THE NIGHT BLOGGER The Graveyard Game (and other cemetery plots) Episode Three 'A Firesign Variation'

 

By Al Bruno III

September 12th: The powers that be will tell you that none of Albany's buses run after midnight on a Sunday, and anyone who says otherwise is crazy.

The problem is that people have seen a city bus prowling the streets in the hours before morning. They say its number is 55. They say its engine growls, its windows are filthy, and the make and model are decades out of date. There are even some folks who say getting onto that bus is the last thing you'll ever do.

Of course, the powers that be scoff at such stories, dismissing the handful of witnesses as drunks, madmen, or attention seekers.

Since some of my best readers are drunks and madmen, I decided to investigate this matter for myself. So I waited alone on the corner to see what the night would bring...

###

...it was 1 a.m. when I confirmed the existence of Bus 55. I heard it first, coughing and growling its way up the otherwise empty street. Then I smelled it; it was a strange smell, like a combination of diesel exhaust and ozone. The driver was just a shadowy lump sitting in front of the steering wheel, and it was obvious from the speed he was going that either he hadn't seen me or he had seen me and wasn't going to stop.

Throwing common sense to the wind, I stepped out into the road. I had just long enough to think to myself that this would be a really stupid way to die, and then the bus stopped just inches from my nose. I hadn't heard the brakes squeal or the tires screech. The bus just stopped.

The vehicle's pneumatic door slid open with an impatient hiss, and I climbed aboard. There were no interior lights to keep me from nearly missing the top step. The bus driver didn't glance at me as I paid my fare; he just kept glaring out the windshield. I cleared my throat, "Good evening. I had some questions about—"

The driver turned and glowered at me until I retreated to the back of the bus, cringing every step of the way. There were no other passengers, but I found a spot near the back. Once I sat down, the bus's door hissed to a close, and I was on my way.

But to where I had no idea.

My fellow friends and freaks on the FEAR AND TRUTH message board had been talking about this bus all week. The user called 'TrueSeeker' had managed to triangulate its location but didn't have the nerve to actually go and investigate the phenomenon themselves, especially after what happened to Sara Bishop. I, on the other hand, was more than willing to risk my neck and other body parts for the sake of a killer blog post. I slipped my iPhone from my pocket and snapped a few pictures. Nothing exciting or earth-shattering, just a little of this and a little of that.

The windows were so filthy that I only had the vaguest sense of the scenery passing by, but it seemed somehow to be going by far too quickly for the amount of acceleration I felt. I wondered if that was the big mystery, that maybe some transportation company was testing a new suspension system.

After what seemed like an eternity and a half, the bus stopped again. A stooped figure in raggedy clothes climbed aboard Bus 55 and took a seat near the driver. He had his jacket collar pulled up tight around his face; all I could see were tufts of hair.

I waited for my fellow traveler to do something, change position, look my way, or do anything, but he kept still. More miles rolled by, then another stop. Two more men got aboard, tubby with ill-fitting suits and bad haircuts. The interior of the bus was still too dark and shadowy for me to make out their faces clearly. I started fussing with my iPhone again, wondering if I could use the low-light photo app to get a better look at their faces.

That thought was quickly followed by the realization that I had no cell coverage. I looked up, wondering what the bus's ceiling was made of.

And that was when I realized more stops had been made and more passengers had been picked up. One of them sat down next to me.

The first thing I noticed was his feet, his huge feet dressed in wingtip shoes. The stocky legs that sprouted from those shoes were dressed in pinstripe trousers that had been patched here and there. He had no jacket, but he wore a paisley vest. His face was covered by a thick layer of ash-colored grease paint.

He was a clown.

And as the other passengers crowded in around me, I realized they were all clowns. But they were not the colorful birthday party performers that probably just popped into your mind. These were sullen-looking monochrome hobos, bleak creatures that had never known a circus tent or a fairground.

Who were these people? Were they just coming back from delivering nightmares, or were they living through nightmares of their own?

Then the clown sitting beside me flashed a desolate smile and spoke my name, his voice a raspy whisper that sent shivers down my spine. "Welcome, Brian."

My heart pounded as fear surged through me. How did he know my name? I tried to stand, but the clowns moved closer, their presence suffocating. The bus's air grew thicker, the smell of greasepaint and sweat overwhelming.

"Let me out," I demanded, my voice trembling. "I want to get off."

