“Wah, Melinda, why aren’t you pregnant yet? Time is running out, and you make me too ashamed to face my friends. You better hurry – you don’t even have a boyfriend yet, let alone a husband!” Melinda made a face and hit the delete button. She didn’t know why she bothered to listen to her mom’s messages as they were always the same. It’s a good thing they didn’t live in the same country and only saw each other once a year or Melinda would be sitting in jail for justifiable matricide. As it were, Mrs. Chang called Melinda at least three times a week to scold her for not performing her God-given, womanly duties of procreating. Melinda was just thankful that her mom had a phobia of computers and cell phones and refused to email or text.

“Your mom bugging you to get married and have kids again?” Scott asked as he towel-dried his hair. “Still haven’t told her you’re a dyke?” Scott wandered to the fridge, opened it, grabbed a Diet Coke, then shut the fridge. He opened the Diet coke with one hand while continuing to dry his hair with the other. He leaned against the counter and started gulping down the pop.

“Very funny, Spidey,” Melinda snorted as she crushed out the Winston Salem she was smoking and ran a hand through her waist-length, jet-black hair, debating whether she could get away a few more days without washing it. She decided she could and dropped her hand. She reached for her iPad instead, curious as to what was happening in the world. It was almost spring, and she wanted to see if the Twins were doing any wheeling and dealing during the pre-pre-season. She also needed to sneak a peek to see if she had an email from her latest crush, but she didn’t want to tell Scott that because he could be such a damn busybody when it came to Melinda’s love life.

“I’m heading out to The Nineties tonight. You want to go, Catwoman?” Scott and Melinda had taken to calling each other by comic book names ever since they were mortal enemies and then best friends within the same day in junior high school, some twenty years ago, and they hadn’t grown out of the habit yet.

“You’re too old to go clubbing, Peter Parker,” Melinda said, rolling her eyes at her best friend. She loved Scott with all her heart, but he was closer to forty than thirty, for god’s sake. It was time for him to stop acting like he was still in his twenties, cruising Loring Park for anonymous sex. Melinda frowned as she heard echoes of her mother’s moral rigidity in her disapproval of Scott going clubbing; she was not becoming her mother!

She frowned as something on her iPad caught her attention. “Speaking of clubbing, listen to this.” Melinda read excerpts of an AP article about a flu epidemic that was sweeping the nightclubs of Minneapolis. No authority figure would go on the record, but an anonymous official stated that it was thought to be a mutant virus related to SARS, a.k.a., the bird flu. “Maybe you shouldn’t go, Scott. The bird flu is some serious shit. My mom knows three people who died from it.” A shadow passed over Melinda’s face as she recalled how heartbreaking it had been for Mrs. Chang to lose three of her closest friends over the span of a month. Melinda had considered flying to Taiwan to be with her mom during that time, but Mrs. Chang had forbidden it.

“I need to get laid, honey, and since you refuse me every time I ask, I’m hitting the clubs. Don’t worry, I’ll don a face mask before I go. All the kewl kids are wearing them!” Scott dropped a kiss on the top of Melinda’s head and sauntered back toward his room. Melinda opened her mouth to utter a retort, but she snapped it shut without saying anything. Her mind was churning as she reread the AP release, a bad feeling clawing at her gut. After she finished, she went to her room so she could switch on her laptop and do some real research. She pulled up Google and began searching for anything she could find on the mysterious flu outbreak hitting the nightclubs of Minneapolis. What she read didn’t assuage her fears one bit.

“Oh, god. What the fuck?” Lisa moaned as she held her throbbing head. She shook it gingerly, relieved that it was still attached to her neck. The way it was pounding, she half-expected it to roll off her shoulders and under her bed. Her right thigh was burning up something fierce, and when she looked at it, she saw that there was some kind of puncture wound in it. Gross! Pus was oozing everywhere, and the wound was greenish-yellow.

She frowned as she tried to remember what had happened last night. Was it morning? She checked her clock and saw it was afternoon already. What the hell happened to her morning? Anyway, she remembered putting on her skimpiest mini-dress and hitting First Ave. because rumor had it that Prince was going to be playing there. Never mind he hadn’t been home in years and that he was now a Jehovah’s Witness – the chance to hear that man play live had been enough to get Lisa to fork over twenty bucks as a cover charge and to drink watered-down rum and cokes all night. Of course, he hadn’t shown up, but that didn’t stop Lisa from having a good time. She had flirted with this guy and that, showing off her 38DDDS, and by the end of the night, she was drinking for free.

