Kurt isn’t a tough-guy. He’s wimpier than I am. Not that I am wimpy.) Anyway, I walked in the back door.

When I opened the door, I was greeted by a giant female blob. This blob had a name: Jenny. The first words that came out of her gaping eat-hole were as follows. "Hey, dipshit, you’re fifteen minutes late! Do you want to get fired or something?" Jenny just causes trouble for the sake of causing trouble. I remember looking at a clock, and I was not even eight minutes late.

Truth be told, nobody else is desperate enough to work at Fried Chicken, so if I did get fired, they’d go out of business shortly thereafter. "You’re a fat bitch, now get out of my way."

"What?" She took a step back like she’d seen a floating donut headed her way. "I’m firing you, dumbass, this is your last day getting away with this shit."

Little did Jenny know, she was actually not a manager. She had absolutely zero power over me or anyone else at the restaurant. Anyway. "Yeah, go ahead and try to fire me." I walked to the bathroom, cause I had to change into the retarded Fried Chicken attire. "It doesn’t involve eating anything, so I’ll be surprised if you can handle it."

Kurt, at the register, just shook his head and laughed regretfully.

I came back out of the bathroom a few minutes later in a striped white and red shirt, and red shorts. Part of the job, as they say. Standing in front of me, with hands on his hips, was Greg. He was actually a manager. I think he was something like forty years old. Anyway, by the angry look on his face, I could tell he was about to tell me a bunch of things I didn’t want to hear.

Kurt was at the register, and I could see him raising his eyebrows at me, which was a look I knew well. It said, "How’re you going to get out of this one?"

I glanced at Greg, and I did the first thing that came to mind. I stepped forward, threw my arms around him, and started making sobbing noises. Then I told him my grandma was dead, which was absolutely true -- only it’s been that way since I was five.

Greg pushed me off, and saw the tears on my face. "Vince, get yourself together, man. Why’d you come to work if your grandma died today?"

"F-Fried Chicken is the only place I could go. My family went to the- the," I grabbed him again, and continued crying. "She’s gone!"

A couple tears rolled down Greg’s cheek, and he wiped them away as fast as he could. It was spectacular. "Look, Vince, maybe you should go outside for awhile? Come back in once you’re feeling a bit better?"

I nodded and walked with my eyes to the floor. I exited through the back door. Jenny saw me, and obviously thought I’d been fired. Outside, I walked over and sat on the curb. I wiped the fake tears from my eyes and looked around, kind of bored.

It was about nine in the morning, and some woman pulled into the drive thru. Who the hell goes to get a bucket of fried chicken at nine in the morning? I don’t know, but the backseat window was about three feet away from the tip of my nose, and I looked in at the offspring of whatever freak was in the front seat. Three little gremlins with snot covered hands pushed and shoved toward the front mother-beast, screaming their orders at the top of their lungs. I could see their rotten little eyes glowing with hunger.

Luckily, they either didn’t notice me, or didn’t care. So I stood up and walked over to the dumpster so I could hide behind it. It was angled against a hill inclined nearly straight up, making a kind of triangle of stinking sanity. It ensured that there were to be no more close encounters with "society" for Vince.

As I walked around the corner, I nearly ran into Tina. She worked at Burger Joint right next to Fried Chicken. It wasn’t that unusual for us to see eachother behind the smelly trash pile. "Hey, what’s up?"

"Chilling." She said and eyeing me over in my uniform and a smile appeared on her face. "That uniform always gets me."

"Yours isn’t much better, you know." She was wearing a blue button down t-shirt and yellow pants. Also, I’ll take this time to mention that Tina is rather hot. Just so you know why I was hanging out with her behind a dumpster.

"So what’s up with you?" She said, standing there. And it was then that I realized she had nothing in her hands. Her amusement; her interest, was missing. No music, no book, no nothing. That could only mean one thing.

I avoided the question and looked at her curiously out of the corner of my eye. "Were you waiting for me?"

"What?" She asked, startled.

"You were, weren’t you?" I grinned.

If you knew Tina, you’d know she’d never admit to it. "No, I just didn’t have- a, uh, a..." Then she trailed off, defeated. It was close enough to an admittance as you could ever get.

"Hey, it’s okay if you were." I put a hand on her shoulder. "You can wait for me if you want."

There was a slightly awkward pause, until she said, "can you meet me here later? I’ve got work in a couple minutes, but I want to talk to you."

"Sure. What time?" I watched her slip out between the dumpster and the dirt.