The clowns' laughter filled the bus, a cacophony of mirthless, hollow chuckles. The driver remained silent, his eyes fixed on the road ahead. Panic seized me. I pushed my way towards the door, but the clowns grabbed at my clothes, their grip cold and unyielding.

I struggled, pulling free from one grasp, only to be caught by another. Their hands were everywhere, tugging, holding, and pulling me back into the darkness. I fought with everything I had, my breaths coming in ragged gasps. The clowns' faces were close now, their painted smiles grotesquely in the dim light. One of them whispered in my ear, "Stay with us, Brian. Forever."

Desperation fueled my movements. I lashed out, kicking and shoving, using my elbows to jab at their sides. The clowns recoiled slightly, their grip loosening. Seizing the opportunity, I lunged towards the front of the bus. The driver's eyes met mine, and for a moment, I thought I saw a flicker of sympathy. But it was gone in an instant, replaced by cold indifference.

I reached the door and pounded on it. "Open up! Let me out!"

The door didn't budge. I turned to face the clowns, their expressions a mix of anger and amusement. They advanced slowly, savoring my fear. My mind raced, searching for a way out. Then I remembered the emergency exit. I scrambled to the back of the bus, the clowns' hands grabbing at me, tearing my clothes, and scratching my skin.

I reached the emergency exit and slammed my hand against the lever. The door swung open with a screech, and I leaped out, hitting the pavement hard. Pain shot through my body, but I couldn't afford to stop. I forced myself to my feet and ran, the clowns' laughter echoing behind me.

I didn't stop running until my legs gave out. I collapsed on the sidewalk, gasping for breath, my body trembling. The sound of distant sirens filled the air, and I clung to the hope that they were coming for me.

###

This wasn't the first time the local police found me dazed and wandering the streets of Albany, and it probably won't be the last, but I was glad for the ride home. The officers who found me were kind enough not to ask too many questions. They chalked it up to another late-night misadventure and left it at that.

But I couldn't forget the terror I felt on that bus, the clowns' faces haunting my every thought. What happened? How did I get from that phantom bus to our local shopping mall?

I have no idea. All I remember—or at least I think I remember—is trying to fight my way to the exit while clumsy hands grasped at me and jolly voices made threats and offered candy.

Hours of research have left me no closer to any answers. There is no dark secret, no unfinished business or curse. There's no twist in my tale that will make sense of it all.

All I can tell you is that there is an impossible vehicle making its way through the darkened streets of Albany, and there's always room inside for a few fools more.

What was it the Firesign Theater used to say? "I think we're all Bozos on this bus."

Maybe I'm the biggest Bozo of all.

 

THE NIGHT BLOGGER The Graveyard Game (and other cemetery plots) Episode Two 'Whispers of the Red Night

By Al Bruno III

August 29th: It is a matter of public record that the other prostitutes on South Lake Avenue got pinched twice as often as Mary Durward. Some of the working girls said it was because she was a snitch, but Mary insisted that she was lucky that way.

On this night, she wore her dark hair pulled back; she had on tight jeans, a half-shirt, and too much eyeliner. As usual, she walked the perimeter of Washington Park looking for customers. It had been a lousy night for business, cool with a hint of rain. Most of the drive-ups had been giggling college boys who lost their nerve the minute she started negotiating prices. Thankfully, she still had her regulars—husbands seeking the oral sex they couldn't get at home and old men in need of handjobs and conversation. As the clock neared two AM, she decided to call it a night, her heels clicking against the pavement as she headed toward the park's darker, quieter paths.

Mary might have made it home alive if she hadn't decided to take the shortcut through the heart of Washington Park. Despite knowing about the recent murders, she wasn't worried; death was something that happened to other people. The park was eerily quiet, the usual daytime bustle replaced by a silence that amplified every rustle of leaves and distant hum of traffic. She kept to the sidewalk that wound between the artificial pond, its surface reflecting the moonlight in ghostly ripples, and the tulip garden, now just dark shapes in the night. The rhythmic click of her pumps on the concrete echoed through the stillness, masking the soft footsteps of her pursuer. The last sound she heard was the chilling whisper of a blade being unsheathed, cutting through the night's deceptive calm.

Mary's luck had run out...

