It was early afternoon before Mac's stomach grumbled, reminding him to stop and eat.  He finished hammering the loose board, satisfied that it was level and secure.  Wiping sweat from his forehead, he sat back on his heels and admired his work.  He had stubbed his toe for the last time, at least on this baby.  The barn was older than Mac by several years, and he loved spending time out here.  Since he was a little boy, he had come here for peace and quiet.  He knew every inch of the barn, and at one point had maintained or inspected every board and nail.  A storm last year had damaged the roof, but he wasn't going to tackle that until spring.  The roof had plenty of time left, and the weather would make it a pain in the ass right now.
     The phone began to ring right as he was taking his boots off.  Caught between the need to answer the phone and fear of his wife's reaction if he got dirt on her kitchen floor, he hop-limped across the floor and grabbed the phone.
     "I thought you might be done by now, " Debbie said.  He caught her up on the list of chores he had completed, and realized from the silence her mind had wandered.  He took off his other boot and began washing up.  He was tempted to ask Deb what she was calling for, but he knew better.  She got around to things in her own good time, and there was no rushing her.
     "So, I stopped by Lisa's and I thought we might hang out for a while," she said.  Aha, now he knew where this was going.  Lisa was her sister, who managed to go through a husband about every eighteen months, with a six-month courting period between.  She was at the inevitable divorce stage of the cycle, which meant her dutiful sister was going to sit and listen to her rant while the kids played together.  Despite her lousy ability to choose husbands, Lisa was a great mom and the cousins all got along.  Her son Greg was the same age as Adam, and the Playstation would keep them amused for hours.  He was actually grateful it worked out this way, he was spared the awkward time trying not to listen while pretending to be concerned.
      It was agreed that Deb would probably stay for dinner, and he would be on his own.  He put on a good show, which his wife completely saw through.  She knew he was looking forward to some wings and beer, and glad to have escaped Lisa's diagnosis of what was wrong with the fifth (or was it sixth?) man she swore to love until death separated them.  Was he cheating?  Did he tell her some terrible secret from his past?  He'd find out soon enough, and would get his suit cleaned and ready for the next wedding.  If she was on schedule, it would be next April or so.
     After reassurances that they were on the same page, they got off the phone.  He had moved on to making a ham sandwich by then, and with a quick pang he realized he forgot to tell her he loved her.  He grinned and thought about how he could make up for that tonight.  As he worked his way through lunch, he began to make a to-do list of things he could get done before dinner at the the Blue Goose.  If he got right to it, he might even have time to chill out for a while.  By the time he put his boots back on, he had forgotten all about Lisa and her problems.  He was looking forward to a cold beer and some of the Goose's signature spicy sauce.  Life was good.

     His arm hurt like hell.  Lewis tried not to think about it while he sped towards a hospital.  God, the human mouth was filled with germs, there was no telling what was brewing in his flesh at the moment.  Red veins came out from the bite wound and stretched toward his hand.  The swelling was so severe that the skin was shiny.  His arm looked like it was going to burst.  Every throbbing heartbeat made it swell even larger, and the pain was intense.
     As a little kid, he had developed a fascination with germs.  Through high school, he had worked over in the lab, growing different strains of bacteria.  He could envision the little monsters gnawing at his skin, setting his nerves on fire.  He couldn't help but glance at it from time to time.  The red streaks were turning dark, a blue black that began to seep into the skin around it.  Whatever that stupid fucker had, it was gnarly.  If he hadn't stopped to help, he wouldn't be in this mess.  Stupid!  He knew better.  Any time you tried to help someone you always got burned.  Now he was probably going to lose his arm because some idiot had an accident and was shaken up.
     He pulled into St. Joseph's emergency room a few minutes later, and by then he was feeling weak.  His body was hot and dry, and he felt like he couldn't get enough air.  A rattle had developed deep in his chest, and he felt like he had the worst flu ever.  The kind of flu that killed, not the kind that made you drink soup on a quiet Tuesday.  His skin hurt, and the throb in his arm slowed down as his pulse began to flutter.  He didn't get there a moment too soon, his body was setting off alarms and begging for fluids and medicine.  He would have given anything to curl up and take a nap, but he was starting to worry if he would wake up.
     He stumbled across the parking lot, and the sun felt like it was frying his eyeballs.  He stared at the ground and squinted, blocking as much as possible.  He knew the general way to the doors and took off in that direction, becoming more disoriented as he went.  The sun was so damn hot, why did it have to burn him like that?  As his confusion worsened, he became enraged at the sun.  Fucking thing.  Fucking sun.  He swung his hands at it, batting at the hateful light that sizzled his skin.  He began to babble incoherently, cursing the light and the heat and the pain that had now spread all through him.  His fever surged and his internal organs began to shut down.  His oxygen levels were dropping and his heart began to labor, working overtime.
     It took him nearly ten minutes to cross the lot and reach the door.  Only one person saw him, and dismissed him as one of the homeless people that came through periodically.  By the time he reached the door, Lewis had less than two hours to live.