"How about twelve?"

"Okay!" I called to her as she crossed the Fried Chicken parking lot and into the Burger Joint one, although I couldn’t see.

Kurt’s head appeared where Tina had vanished. "You told Greg your grandmother died so you could make out?" He was in a state of disbelief.

"I told Greg my grandmother died so he wouldn’t fire me. If you had seen his face before I burst out crying, you would’ve known." I squeezed out of the crevice between the earth and the rusty metal.

"Well, get your ass back inside, we have to cook some heart-stoppers." Kurt pushed me toward the door. "Gene is running late, if he’s coming in at all, so we need to be working in lightspeed."

"Okay, Han Solo, I’ll be clogging arteries before you can say Millennium Falcon." I replied flatly and walked inside.

I already knew what to expect when I walked in the door, so when I saw Jenny, I didn’t feel that normal shiver go down my spine. She was frying chicken, which is what I also sometimes did. "Why’d you come back? Aren’t you fired?"

"Actually, Jenny, the strangest thing happened to me just now, when I was outside." I saw her eyes turn from anger to a gullible interest. "This feeling hit me, a feeling I could not ignore."

"Did you finally feel sorry for being such a dick?" Jenny let a smart-ass smirk come to her bloated face.

"Close." I walked past her, headed toward the register. "I felt sorry I hadn’t keyed the word ‘bitch’ onto your car for a few weeks."

"You didn’t." She tested. "Besides, you know you would have to pay for it."

"And you don’t think keying your car isn’t worth any amount of money?" I tilted my head and raised my eyebrows, which confuses the hell out of everyone when I do it.

She went to the door, flung it open, and went to check on her car.

Kurt was already standing next to the entrance, and he knew what to do. He locked the door and shook his head, distressed at his own actions. He knew I would’ve done it if he hadn’t. "How come you two can’t just get along?"

I looked around, and saw that Greg was at the other side of the restaurant, at the left corner, cleaning windows. My words were pretty safe at that distance. "Because Jenny is exactly what I hate about people. She’s fat, lazy, irresponsible, and hates people for no reason."

Kurt chuckled. "Except for the fatness, you just described yourself pretty accurately too."

I was about to retort, when I heard a thud. Looking up, I saw a slobbering vagrant, wearing what looked to be rags, had run into the window where Greg was wiping. "A starving bum." I commented. "That’s a new one."

Kurt sighed. "Fat people, stupid kids, bums... who cares?" He turned to his left and walked behind the fryer. That meant I would have to work at the register.

"Oh, hell no." I walked to the back of the restaurant. "I’m not dealing with shit-heads today. My grandma died."

Kurt looked at me, grabbed a handful of nearby napkins, and crunched them in one hand. "Go to the register, and practice telling the truth for a little while." The napkins seemed to crush into such a tiny amount of space that he had broke some law of physics. "Okay?"

"If I don’t, are you planning to kill me with a handful of napkins?" I asked, as the backdoor bounced up against the frame. In a moment, I knew, Jenny would start screaming at the door.

"I’ll kill you with something, I swear." He stared at me with the kind of look a Nazi would give a Jew. "I’ll throw you in the oven."

I shrugged, turned, and strolled to the cash register. "Nazi.

[Kamikaze189]

I shrugged, turned, and strolled to the cash register. "Nazi." I was unlucky enough to see Greg at the front door, welcoming somebody in. This guy looked like a farmer, wearing plaid and overalls. He walked up to the counter right in front of me, and his jaw dropped open as he stared at pictures of food above my head. "Welcome to Fried Chicken," I groaned.

The man didn’t seem to notice my greeting, and spoke over it with a, "Uh. I’ll have a. Uh. Um. Let’s see here."

My head dropped as I waited.

"You boys sure have a. Uh. S’lection." He lifted a hand up to his face, where it coincidentally collected a little drool from his open mouth.

I waited a moment. He just continued to stare. My patience was about to wear out.

His eyes lit up for a moment. He nodded his head back, indicating behind him. "You fellas know there’s a solicitatin’ bum out there?" He lifted up his sleeve, revealing a couple little bleeding spots on his skin. "He done and bit me, even."

"Yeah, we know." I turned to look at the pictures of food above me, since I never bothered to memorize the different flavors of fat we served. I found a food item I thought the farmer would like. It featured chicken. "How about the number one?"

"Uh." He looked at the chart, squinting. "Um. Sounds fine."