###

...by the time I heard her scream, it was already too late. Ever since the third murder, I'd started patrolling the area around Lark Street: not patrolling in a superhero sense mind you, patrolling in a reporter sense. I had promised myself I wasn't going to get involved in any weirdness, that this blog would be nothing more than a haven for Fantasy Football stats and occasional anecdotes about working at a pawn shop.

But here I was again.

Like I said, by the time I heard the scream, it was too late. I went tear-assing through the park to find Mary Durward, well what was left of her anyway.

She was lying on the sidewalk; her throat had been slashed, and she had been split open from gut to groin. Police reports said that the other victims had their internal organs removed. I was too uneducated on human anatomy and too busy throwing up on myself to be sure.

The Ripper had struck again.

Well, not THAT Ripper. Not exactly, but kind of.

Don't believe my crazy theory? Neither did law enforcement, the newspapers, or my landlady, Mrs Vincenzo, but it all added up. Women, usually working girls, were being savagely, swiftly, and expertly eviscerated by someone who knew exactly what they were looking for.

Once I was done emptying out my stomach, I started running; as I ran, I dialed 911 from my smartphone. Sure, I didn't have to report the poor woman's body; someone else would find it soon enough, but it would have felt wrong to do otherwise.

No one believed me that this was somehow connected to the events of 1888, but the pieces all fit. There had been other murders, seemingly in every generation but always in a different country—England, France, Germany, Finland, and finally here. And every time, it was five murders before the killer stopped. That's twenty-five killings spread over one hundred and twenty-five years.

I was pretty sure I knew where the killer was going, so I ran eastward, losing myself in the trees and brambles. It was pitch black, but there was a trail to follow, a trail made by adventurous bicyclists and wandering college students. It led towards Washington Park's number one eyesore. Halfway down the trail, I could almost see it, so I ran faster.

My foot caught a root or a rock or something, and I fell on my face in a spectacular fashion.

The Ripper, the stuff of legends. How many books were written about those murders in Whitechapel? How many theories have been flying around as to the killer's identity? If nothing else, my hypothesis will go down in history as the most insane, but the names and dates all match up. There are even rumors of confessions hidden in anagrams, but I can't be sure about that part. The 'confessions' are in print in three different languages—and each of them was published years after the murders took place.

Except this time, maybe. If I was right and I was clever, there might not be another gruesome tell-all masquerading as a children's book again.

How long did I lay face down in the dirt trying to remember my name? It seemed like forever. When I finally sat up, I discovered that I'd landed on my iPhone and smashed it. How many is that I've wrecked now?

Good thing I work in a pawn shop.

I started running again, stumbled a few times, and reached the long-abandoned Grecian Shelter. Just in case you have no idea what one of those is, imagine a long rectangular structure with no real roof but plenty of Corinthian columns. Another term for this kind of structure is a Croquet Shelter, and they do have a very ancient Greece-like look to them.

This is especially true for the one in Washington Park, which had been left to rot since 1929. Redesigns of the grounds had left it out of sight and out of mind. Sure, every few years, there were outcries from the local community to either restore it or knock it down, but nothing ever got done.

That kind of thing happens a lot in Albany.

The structure loomed before me, its overgrown vines twisting like nature's chains around the crumbling Corinthian columns. Some of the columns leaned precariously as if a single touch could send them tumbling. Yet, what truly captured my attention was the ugly purple glow emanating from within. The hair on the back of my neck prickled with an instinctual dread as I cautiously drew closer. There was a sickly sweet odor in the air, like pork but sweeter. I did not want to be there. I didn't even want to be in the same area code, but if I was right, who else could put a stop to this?

“Auditurum cantáte!” A voice cried, “Salve regina red!”

Great. I thought. Latin. That's never a good sign.

Once I was close enough, I could see that the illumination was coming from a device that looked like something a meth head locked in a Radio Shack overnight might build. I stepped into the Grecian Shelter.

Preston Myers was visibly startled by my appearance, so I had that going for me, at least. He was pudgy and bald, and his beard was black and flecked with gray. He always went out in public wearing a suit and a tie, but as you can imagine, his suit and tie were streaked with gore. When he spoke, he didn't growl or hiss; he used exactly the same tone he used when readings for the kids at the public library. He said, "Who are you?"

"I'm Brian Foster," I replied, stepping closer despite my fear. "And I want to know who you're doing this for."

"For the Rubrum Regina of course," the knife he pulled out of his jacket was cruel and curved, "you shouldn't be here."