     On the last day of his life, Matthew Swisher told his wife to go to hell.  As with most people, he had no idea this would be his last day among the living.  In fact, he was pretty optimistic about his future after losing 170 pounds of raging bitch and a bright day before him.  Melissa had always had a temper, but even she was surprised by her ability to dig her claws in that particular morning.  Matthew had taken her crap for a solid two years, and when he told her to go to hell he was really saying he was ready to get an apartment and live a lonely but peaceful life.
     He was telling his buddy Jeff about it when they got the call about an accident with moderate to severe injuries.  Jeff was driving, and the route was a straight shot, so they were still talking about Melissa when their ambulance pulled up to the scene.  A man was pulling out in his car, flying around slowed cars and leaving the scene.  At first Matthew had been concerned that he was involved, but years of experience told him immediately which car had been involved and which one had just shot off the road into the deep ravine on the west side of the highway.
     An injured man apparently had lost his mind, and was attacking those around him.  He then stepped into the path of an oncoming car and taken a bone-crushing hit.  Matthew and Jeff were as surprised as anyone else that he was still alive.  In his eight years working car accidents and worse, Matthew had never seen a victim react so violently.  This was what they called a RFU situation, which stood for Really Fucked Up.  He wasn't sure whether to try to help the man or run from him.
     A woman called out, and he looked over at her.  He saw her lying on the side of the pavement and figured she belonged to the car whose skid marks went over the edge.  It was a miracle she was alive, but she was definitely in need of help.  Her face had the pale sweaty look of someone in shock, and she surely had some serious injuries from going over the embankment.  The man on the ground sat up and began crawling towards her.  The woman waited, looking pitifully at the people standing around her (it was then he noticed what appeared to be a chemical burn on the side of her face) and finally threw herself back down to try to avoid the man crawling towards her.  It was this that spurred him to action.  He ran over to the crawling man and sat on his back, trying to restrain him.  He put a lock on his arm, gentle at first but tightening it when the man fought back. This type of hold was painful but not very dangerous.  Impervious to the pain, the crazy man fought back and finally got out from the hold.  He bit Matthew's ankle, and his shattered teeth peeled flesh away as he dragged his mouth around and began to gnaw.  Matthew flipped over onto his back and knew he was about to doom the woman who so bravely escaped a moment ago.
     "I'm sorry lady," he said and kicked the man over the side, away from the crowd.