“Hey, darlin’. A pretty girl like you shouldn’t be alone.” A tall, dark-haired good-looking guy with gleaming teeth and a dimple in his left cheek had materialized half an hour before closing time, and by the time they left the club together, Lisa was drunk off her ass. Clay or Zeke or Todd – whatever the fuck his name was – had half-dragged/half-carried her to his car. When she protested, saying she had driven, too, he had reasonably pointed out that she was too drunk to drive home and that he would drive her back in the morning to pick up her car. She had agreed, dimly realizing that meant she was going home with him – but, as he was a hunk and she was in a very dry spell, she didn’t mind a bit. On the way to his place, he did most of the talking. He was from Kanas City, a recent transplant, and he had just had friends from back home visiting him. He said a lot of other shit, but frankly, Lisa was concentrating more on not throwing up than on listening to him chatter.

Once they reached his house, things got very fuzzy for Lisa. She vaguely remembered him undressing her and them kissing, but she must have blacked out before they got to the good part. Damn it! It was just her luck to have gotten laid and not remember it. So, how the fuck did she get the wound on her leg, and how the hell did she get home? There was no way in hell she would have told Jack or Roger where she lived as she had a hard and fast rule never to give out that info, but there was also no way in hell she had driven herself home, either. So, Blake must have driven her home, but how did he know where her home was, and how the FUCK did she hurt her leg?

Her leg. Lisa glanced down at her leg again and realized that she probably ought to do something about it. It was hot and pulsating under her fevered touch. Come to think of it, her head was burning up, too. And, god, she was so damn thirsty. She staggered into the bathroom and rummaged around her medicine cabinet, frowning at how little was in it. She managed to find a bottle of hydrogen peroxide and some cotton balls that had probably been in the cabinet for years. She shrugged, doused the cotton balls with the hydrogen peroxide and clamped the whole mess onto her wound. She shrieked in pain as the peroxide did its job and threw the wad of cotton balls against the wall. She grabbed her head and moaned as the pain continued to drill through her skull. She turned and punched the wall in frustration, and then roared as the pain traveled from her mangled fingers to her already pulsating brain. She stuffed her fingers into her mouth so she could lick off the blood, then she realized how good her blood tasted. She started sucking more urgently until her blood stopped flowing. Far from being satisfied, however, her thirst only increased. Once she couldn’t suck out any more blood, she jammed her finger into the pus in her leg wound and gobbled that down as well.

     Mac pulled into the driveway, and glanced over at his sister. She had napped most of the way home, whether it was from being tired or wanting to avoid conversation, he couldn't tell. In the end, it didn't matter. She was stubborn and as strong-willed as they came, but if Mary said her marriage was over, he had no doubt she meant it. John might think there was a second chance lurking, but after seeing the damage to her face Mac knew better. He also knew he had a shotgun that said John wouldn't be coming here to try to make amends.
     Rather than worry Deb with what happened, he had just called her once and in a hushed tone said he would fill her in once they were home. Of course, Deb didn't mind a bit (she hadn't heard about her husband stealing a police car yet). While Mary slept and Deb held down the fort, he had been left with a couple of hours to sort through what happened. Clearly, he had witnessed some sort of attack. But what kind? The people weren't foreign, nor were they particularly angry. They almost seemed to hover in a state somewhere between mental retardation and extreme intoxication. He turned it around in his head a hundred times, working it from every angle, and nothing new came to mind. There had been no rhyme or reason to why people were attacking, and they didn't seem to differentiate between victims. The radio had said there were some major accidents in town, and hospitals had been put on emergency status. Citizens were to stay home if at all possible, or see an urgent care clinic instead of the emergency rooms. There was no mention of what he saw, and there was no notification that everyday people were killing and being killed by the dozens. The utter lack of information made him worry far more than anything he could have heard on the radio. That nobody was releasing information meant something big was going on. He was just grateful to have escaped.
     "Mary? Mary, wake up, we're home now." She sat up and yawned, and for a moment looked like the six-year-old sister who had tortured him with Indian rope burns and noogies. Then she turned her face, and he winced at the burn and blood still caked in her hair. She smiled at him and opened the door. They walked in to the house together, safe in the silence of the countryside.