"Tell me about it."

"I'm going to kill you," he stalked forward, "if you're a good boy, I'll make it quick, but if you run... If I have to chase you..."

"What is the Rubrum Regina?" I stepped left, and he stepped right, like it was all some kind of murderous dance. "What makes you do this?"

“Rubrum regina mater omnium mortalium est!”

Not the answer I was hoping for. I pointed to the tangle of wires and bulbs, "And what is that?"

"The sanctum fenestram," he smiled.

"And what's it for?"

"All the better to see you with."

In a heartbeat, Preston Myers lunged at me. I feinted left but dove to the right, crashing headlong into the 'sanctum fenestram,' smashing it to pieces. The room erupted in a shower of sparks and a blinding flash of light…

###

...I’m not telling if I wrecked that crazy machine by accident or if it was all part of a brilliant plan. What I will say to you is that as soon as it broke apart, Preston Myers dropped the knife, fell to the ground, and started to convulse. He was dead in a matter of minutes. I watched him struggle for breath but didn’t lift a finger to try and save him.

The police discovered Preston Myers’ body about an hour after they found Mary Durward’s remains. The reports of his death overshadowed everything else. By the six o’clock news, the murders of five Albany hookers had been dropped in favor of tributes to and remembrances of the great author.

No mention was made of the sanctum fenestram, or the knife, or the blood all over the great author’s clothes. The official story was that he’d suffered a heart attack while taking a walk near his home.

His home is miles away from Washington Park, by the way.

Of course, you and I know different, but that and a tenfive-dollar bill will get us an espresso at Starbucks.

All I have left now are questions. Why the cover-up? Was what I did enough? Did I break the chain, or will the bodies start piling up again sometime around 2037?

If so, I doubt I’ll be around to worry about it.

 

THE NIGHT BLOGGER The Graveyard Game (and other cemetery plots) Episode One 'The Graveyard Game'

By Al Bruno III

August 14th: Alone and fearless, Sara Bishop entered the long-abandoned Pinewood Cemetery so she could play the graveyard game. She had promised to meet someone at the hole in the chain-link fence, a cautious skeptic who would chronicle the entire event with prose, pictures, and maybe even a little video. Even though she had only met her conspirator via email and Skype, she had promised not to start the ceremony without him.

But in the end, her enthusiasm got the better of her...

###

...by the time I found Sara, she was glassy-eyed and barely breathing. She wouldn’t move. She wouldn’t react, not even when I snapped my fingers inches from her nose. I took her hand in mine and started patting her wrist because that always seemed to work in the movies. Her hand was deathly pale with well-chewed fingernails and old scars marking the skin of the wrist.

As I always do at moments like this, I imagined the voice of my landlady and frequent poster of bail, Mrs. Vinchenzo: “Oh Brian, what have you gotten yourself into this time?”

What indeed.

After a few more minutes of trying to get Sara to react, I stood up and pulled out my iPhone. The app for taking pictures at night was already active, so I started snapping away.

Click: Sara Bishop, comatose and staring vacantly into the starless sky.

I felt guilty going into reporter mode like this, but experience had taught me to trust my instincts. Something weird was going on, and as my frequent readers know, weird happenings and straw fedoras are my twin passions.

Click: the abandoned cemetery, toppled headstones partially hidden by knee deep grass.

The Graveyard Game was a ceremony gaining popularity on the Internet, rumored to summon the spirits of those who share your name. Even among strange ceremonies, its origins were murky. Some said it was an ancient ritual rediscovered in obscure forums, while others claimed it was a modern hoax designed to scare thrill-seekers. As far as I was concerned, it was half shadowy rumors and half outright lies. But the chatter on the FEAR AND TRUTH message board had been just enough to pique the curiosity of member Justice4Mina.

Justice4Mina’s real name was Sara Bishop, and she discovered the game while researching obscure occult practices for her thesis. She meticulously tracked down every mention of a Sara Bishop in old cemetery records, newspapers, and genealogical websites. When she stumbled upon the neglected Pinewood Cemetery and learned of the existence of a gravestone with her name, she knew what she had to do. Her enthusiasm was infectious, and her determination to uncover the truth—or at least a good story—convinced me to join her. Besides, I kind of liked her a little.

And look where that had gotten her.

Click: the two candles, one on the tombstone, the other where Sara had been kneeling.