     Mary stared at the paramedics, who took their time now to get to the stricken man.  He was on his side, his arms splayed in an awkward position.  His shattered leg was protruding through his skin, a bulge that made Mary's stomach clench.  She saw his forehead was missing great swatches of skin, leaving patches that looked like raw meat.  She also marveled that he didn't seem to be bleeding.  Weren't head wounds supposed to bleed heavily?
     The man twitched, and Mary blinked in disbelief.  Surely she had imagined it, but even as she thought it he twitched again, and struggled to sit up.  His eyes rolled wildly, but he was clearly trying to get up.
     "He's alive!  Hey guys, go help him!"  A few people turned towards her, surprised.  Nobody had seen her yet, and she had been just far enough off to the side that the accident drew attention away from her.  The only person who reacted was the man on the ground.  Maybe it was her voice, perhaps he was just reacting to the panicked tone.  He hissed and began to move rapidly towards her, crawling and dragging his useless leg behind.  Mary screamed and began to back up.  She started to slide down the embankment and stopped. afraid to fall down the slope and equally afraid what the man was going to try to do to her.  Two people stood between them, and he crawled past them, his eyes focused on her.  She looked at them and they refused to meet her eye.  They were afraid to intervene.
     "Oh my God, stop him!  Someone help me, I'm injured!"  It was clear the gathering crowd was afraid to touch the hissing man and risk becoming a target.  He scooted towards her, bright red ropes of blood drooling from his mouth.  She saw his front teeth had been knocked out at some point, and his nose was likely broken.  Maybe he was just in so much pain he was hysterical, maybe he-
     The man was nearly on her, and Mary had to make a choice.  It was clear nobody was going to intervene.  The man crawling towards her meant her harm, every fiber of her being knew that.  The steep embankment that went to the woods was her only hope of escaping, maybe she could crawl a ways up the road and come back up where the world wasn't crazy.  Her eye raged and her bones ached as her brain became aware of bruises and cuts that she had neglected so far.  The idea of rolling back down there was almost more than she could bear.
     With a surprisingly good lunge, the man reached for her and grabbed her arm.  He dug in with his nails, and Mary flinched and threw herself backwards.  The crazy man lost his grip and she went down, down into the rocks and weeds, and eventually the trees.  She rolled and let gravity do most of the work for her, each inch between her and her attacker increasing her chances of survival.  She heard a commotion from the road, and assumed it was witnesses shocked at her intentional and desperate maneuver.  Finally, she stopped rolling and realized she couldn't see anyone up top.  The trees blocked her view, and the angle of the weeds prevented her from seeing anything but the end of one pickup truck that had stopped perilously close to the edge.  She took a fast inventory and discovered she hadn't gotten more than a few scratches and bruises from rocks on the way down.  Her broken arm was screaming, but she was safe for the moment.  Despite the strangeness of the past hour, she smiled.
     Then she heard a thumping noise and knew the crazy man was coming after her.  She heard him swish through the weeds and grunt as he rolled down the rocky embankment and knew this was far from over.

     The Good Samaritan pulled his hand back and howled with pain.  He didn't strike the man who just bit him, he didn't even give him a glance as he jumped into his car and took off.  He pulled out right as an ambulance pulled up.  Mary had heard the sirens for a few seconds but her eyes were fixed on the man who just lost his mind and attacked the man who had been helping him.  He continued to lurch and shudder, and once fell on his face for a moment before pushing himself upright again.
     Two paramedics ran to him and began to assemble equipment.  For a few moments the injured man paid them no attention, so intent was he on getting to his feet.  Once he did, he reached out and wrapped his arms around the first paramedic and stumbled.  The paramedic tried to hold him steady, but within seconds the man attacked him, pulling at him and trying to bite.  He wasn't able to get a bite, his victim shoved him down and backed away instead.  Mary couldn't hear the conversation between the two men, but by this time a few other cars had materialized and were making a chaotic scene even more dangerous. When the Biting Man stood again, he made a shuffling charge at the two men nearby.  He was clumsy and slow, and he was shoved back again.  This time he fell spun and ran towards the ditch, in Mary's general direction.  He got so close that she could hear him hissing and grunting with exertion when a car shot around the others, trying to get ahead of the accident, and hit him square on.  The thud was unmistakable, and one of the paramedics stepped forward, his mouth a perfect O of surprise.
     The car screeched to a stop, and a woman jumped out.  She was wearing a dark gray suit, and her brilliant red hair was caught up in a messy bun.  The only part of her that didn't scream strength and power was her choice in footwear.  Mary's eyes were still ground high, and she was struck by the woman's ridiculous spike heels.  Even in her terror, they slowed her to a wobbly trot as she made her way to the man on the ground.
     "He came out of nowhere!"  She screamed at everyone around her, hoping to catch a sympathetic eye. "He just ran out, I couldn't have seen him!  Nobody could have stopped in time!  Somebody help him!  Help us!"  She flailed her arms at the medics, and they were finally jogged into action.  The scene was so crazy that Mary was only processing flashes.  Her eye still hurt like hell, but her brain was so overwhelmed that she wasn't consciously aware of the pain.  She watched the woman run and scream, and the cars were at a full stop now.  Mid-morning traffic was usually slow, but within a few minutes there were several dozen cars at a complete standstill, with some bystanders coming out to see what was going on.  A few bolder ones had their cell phones out, filming the wreck and the body on the ground.  Nobody noticed Mary, a frightened pair of eyes peering over the shoulder of the road.
     But that was about to change.