I turned around, grabbed the already prepared food, and handed it off to the farmer. He sat down on the right side of the restaurant, taking the occasional minute or two to nurse his wounds between eating chunks of chicken.

I stood, idly, at the register at ten in the morning, watching the bum. He ran into the window repeatedly where Greg cleaned the glass. What looked to be flaps of skin wiped off the bum’s arms and hands, and stuck to the outside. Once the skin-flaps had torn off, the bum smeared blood all over the window as he hugged the glass.

"A leper and a bum." I spoke to myself. "That’s really unfortunate."

Greg lowered the rag in his hand and tried to make the vagrant go away simply by staring at him. Since bums don’t have manners, I guessed, it didn’t work. Greg swivelled on one foot, and came marching toward me with an angry and determined look. "Where’s the broom?"

"I saw it in the bathroom." I answered.

He stormed into the bathroom and out my sight.

Jenny walked in through the front door, passing the bum quickly, her hair a mess, and a scrape along one arm. Like Greg had just done, she marched up to the counter. "You know what I just had to go through?"

I looked at her and shrugged. "A doorway?" She stared.

"Five salespeople tried to mug me!" She slammed a hand on the register, shaking it. "I could’ve been seriously hurt. And this is all your fault."

I sighed, feigning frustration. "You’re fine. All they did was pull some of your hair out and cut your arm." I pulled her hand off the register and then cleaned the leftover grease spot with a nearby napkin. "Farmer John over there got bit by the one out front, so you shouldn’t complain."

"I shouldn’t complain?" Jenny stammered. "They probably wanted to rape me!"

I raised my head. "Jenny, as long as there are real cows, I can’t imagine a rapist stooping down for a cheap imitation."

Greg stepped out of the bathroom with the broom in his hand. Something in his eyes was wrong. He was sizing Jenny and me up - comparing us for something. Ultimately, his eyes came to a rest on me. "Vince, have you ever shooed a bum before?"

I didn’t even respond until after the broom had been forced into my hands. "What do you mean by ‘shoo’?"

"No, no. You’re holding it wrong." He turned the broom around and handed it back, so I would be prodding with the brushless end. Once that was complete, he pointed to the vagrant in front of the building. "You just kind of smack him with the broom. Say some vulgar things to him." He patted me on the back reassuringly. "It’s not complicated."

Now, I had no qualms breaking a broom over a bum’s head. In fact, I’d probably enjoy it. And if I did break the broom, that meant I also didn’t have to clean. So the only thing setting off an alarm in my head was that Greg, with all his supposed bum-beating experience, was giving me the broom. "Greg, why not have Jenny do it?"

"She’s-" Greg stopped himself before the f-word bounced out of his mouth. "L-" He considered going the large route, but that too would’ve doomed him. He just smiled at me. "I wanted to give you a break. What with your grandma and all."

I turned to face the bum, who still seemed to be making love to the window, even while bleeding. "You sure it’s not because he looks particularly violent, not to mention thoroughly insane?"

Smile faded completely, Greg looked to the bum and then back to me. He put a hand on my shoulder. "You’re fired then." He took the broom from my hands and marched to the front door.

I watched him go until Jenny’s form blocked my view. And she was smiling. "Bye bye."

I was not angered, only surprised. "Well." I turned around and walked to the back of the restaurant where Kurt was cooking. "Hey, Kurt."

"What do you want?" He looked up.

"Greg told me, to tell you, that you’re fired." To him, I must’ve appeared honest, cause he bought it.

He threw the spatula to the floor. "Goddamn it." He picked up the utensil and put it back on the counter. "You got me fired too?"

I thought for a moment. "Sure did."


We walked out the back door.

And then I saw them. It was a crowd of men, six of them, stumbling around all drunken-like. They were all wearing suits with bloody tears in them in places. Most alarming, though, and unlike usual when I saw this group, their shirts were not tucked in. I was just glad they were all the way across the parking lot.

I stopped in my tracks. These men were normal customers from the dealership next door. I alerted my companion, "Kurt, the car salesmen have regressed to their true forms."

"Oh, Jesus, are they drunk? They smell like skunks." Kurt stumbled backwards away from their direction. "What’d they do to themselves?"

Not wanting to miss a chance to kick someone when they’re down, I thought I’d ask outright. "Hey!" I shouted to their backs, "are you guys all shitfaced? Isn’t nine in the morning a bit early?" They slowly turned as I continued. "Is that how you kill your conscience? With alcohol?"

Kurt smacked my arm. "Is that how you kill -your- conscience?"