     Booker had not stepped out of his apartment building in nearly six months. Really, to capture the full extent of his antisocialism, he had only been outside of his apartment three times in the last two years. One of those times was to get the telescope he used to look at the world outside. It was a terrible cliche, he knew this. However, he wasn't crippled and didn't even suffer from agoraphobia. Booker just hated people, and enjoyed the challenge of maintaining his home through Internet shopping and telecommuting. He was working now, and was totally in the zone when a woman's scream caught his attention. He looked at the window, agitated, and back at his monitor. He was so close to solving the problem hidden somewhere in his program.  Like a magnet, he felt it pull him in again, a seductive siren song written in Python.
     The scream, louder and more energetic, sounded from outside again. He scribbled a quick note and went to the window to see what was going on. Probably a breakup or a mugging. If it was the latter, he'd call 911 and be back at work before he lost his warm spot. No telescope was necessary to see the woman. She was across the street, in the empty lot that served as a playground for local kids. There were a few people walking towards her, not threatening but it was clear that she was not one of them. Why didn't she go out in the street? Booker looked up and down, and saw other people walking, but nobody dangerous. Maybe the woman was the problem here.
     She was cornered now, with a chain link fence to her back, and the strangers blocking her way to the open street. She looked back and forth frantically, screaming when the strangers got closer. She ran at one and shoved him, knocking him to the ground. It was an impressive feat, he had several inches and thirty pounds on her. She stepped over him and made a break for the street. As she did so, an old woman reached out and grabbed her arm. The woman was short and slightly overweight, and could have been anyone's grandmother. Booker was surprised that she grabbed the woman fleeing. Then, to take the shock-o-meter to even new heights, she bit the woman's arm. Her teeth must have gone deep, because the woman couldn't pull away, and the old woman was shaking her head like a dog with a chew toy. The woman screamed again, but was silenced as a tall man reached over and bit her throat. Her voice silenced, the woman folded to the ground and they were all over her, biting and tearing. It was a couple of minutes before he thought to call 911. When he did, he realized the phones weren't working. He grabbed his cell but got an error message when trying to call. There was no help for the woman on the street, but now he was worried for himself and the people in their building. What the hell was going on? It was hard to imagine a Betty White lookalike as a gang member, but tell that to the young lady bleeding out in the parking lot. He looked over at his computer and started hammering away at the keyboard. Maybe the news had something to tell them, or maybe he could report what he had seen.
     While he worked, more screams began to pick up. This time he didn't stop to look.

Announcement: New Staff Writer!

Dead Shuffle has added a new writer to the staff.  Please give a warm welcome to Minna Hong, who will be writing her own storylines in the Dead Shuffle universe.  Her articles will be tagged so her posts can be read in sequence, or you can enjoy them as they come into the main post stream as well.

My only advice is to speak respectfully of Alan Rickman.

Here is her bio stolen shamelessly from Angry Black Lady Chronicles:

Hey, bitchez! I like chocolate, snow, subzero degree temperatures, and Alan Rickman. I’m a freelance editor/copywriter by night, and political blogger, fiction writer, and general crazy lady by later night. I blog about race issues, wimminz issues, queer issues, and pretty much whatever else I want – LIKE A BOSS! In addition to blogging for my Angry Black Overlady at angryblacklady.com, I write fiction for OsborneInk.com. You can find me partying like it’s 1999 during #AfterDarkTwitters at @asiangrrlMN.

     Rev walked towards the truck, trying to put as much space between them and his car as possible.  The trunk was closed, but he couldn't swear everything was cleaned up.  His hair was still damp from the shower, and he put on a broad, fake grin and let the behemoth waddle over to him.  God, he had to weigh three hundred pounds!  He wore the uniform of the Midwest, complete with cowboy boots and red flannel shirt.  He was either pissed, sick or drunk.  It was hard to tell until he arrived in a cloud of Jack Daniels and body odor.  Goddamn, he might actually be all three.  Rev stared at him in cautious wonder.
     "How can I help you?"  The man didn't seem to know who he was, which was good.  Maybe he was just lost and drunk.  On the other hand, maybe he was here to start trouble.  Rev found himself thinking this is why he should always have a gun on him.  Always.  You never knew when some stumbling slab of hillbilly might come into your life.  Even in the middle of lecturing himself about being prepared, he was dealt yet another surprise.
     "I'm looking for my wife," he said.  His voice was surprisingly mellow, but it was slowed and measured.  This man was three sheets to the wind, but he was also angry enough to have murder on the mind.  Rev had no doubt, and then he put it all together.  Keeping a neutral face, he looked around like he had never seen a woman and shrugged.  Then, leaning so the man's eye followed him away from the car, he asked the question that was really on his mind.
     "What does she look like?"