The rules of the game were simple, find a gravestone that shares your name. Light two candles, one goes at the top of the headstone, the other in front of you. It was that simple, or so they said on the Internet.

If everything was done properly, the spirit of your namesake would appear to you.

Click: A building off in the distance, too big to be a caretaker’s house, too square to be a chapel.

I wondered how she had found this particular grave, this particular place. The Pinewood Cemetery had been left neglected for almost forty years. Surely, there had been other, more easily found Sara Bishops out there.

Click: Back to Sara again. Sitting up and staring at me.

A yelping sound caught in my throat, "Thank- thank goodness you're alright."

She tittered, but there was no recognition in her eyes—just a distant, otherworldly gleam. The twin candles began to sputter and brighten, casting eerie shadows that seemed to dance around us.

"It's me, Brian Foster. Remember? We talked on Facebook?" I pulled her to her feet. Still giggling, she swooned into my arms. "I think I should get you home."

Her grin widened, and her voice took on a strange, echoing quality. "I am home." The words sent a chill down my spine.

I tried to understand what was happening. Was she possessed by the spirit of another Sara Bishop, one long dead and buried here? The candles flared again, and I caught a glimpse of something—an ethereal form superimposed over Sara's body, a shadowy figure from another time. It was as if two beings were occupying the same space, and the spirit was struggling to take control.

"Which Sara is this?" I asked, my voice trembling.

"Which Sara!" She laughed out loud, her voice a disturbing blend of her own and something ancient and cold. She raked her hand down the side of my face. I dropped her. She landed like a cat, then bolted into the shadows and tall grass.

Pain flared on the side of my face, sharp and hot. I reached up, my fingers coming away wet with blood. My heart pounded in my chest, each beat echoing in my ears like a drum. Panic clawed at the edges of my mind. What had she become? What had I gotten myself into?

I blinked in confusion, trying to reconcile the memory of her short, blunt fingernails with the deep gouges on my face. The sound of movement surrounded me, whispers and rustles in the tall grass. The circle of illumination from the candles seemed to be closing in, the darkness pressing against the flickering light.

Run. The instinct was primal, a voice screaming in the back of my mind. I had to get out of there, but could I outrun a madwoman—or whatever she had become?

My legs felt like lead, but I forced myself to move, every step a battle against the paralyzing fear. "Foe of radiance and mate of gloom…" Her voice had become a whispering chant, the words curling around me like cold fingers, "…howl of dogs rejoicing… Through tombs of lifeless dust! Gorgo! Mormo! Luna!"

I fumbled for my iPhone, my hands shaking. The night vision app flicked on, casting everything in a ghostly green. I turned in place, scanning the area, every shadow a potential threat. Was she crawling through the tall grass toward me, or was she gone? Was I going to make it home tonight?

Suddenly, there was a swift, animal-like movement, then a flare of pain as she clawed my arm, tearing through my shirt and skin. Panic surged through me, raw and overwhelming. I crashed headlong into the tombstone and hit the ground, bringing the candle down with me.

Hot wax scalded my right hand and drowned out the sputtering wick. Sara shrieked and fell to her knees. The other candle fluttered, went out, and plunged us into darkness...

###

...we got the Hell out of the cemetery and found our way to an all-night doughnut shop. Sara told me she didn't remember anything, that all she knew was that she had been blind and cold. Over several cups of lousy coffee, I explained to her what had happened. There was no way she could doubt me, not when my face looked like I had just tried to field neuter a badger.

The sun is rising, and I'm back in my apartment, tapping away at my keyboard. I looked up the little chant I'd heard "Gorgo, Mormo" and all that. It is an incantation, a calling up of hungry spirits. My face and my arm are still sore to the touch. Had I almost ended up as something's midnight snack?

Again?

I keep thinking about what she said right before she scratched me. I'd asked her which Sara she was, and I thought she was just mockingly repeating my words back at me.

But maybe she wasn't. Maybe she was giving me my answer.

Had she said 'Which Sara'?

Or 'Witch Sara'?

There's a thought to keep me up at night.

This is Channel Ab3 Episode Seventeen: A Touch Of Red

Amidst a world ravaged by a deadly virus, a woman and her husband cope with fear, loneliness, and their crumbling marriage while facing their inevitable fate.