I didn’t reply. A combination of reasons. One was that the six salesmen had turned completely around to reveal enraged, horribly twisted, faces speckled with blood. These faces expressed the kind of hatred that fueled genocides.

Kurt opened his mouth again while I stood frozen in place. "I don’t want to be here."

The salesmen started sprinting towards us.

Short interruption: I and everyone I called a friend had climbed onto the roof of Fried Chicken in the past. Not for any particular reason. It was just apparently a cool place to hang out. Like behind a dumpster. The way up there, though? The drive through display, which was surprisingly strong for the piece of crap it looked like.

I and Kurt were up the display and onto the roof in no time at all. We spun around on the roof to see what the evil salesmen would do.

The situation changed, however. A man in a convertible whizzed around the corner of the restaurant, in the drive through. He braked abruptly when he saw the salesmen in the way. It took four seconds before he stood up in his car. "Get the hell out of the way!" Next, he must’ve noticed a nametag for the dealership on one of their uniforms. "Work at the dealership, huh? I make fifty times what all you pitiful chumps make put together. In a week!"

I never got a chance to tell him what an arrogant ass he was or ask him his profession. The satanic salesmen jumped into his car with him, beating on him, tearing and biting. The man let out a girly squeal and put the pedal to the metal, taking himself and the drunkards out of sight.

The parking lot was empty of movement, and there was no sign that any of the past events had happened.

"Whew," I said. "Glad that ended so well."

"What!" Kurt began to move to the side of the restaurant to see over the edge. "We need to help--"

I grabbed his collar and made him face me. "Whew. I’m glad that -ended- so well." Then I released him.

"Fine, Machiavelli." He adjusted his shirt. "I guess we should just let people die, is that it? Somebody needs help, just say ‘fuck ‘em’?"

"Assholes," I corrected. "I call it Vince’s First Law of Human Interaction. All it says is: Fuck assholes." Kurt’s face looked grim and serious as he listened. "Yeah, it’s a mouthful. Call it ‘The Anal Law’ if you can’t remember it. Just don’t take it literally." Kurt stared. "Unless you’re homo."

A loud snapping noise from the front of the restaurant interrupted Kurt before he could speak. It was followed up by Greg cursing loudly.

Naturally, I flew across the roof to see what the commotion was.

Greg swung half a broom at the leper bum. It wasn’t looking good for the bum, either. He’d get hit, trip over his own feet backward, and then rush forward to get hit by Greg once again. And Greg, now with half a broom, had a sharpened point to stick the bum with. Seeing this, Greg pushed the leper bum back and then threw the broom like a spear. It flew uselessly over the bum’s shoulder.

Greg pulled open the door next to him. "Get out of here! I’m calling the cops!" Then the door shut behind him as he went inside. The bum slammed himself up to the glass and continued to rub against it.

"Think we should help?" Kurt asked from beside me.

"Well, the question to ask is, should we invoke Vince’s First Law of Human Interaction?" I responded, watching the bum.

Kurt thought for a moment, until he suddenly clenched his fist. "Greg -did- fire me just for associating with you." He nodded strongly before thrusting a pointed finger forward. "Yeah. Fuck him."

I enjoyed that too much to do any fact checking. "Good." I stepped away from the edge. "What time you got?"

"Must be about nine thirty or ten-ish." Kurt shrugged.

"What happened to your watch?"

Kurt grimaced a bit. "I stopped wear

[Kamikaze189]

Kurt grimaced a bit. "I stopped wearing watches, they chafe on my wrist."

"If you’re going to say something so ridiculous, you should at least say it like ‘watches fuck up my wrist.’" Looking over the edge of the restaurant, at the back, I continued. "And you wonder why nobody respects you."

"I don’t wonder that -- and who doesn’t respect me?" Kurt jogged to the edge nearby. "Who doesn’t respect me?"

"Agh. It doesn’t even matter." I swung my legs over the side. "Now, I’m going to go change back into my normal clothes. If you’re up for some Burger Joint, meet me over there."

"Okay..."

[dontleave]

Sooooo..... long.

[Eddy_of_the_dead]

indeed :D

[krunsh]

Very good!
You are very talented in writing, and if you have anything more, I would like to read it to. (this story or another one).

Here is my Msn/email adress if you want some review for any of your writing. docteur_krunsh@hotmail.com

I can't wait to read more :)

[dontleave]

Here is my Msn/email adress if you want some review for any of your writing. docteur_krunsh@hotmail.com

Initiate spam mode. NAO!

Seriously dude, PM.