     Mary swerved, half insane from the pain in her eye.  She had taken John's shit over the years, but the agony she felt had finally driven her over the edge.  The pain gave everything a surreal feeling, like she was swimming through mud, and time had stopped between each brutal throb from her face.  She threw the car in reverse and was barely aware that she knocked the garbage container into the street.  Sobbing and filled with terror and fury, she was determined to save her eye.  As long as she kept John's "machine" running smoothly he let her paint a little, though he complained about the cost of the paint.  Over the years it had become her only passion, the one thing in her world she felt good about.  She had become quite good, and even sold a few pieces to people she met through her neighbor Francine.  On his occasional rant where he didn't burn out quickly, he would tear up her work to punish her.  One time he cut the canvas to pieces with his knife while she was in the hospital with appendicitis.  That had been because they were out of butter, and he required butter every morning on his toast at 8:15.  That was John's machine, his life was run to the minute and God help anyone who threw him off his schedule.
     The pain wasn't going away, but her thoughts began to clear and the panic began to recede.  She knew this was it, the time she finally left that house for good.  She had threatened to before, but John had always begged for forgiveness, and followed her everywhere she went until she relented.  He had worn her down over the past six years, but she still foresaw the inevitable end of her marriage.  She just hadn't expected it to be today.  Like a musician or surgeon would protect their hands, she wasn't just terrified of John or the abuse, she was terrified of losing her eyes.  Losing her art.  It was the only thing she had...
     The car drifted over the yellow line and with a sickening thud she hit the car in the next lane.  She yanked on the wheel too late and overcorrected, and her car shot across the lane and went over the embankment.    She was aware of her arm breaking, and a white hot pain shot through her core when the seat belt snapped and held her in place.  She hit her head on the window and her neck whipped so hard she couldn't imagine that her head didn't pop off.  Fifteen seconds later the car stopped moving, and she laid there wondering just what the hell had taken over her life when her bastard husband had hiked his boot for the first time.  Twenty-three minutes had passed, each more painful than the last.
     Let it not be said that Mary May Johnson Mehr was not one tough cookie.  It took her several painful minutes, but she was able to unbuckle herself and force open the crushed driver side door of the Cadillac. Though parked at a crazy angle, the car had landed on its wheels and a few good nudges forced the door open far enough to crawl out.  The next ten minutes or so were spent crawling hand over hand up the ditch to the highway above her.  She tried to think if there were any other cars and couldn't remember any.  It could be a while before someone stopped and called an ambulance, and she had to check on the other guy.
     The other guy.  She had been so lost in her own pain that for a moment she forgot about the car she hit.  The idea of having killed someone triggered her gag reflex and she paused, retching.  If he wasn't okay she didn't know what she would do.  She would just die, that's all.  Life would cease to exist if she had ruined someone else.  She had to see, she had to know.
     She finally peered over the pavement, taking in the damage.  The car she had hit, some silver nondescript model, was sitting parked on the side of the road.  A tall, thin man was digging frantically through the backseat, mumbling to himself.  Another car had stopped, and the man was standing close but not too close, looking as afraid of the man as he did for him.  The good Samaritan was on his cell phone, likely speaking to 911.  Suddenly, the man pulled a cooler out of the backseat and sat it on the roadside.  He began waving his arms, and then he doubled over in pain.  The Samaritan pulled the phone away and reached out to him, and even though she couldn't hear Mary knew he was asking if he was okay.  The man lurched, and waved his hands but now there was a jerkiness to his movements.  Mary wondered if he was having a heart attack. Surely she was mistaken, but it seemed he was growling at the sun, snapping his jaws at it like a mad dog.  He didn't seem to be injured, he was just acting crazy.  His shuffling dance kept going for several minutes, something between a seizure and a pure expression of pain.
     Then, just when she didn't think life could get any weirder, she was in for one more surprise.  The young man went down to one knee, looking absurdly like the sculpture of Atlas.  He vomited a surprising amount of black ick and began to move spasmodically, his heart attack movements now those of a violent seizure.  His head jerked back and his jaws opened and closed, his scream thin by the time it reached her ears.  The Samaritan continued to reach out, and touched the man's shoulder.  It was like breaking a spell.  The guy on one knee turned and grabbed the extended hand.  For a second, it appeared he was going to try to stand.
     He bit him instead.