     Don Charker didn't scare easily.  He had grown up on the streets of Chicago, poor and hungry and pissed.  He had frozen in the winter, melted in the summer, and suffered every indignity a poor black kid in the inner city could experience.  He knew a thing or two about how ugly life could be, and after looking that in the eye it took a lot to impress him.  He joined the military as soon as possible, and attacked his career with a perseverance that earned him the nickname Bulldog.  Once he got his teeth into something, he was never letting go.
     Now working for the private sector, he was in charge of security for a Fortune 500 company that held several government contracts for medical supplies.  At least, that's what the public knew.  The reality was they also worked on experimental medicines meant to give American soldiers an edge.  Technology helped, but soldiers won battles, and it was their job to improve candidates by any means possible.
     Charker was no dummy, but he was not a scientist.  He listened to the bigwigs and let them have input, but in the end it was his job to ensure the safety of the lab and everyone inside.  In case of a security breach, it was his responsibility to stop it.  He was told by any means necessary, and told about things that would have made the little lab rats quake in terror.  Instead, they bustled about with their clipboards and snotty attitudes, and let him get in their way with minimum fuss.
     Ten minutes ago, he had learned some samples had been taken from the lab without permission.  One of the  lab rats had taken a cooler with him on false orders.  They couldn't find him, but he was bound to turn up.  Don had a lot of favors to cash in, and he had just put a few good friends on guard.  There was nothing to do at this point but wait, which was like torture to a man of action.  Despite an extra fifteen pounds and a few years, he was still fit and strong, and right now his muscles hummed with anxiety.  Shit was about to hit the fan.
     His phone buzzed, and he pulled it from his pocket.  It was from one of his friends, that was fast.  He answered and listened for a couple of minutes, his face grim.
     "Son of a bitch," was his only reply.  He hung up his phone and felt his gut churn.

     Kansas City was a mess.  Two housing subdivisions were reporting attacks on citizens, and there was some kind of major meltdown at the hospital.  The police were swamped in calls, and even for a city its size, they weren't able to investigate the calls.  As the hours went by, off-duty and volunteers were called in to help manage the panic, and reports were coming back of dead bodies everywhere.  Hundreds of people seemed to be dazed and unable to do more than walk aimlessly, and attack anyone who came within range.
     The hospital was overrun and nobody was answering.  Police sent to check it out were attacked by patients and staff alike, and a terrified Mary sat still while gunshots rang out, and then fell silent.  She peeked out and nothing was moving.  Sensing this was as good of a time as any, she turned on her cell phone and made a panicked call to Mac.  She worked her way down the stairs, and only froze once, when she heard someone banging on the door a few floors above her.  She stood and listened, but did not hear the door open.  She scooted out the side door and squinted in the harsh sunlight.  There were people on the ground everywhere, it looked like a war zone.  Some were still crawling, the rest were in pools of blood.  She looked around and saw nobody walking upright.  There were four police cars, abandoned by the looks of it.  She sure as hell felt better about stealing a cop car than walking around the hedges in search of Mac.
     "Hang tight and look for the cop car," she said and flipped her phone shut.

     Mac gave up trying to see what the problem was, and leaned back into his seat and put his truck into park.  He hadn't moved in several minutes, and the rear view mirror showed several more people were piling up.  He had driven three hours in peace and quiet, enjoying some rare time alone with his thoughts, and less than two miles from the hospital he was stuck.
     And what in the hell did Mary mean "something weird" was going on at the hospital?  The news had said something about a major bus crash, but it would take an entire fleet to block up the highway and disable a hospital.  He briefly wondered if Mary had started to lose her mind, and squashed the idea.  He was the older brother, he had literally known her from her first day.  She was kind to a fault and had horrible taste in men, but Mary was as sturdy as they came.  He remembered once, when they were teenagers, he had pinned her down and wouldn't let her up.  It was one of few times in his life he was an ass, and all these years later his cheeks burned with the memory.   Still, brothers will be brothers, and he was living it up to the max.  Right up until Mary had decided that was enough, and delivered the only real whipping he'd ever had in his life.  Nope, that person wasn't given to the vapors or lost reality.  If Mary said something was weird, well then something was weird.  Besides, it would explain why everything else felt unusual too.
     He sat for a solid thirty minutes, and never moved a single inch forward.  Cars began to honk, expressing the frustration of their owners.  He knew how they felt.  Well, they weren't going anywhere soon.  He pulled as far towards the shoulder as he could, nearly clipping the bumper of the car in front of him.  If traffic moved, they could get around him.  He pawed behind the seat and came up with a nasty old duffel bag he meant to take in a dozen times.  He shoved anything valuable in it and locked up.  Mary couldn't have possibly known, but she picked a really bad day to come to her senses.  But it could save them hours if he got there on foot, and she had reassured him that she was physically fine.  The highway had moved just fine going back south, so he could turn around and maybe get home before dark.  He grabbed his bag and took off at a brisk pace towards the hospital.  As the crow flies, it wasn't going to take him thirty minutes.
     He hated cell phones, and knew Mary's was off while she conserved battery.  He especially hated texting, but knew how to send one.  He sent Mary a message telling her to call him, that he was coming in on foot.  If she could meet him they could save even more time.  He wasn't sure if it was the traffic, the weather or just Mary's situation, but he couldn't wait to get the hell out of here.