[krunsh]

spam all you want, there's a lot of space left in the spam box :p

[Kamikaze189]

if you have anything more, I would like to read it to

Well, I have a lot of beginnings to zombie stories, but not too many complete ones.

I think I had one on a blog, if I can find it. It's not as recent, though.

http://contag.blogspot.com/

I have more of that, but it's hand-written and I haven't taken the time to type it.

Since you seem to be my only reader, which one would be better to work on, IYO? And, if necessary, I could put an actual plot into the next part(s) of Enjoying the Outbreak. :P

[krunsh]

sound good, I will read this tomorow.

[hooray for zombies]

I rather enjoyed this, the pro(ant?)tagonist seems like a bit more of a dick than is believable. But you do a good job on punctuation and grammar, and keep conversations and the story floiwing smoothly. This is a story that could be considered a notch above the rest.

[krunsh]

Waiking up in a new world was great to, not I'm wondering was is going to happen :) . both story are interesting, but If I had to choose only one of them, that would be "Enjoying the outbreak". Mostly because the "hero" of the story is an ass.

But anyway, I will read both of them.

[squerl]

I liked it, it'd be nice to have it be more clear whether they are slow or fast zombies (since you say undead at the start, but then the salesmen run). Look forward to more.

[Kamikaze189]

Next bit...

---

The front door to Burger Joint slammed behind me after I walked inside.

I’d taken my time in the restroom and throwing my greasy and unwashed uniform into the trunk of my car. This allowed Kurt to beat me over to our rendezvous point.

He was sitting over in the far corner, like some little rejected insect, with his back to me. I knew he was waiting, but I did want to talk to Tina.

I walked to the right, toward the counter, past a gaudy Burger Man toy-case. However, I quit walking toward the counter when I saw the person behind it.

His name was Derek, and, back when school was in, he was the "coolest" guy in the world. He smashed the competition playing every sport in school he could while nearly flunking out due to them. In a vaguely similar way to Kurt, he had a reputation. The only difference was that he maintained his through the physical competition in sports, and that he had one.

I held no history with Derek, minus a few scuffles. But I had no business with him.

My left foot was moving back, about to take me away from him, when I saw Tina come forward from the back of the restaurant. She walked up to the counter next to the bored-looking Derek, put her hand on top of his, and said something entirely buried by the sound of my blaring temper.

I let my left foot rip me back. I swiveled and ducked out of sight, whispering to myself. "The hell he is." Just before I reached Kurt, in the corner, I spoke through gritted teeth, "he’s -not.-"

"Not what?" Kurt watched me as I sat down.

"You know who’s at the counter with Tina?" I grabbed the nearest thing on the table, which happened to be a small glass container filled with salt.

Kurt reached out and slowly took the pepper away. "Who? Is it Derek?" I watched him put the pepper under the table, like he was a magician and I was too stupid see him hiding it. "He’s worked here forever."

"Forever and a half -- yes." I started tipping the salt shaker a little, and a few pieces scattered out onto the table. "But he was touching Tina’s hand. Their hands were touching."

"Maybe it didn’t mean anything."

I dumped a tiny stream of salt as I pondered it over. Their hands touching just once? And I just happened to see it? But maybe it was just a brush, real casual-like? It could’ve been.

"Why are you doing that?" Kurt squinted at the salt, confused.

I tilted the container upright, and exhaled. "You’re probably right about the hand thing." I slid the salt away and let go. "She wouldn’t be meeting me behind the dumpster and, you know, doing -that.-"

Kurt just nodded, his head tilted down. "It’s alright, man."

Sure it was, I thought to myself, staring at my own hands.

When Kurt lifted his head, and looked out the window, his eyes narrowed. "I think something weird is going on around here."

Out the window, a man and a woman sat on the back bumper of a four-door car. He was spewing, his guts coming out in streams. His girlfriend put her hand on his back, and another on his forehead. As she spoke, her mouth was opening wide, her voice desperate even without sound.

I had been planning to eat. "People get sick. No need to point that out to me."

"Didn’t the guys from the dealership have puke on themselves?" Kurt was one of those science-y types. Always connecting dots and shit.

"Sure, they could have." I couldn’t remember and it couldn’t have been important.

The door swung open and a figure stumbled in: Gene, who should’ve been at work. He had shoulder-length hair, a five-o’clock shadow at nine-thirty AM, and absorbed the world from half-closed eyes that let everyone know he was in an altered state of mind. However, unlike so many other people’s preference of alcohol, Gene chose what he called "the herbal way."