     As many of us always suspected, the end of the world came thanks to the actions of a thoughtless jackass.  One John Mehr, to be exact.  John had always had a mean temper, but even at his angriest he never thought he would take out the world as we knew it.  This Tuesday he had taken his normal shower from 8:03 to 8:10, and while he was dressing he saw there was a stain on his favorite shirt.  It was a stain from wearing it to the bar, where a drunken prick had bumped into him with a piece of pizza on a flimsy plate.  John had been standing in the middle of the doorway, but it was the other man's fault for not seeing him (in John's world very few things were his fault).  The guy apologized, and seemed meek enough. Sensing he didn't want any trouble, John had challenged him to a fight, getting in some of his best insults and pumping his ego a little.  At five-seven and 170 pounds soaking wet, he took joy in rattling the big guy's cage.  Unfortunately, John was a terrible judge of character and when he shoved him on the way by, the bigger man moved lightning quick and put him in some sort of submission hold.  He hadn't hurt John, but made sure the episode ended there.  John was humiliated.
     Looking at that stain pissed him off all over again.  There was only one thing to do, which was remind his useless bag of a wife to do the laundry properly.  That was her job, goddammit.  He worked hard, paid for a house and all the stupid stuff in it, and put food on the table.  Her job was to keep the machine running, and she had failed.  She wasn't doing her job, and it was time was was reminded of her place.  Her life wasn't free, by God.  She had to work, just like him.  Like any woman, she just needed a reminder of how important it was to get it right.  She got lazy, entitled, even spiteful when she didn't get her way.  Mary required punishment at least twice a week, and had since they got married.  He supposed he had to pretend he hoped she would get better at taking care of him, but he admitted to himself he liked having to beat the lessons home.
     He had worked himself into a fine wrath by the time he found her scrubbing out the oven.  The stupid cow had gained weight lately, and her unappealing ass was stuck up in the air while she scrubbed.  He jogged the last five steps towards her and kicked her in the tailbone as hard as he could.  True or not, he could have sworn he felt it give with a grinding smushy sensation.  Her head was rammed into the oven, and she began to bellow big long, whooping sounds of pain.  He drew back his foot and kicked her again, this time in the ribs.  Mary had always had a weak stomach and he could knock the wind out of her easily.  She went down on the floor, one hand reaching for her back and the other covering her eye.  He saw black crud on her face and realized she had probably had her eye open and gotten oven cleaner in it.  Unaware of his presence, lost in her pain, she just blubbered and struggled to understand, which made him even angrier.  She scrabbled on the floor to get away, still not comprehending but moving in the opposite direction out of instinct.  Her bawling annoyed him, and he drew back his foot one more time.
     This time it was his turn to be surprised.  When his foot was at its highest drawback, she sat up and one rolling eye focused on him.  She had her small cast-iron skillet in her hand, the one she kept in the oven.  He realized belatedly she had been reaching for something, and was more aware than he realized.  Her face didn't look familiar to him either, it was a snarl of pure hate.  For the first time since he had known her, Mary was pissed.  She had swung the skillet and with a sickening thud the dense metal squashed flesh, breaking almost every bone in the middle of his foot and a couple of toes for good measure.  He had started to fall even before his brain received the unfortunate news that this hurt like a motherfucker.  He began to howl, a high-pitched "oooooh ooooohhhhhhh" that would have been comical under other circumstances.  Then Mary lurched upright, steadied herself and aimed the skillet at his head.
     "Oh no Mare, don't..."  He was going to tell her he didn't mean it, he just got so damn mad sometimes he didn't think.  He never got the chance.  She hit him directly between the eyes, right at his hairline.  His lights immediately went out, his last vision of his injured wife grinning at him, pleased by her aim.  He fell backwards with a slow grace that only the unconscious and newborn kittens can achieve, and was barely breathing when she peeled out of the driveway in his Cadillac moments later.

     The highway stretched on endlessly, one farm after another marking the distance between the lab and his final destination.  Mark stretched and glanced wistfully at his empty coffee cup.  Six hours on the road was nearly intolerable, especially considering the cargo he had on board.  His eyes roamed to the cooler in the back and felt his palms grow sweaty at the thought of what sat inside.  Every bump and pothole made him flinch, despite knowing the container was secure.
     It had been more than five years since he started work on the project that had since consumed his life.  He was a lab rat by nature, but even his limits were tested by the long hours and inevitable setbacks.  The last two years they had given him all the space he wanted, and he had worked long hours in silence, and gone home to Mr. Fancypants, his cat.  Now that he had successfully met his goals, it was time to deliver them to his boss.  They had considered hiring an armored car and staff to move the cooler, but decided that would bring too much attention.  It was far better if he just quietly slipped into BonCorp and left without causing a blip on the radar.  It occurred to him on the trip that perhaps he was being set up, that maybe he was stealing a live sample.  He shrugged it off as paranoia, but it kept tickling at the back of his mind, nagging.  His life as a lab rat had not prepared him for the politics and backstabbing that routinely went on in the lab.  He was happy to stay off the radar and do his magic, and for the most part that worked out for everyone.
     His only regret was that he happened to feel like crap.  He had a wicked flu, and had spent most of his early morning in the john, purging his dinner from the night before.  His stomach had since settled, but he still got the sweats and when his fever spiked the world took on a shimmery weird feeling, like when he smoked too much pot and got the woozies (even lab rats had their wild side).  The last hour or so, the sun had started to hurt his eyes despite his extra dark hangover sunglasses, and the fever made his skin hurt.  Still, he was so ready for time off that sick or not he was happy to approach a long overdue break.  Nyquil and a movie marathon with Fancypants would be okay for a day or two while he fought this off.
     It was mind-boggling, really, to think about how years of work by one of the brightest teams in the world could be reduced to the simple delivery of a cooler.  While he was en route, the entire lab was being sanitized and broken down.  Dr. Gordon had told him to take a few weeks off and relax, and that he would be brought back to Kansas City for the next phase in the research.  While he was excited to be back in the lab, for the first time in his thirty-four years Mark Jimson was going to take a few weeks off.  He had booked a flight to Las Vegas, and set himself up at the Bellagio for a week.  One of the many perks of being head of a crack research team is there's little to do with one's money besides let it accrue interest.  He was going to have the time of his life, and nothing was going to get in the way.
     His mind drifted, thinking of slot machines and hot women.  He was the stereotypical geek, which meant he wasn't exactly a social butterfly.  To put it straight, he hadn't gotten laid in over three years, and it had probably been that long since the time before that.  He smiled, thinking about how he was going to get his freak on.  Vegas was full of beautiful women willing to sell a little fun, and he had plenty of buying power. 
     He was still grinning when the Cadillac in the lane next to him suddenly swerved and changed lanes, plowing right into him.