Like smoking weed was a philosophy.

He shuffled up beside our table. "Hey." He paused, looking from Kurt and then back to me, receiving a nod from us both. "You guys aren’t going to believe this." He talked at the speed of light -- if reversed, taped, and played back at half-speed. "I walked in to work, and Greg was like, ‘Gene, you’re high again.’ So I was like, ‘yeah.’ And he was like, ‘if you come in to work high again, I’m firing you.’ So then -I- said," Gene threw a hand forward, letting it flop back to his side, "‘I’ll be coming in high next time so you might as well fire me now.’" His head bobbed up and down as he smiled from ear to ear, his lazy-eyes so very proud. "I’m fired."

"Welcome to the club." I scooted over, making room in the booth. "We all got kicked out today."

Gene dropped into the seat. His eyes fell on the tiny sand-sized white crystals on the table. At that point, he stopped speaking, seeming to go into a trance.

And this was normal.

"Anyway," Kurt started, "the salesmen had puke on them, right? Well, so did that violent bum."

"Ok," I said flatly, "but, you know what? Diseases go around." I put my hands on the table to emphasize my next point. "Shit, everyone in my family has been puking their guts up for the last few days. And nothing’s wrong with them, they’re just sick cause a bug’s going on its run. That’s what they do."

"I’m not arguing against that." Kurt sighed. "I was just saying, what if this disease is worse? Making people puke and... screwed up like the car salesmen."

"Yeah, that sound about right -- makes sense." I fake-narrowed my brow. "Come to think of it, an abnormal number of people -have- been offering me deals on cars. Would you believe it if I told you?" I interjected with a fake-scoff. "Even my dad was saying, ‘no money down, no payment ‘til two-thousand thirty.’ Obviously, he was going to rip me off."

Kurt put his face in his palms and smudged them against eachother. "You know what I meant." He pulled his hands away, then, in a quick motion. "What about your mom?"

I nudged Gene, hoping he would say something less sensical than Kurt, so my more intelligent friend could at least sound like it. But Gene didn’t snap out of his daze, so I frowned at Kurt. "Yeah, my mom had a fit."

Kurt’s head dropped a half-inch. "She punched your dad. Almost knocked him out you said, right?"

I shook my head. "Look, I’m done talking to you about your disease conspiracy theories. Everything is fine and nobody needs to be putting on tin foil hats or anything stupid like that." I then nodded to the window. "Look at those people, and then you tell me that this disease is worse than some common flu."

We both looked.

The woman was on the ground, sprawling on the pavement. She was crawling away from the man, who was quickly closing the distance. He ran forward from the car and delivered a neck-snapping kick to the woman’s face.

As her limp body slumped over, I reconsidered Kurt’s hypothesis.

Pretty convincing, I had to say.

The man, instead of studying his kill or disappearing like a serial killer, twitched to face our window.

Kurt slid out of his seat. I tried to do the same, but bumped into the vegetative Gene.

The man leaned forward, and broke into a run. His face warped into a twisted snarl as his arms pumped. In an instant, he was close enough that his eyes were locked into mine.

"Gene, move!" I shoved the druggy and ducked half-way under the table. Glass shattered and rained down upon me. An arm smacked the back of my head, but only once.

I slid out from the table, and looked back.

The man lay face down on the table, blood from his open head expanding in a circle.

Gene, from behind me and on the floor, spoke first and summarized. "What the -fuck?-"

Kurt was wide-eyed as he stepped back over crunching glass. "I’ve got to call my --" was all he said before he pulled the cellphone in his pocket to his ear. He dialed.

It occurred to me, just as it had Kurt, that if all the people I knew who were sick would turn out like this man, then this quiet little town was about to change.

I moved past Kurt, who was now babbling something into his phone, so I could get to the front door, when Tina and Derek stepped in front of me. Their eyes stared at the dead man on the table and I walked straight in between them.

From inside the door, I could see over to Fried Chicken. A single man was climbing into the dumpster, his movements erratic. Another was up to his shoulder, clawing into the drive-through window. And then, shooting from across the street, five of the suits from the dealership made their sprinting return. Luckily, if Greg was still inside the Fried Chicken, a police car slammed into the side of the first, second, and then third. It spun into the parking lot of Fried Chicken, and a hand clutching a pistol appeared out of the window, firing shots at the two remaining salesmen.

Oh yes, this quiet town was about to change a lot.

[krunsh]

nice, thanks! it's still very good.