     The smell of breakfast woke Mac Reynolds up from one of the worst nightmares he had ever experienced.  He had been running across a field, except the ground was spongy and clingy, and as hard as he tried he couldn't get away.  In the way of dreams, he had no idea what was behind him, only that if it caught up to him that he would die terribly.  The frustration of being in slow-motion coupled with a fear that left him sweating and shaky was surely about to stop his heart when his eyes opened.  The sun was shining and the contrast between the bright streams of light and the moonlit field of his dreams left him confused for a second.  Then the aroma of bacon and coffee brought him to reality.  It was Saturday, and he was probably already getting a late start on the day.
     He stood and stretched, shaking off the last of the dream.  He was a practical man, raised by practical parents and married to a practical woman.  Nightmares didn't stick long and he was not afraid of the dark. However, while getting dressed he got goosebumps a few times and did his best to attribute them to the cool November wind that howled and beat against the windows.  He made some noise so Debbie knew he was up and moving, and when he paused at the top of the stairs he could hear her chatter with Adam about school and science.  Adam was always watching Mythbuster reruns and begging for a new book on one type of science or another.  Mac loved his son for being intelligent, but there was a gap between them that he never felt he could bridge.  Adam loved books and living in his mind, while his dad was a man of his hands.  Not to say that Mac wasn't smart, he just preferred to make things rather than contemplate and examine.  He tried to pass along some of his skills and knowledge to Adam, who made a respectful attempt to follow but quickly went back to a book when it was time.
     When he walked into the kitchen a few minutes later, Debbie was just putting his eggs on his plate.  She smiled a quick, harried smile that let him know she was running behind for the day as well.  She was wearing a flannel shirt and jeans, and looked cute as hell.  Her smooth brown hair was tied back in a ponytail and she wasn't wearing any makeup.  Still, that glimpse of a smile was enough to make him want to hug her close.  Though she might be short and small-boned (petite, his mother would have corrected) she was one of the most fierce women he had ever known.  She was kind and sweet, but when it came down to it she could hold her own against a grizzly bear.  He noticed she looked a little tired this morning, which may have had something to do with her abruptness.
     "Adam, get a move on, love," she said while flipping her own eggs onto a plate with an expert move of her wrist.  She poured a glass of juice, eyed it and poured a little more before sitting at her end of the table.  Adam rolled his eyes jokingly and shoved in another forkful of eggs and toast.  He would be fourteen next month, and was going through a growth spurt.  Right now, he couldn't get enough to eat and this morning was no exception.  They worked through their breakfast in comfortable silence, content in their routine.  Today Debbie was going shopping and making Adam go for some new school clothes.  Mac had some work to do around the farm, and he glanced at the clock as he rinsed his plate.  It was already nine, and the sun wouldn't be much good after six.  It was time to get moving.  He kissed his wife on the forehead and gave her rear an affectionate squeeze that his son couldn't see.
     "I love you.  Have a good day," he said.

Dead Shuffle: Introduction

Thank you for coming to the blog!  Dead Shuffle launched December 1, 2011 for a one-year commitment.  It started as a discussion among a handful of writers.  As the idea evolved and they became busier, it came to life under the work of one author.  There will be guest spots from time to time, but that is a story for another day.



What is Dead Shuffle?  The short answer is a fiction blog about zombies.  When you’re done rolling your eyes, I hope the long answer is more satisfying: it’s a story about the end of the world and the reality of humanity when our safeties disappear.  When law and order, electricity, hot water and even a good night of sleep is taken from us for too long, what do we become?  When it’s survival of the fittest instead of the deserving, what do we end up with?  When nobody is looking and we are faced with terrible decisions, who are we really?  Those are the stories coming soon in Dead Shuffle.  The zombies aren’t the stars, the people who survive are the focus.  As a nod to the beloved George Romero, I have paid attention to the introspective way he makes us feel for the people who are left behind to experience the horror.  They are reflections of ourselves and what we hope we would do under those circumstances.  Or for those on the other side of the fence, what we are afraid we might do.



Who am I?  My name is Bon Tindle.  I live in Missouri with my husband and write for Zandar VS The Stupid and Angry Black Lady Chronicles.  You can read more about me and my work at www.bonthegeek.com or follow me on Google+ as Bon Tindle.  I like to stay behind the scenes, but once in a while I peek out to check on things. The artwork is by Jared George, an extremely talented artist who will be giving the story some visual development while we go on this year's journey.



What can you expect in the future?  We will run a post every Monday and Thursday, and more frequently when we begin accepting contributions.  You can find Dead Shuffle on Facebook and like us for more updates and notes from me.  Once in a while, there will be a note from me here but I will keep those to a minimum.  As much as possible, I want to keep the blog “in character” for new readers, which is also why I’ll host a place for all comments.  Major announcements (like the upcoming website) will come to the blog, chatter and discussions will be on our Facebook page until the site launches.  The site is set to launch on March 1 and will have a full chat and message board enabled.  Otherwise, this is a work in progress and nothing is set in stone.  I’ll make any changes necessary to improve, and look forward to your input.  I don’t promise all requests or suggestions will take place, but I promise each and every one will get full consideration.  Once the universe has been created and momentum has been built (I’m thinking July), we will accept submissions for contributor side stories and long-term projects..  A lot will change between now and then, but freelance writers may want to keep that in mind.



I have to say it’s been a blast so far.  The characters have surprised me, and I’ve learned so much talking to people who know their zombies and their survival techniques.  I have documented some of the weirdest conversations you could imagine, and I think I may have found some friends in a local zombie enthusiast group.  



Enough of my babbling already.  Let’s get on to what you came here for.  I am happy to introduce the first post of Dead Shuffle.