A Touch Of Red was written by Al Bruno III

It was produced and read by Auravoice

Our unpaid scientific advisor is Adam J Thaxton

The Channel Ab3 theme was written and performed by Rachel F Williams

Channel Ab3 logo was designed by Antonio G 

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FRESH OFF THE BUS FROM CREEPYTOWN: A Touch Of Red

By

Al Bruno III

My husband and I couldn’t leave the city, we weren’t allowed.

We both tested positive for the Red Virus. That gave us two years to live, three tops. In other countries the infected were being executed, killed in the streets. Here in enlightened America things were different, the President insisted on treating the infected ‘humanely’. Humane or not, only citizens with a clean bill of health got to go to the safe zones in the Midwest. The rest of us were forced to stay in the cities on the coast, observed by scientists in hazmat suits and protected by soldiers that wouldn’t look us in the eye.

When I think of what the disease will do to me, how it will transform me into something not quite human or alive anymore, I start to lose hope. I’ve seen the videos of what the press has dubbed ‘ghoul-things’. I’ve seen what they do.

A few weeks ago the government relocated all of us to a series of high-rise tenements on the East Side. They said that they would be able to defend us more easily this way. The apartments here are larger and nicer than anything we could have afforded in our old life, so I tried to make the best of it. My husband Brian, however, insisted that we were only there so that when the time came they could liquidate us more easily. He blames me for this, he thinks that I brought the disease home because I worked in a hospital, but I was in the billing office! He was just as likely to be the one that touched an unseen speck of dried blood somewhere, somehow.

I liked to think he still loved me but he’d stopped saying it, and he wouldn’t touch me, not even in passing. We didn’t sleep together, I stayed in one luxurious bedroom and he stayed in another.

Not that anyone around here ever really slept that much. All of us, the scientists, the soldiers, the infected, stole catnaps whenever we could in the mornings and afternoons.

There was no rest at night, the night belonged to the monsters. They knew right where to find us, something about the infection calls to them. They howled at the barricades from sundown to sunup. Sometimes they would manage to break through the fortifications. Then the howls would be drowned out with gunfire and order would be restored by morning.

I think that’s why we started having the parties. It wasn’t a conscious decision you understand, it’s just that the nights were too long and terrible to experience alone.

At first, we got together in little groups, no more than five at a time. We didn’t want to make our protectors uneasy, but as our hopes dwindled our gatherings got more elaborate. Soon all thirty or so of us were congregating nightly in the penthouse. We would cook drink and laugh and try to ignore the horrors going on out in the streets and inside our bodies. Brian was always there but he would just sit and sulk out on the balcony, drinking until he passed out, leaving me to carry him back to our apartment at dawn.

One nice thing about our keepers, they were pretty damn generous with the booze and food. I guess it was better to have us fat and happy than terrified and ready to riot.

Tonight’s gathering was going along nicely. Someone had scrounged up a karaoke machine and we were all four sheets to the wind, doing our best to belt out the songs of our glory days.

All except for Brian of course. He was out on the balcony, occasionally I would glance over and catch him glaring reproachfully at us. I kept trying to get him to join in or just return one of my smiles. It was hopeless.

About halfway through a rambling version of ‘Paradise by The Dashboard Lights’ Brian started screaming.  He was pointing and gesturing to the east. I ran out to the balcony to see what was wrong.

Ghoul-things. Thousands of them. The streets were clogged with walls of mutated flesh, twisted limbs and distended faces moving towards us. The soldiers on the rooftop were shooting at them, they were using machine guns and grenade launchers but for every monster they blew to pieces four more stepped into its place. We could hear the terror in the solders’ voices as they barked orders to one another and called for air support.

I reached for Brian’s hand. He pulled away, saying something ugly under his breath. I don’t know. I went crazy. I was afraid and I wanted someone to touch me and if he wouldn’t…

Next thing I knew I had the karaoke microphone in my hand and I said something like, “Let’s live tonight ‘cause we’ll all be dead by morning!”

Then I grabbed the nearest man and kissed him hard. At first he pulled away, then he pressed against me. We fell back onto an overstuffed chair, then onto the floor. We were like animals.

It was like a floodgate had opened. We were joined by another couple, then another. It was surreal, it was an orgy We were all trying to shut out the world and for a while it did. 

After a while we exhausted ourselves and the sounds of the slaughter going on outside reached us again. Brian was gone. For a moment I gloried in the thought of how the sight of me in the arms of others must have burned him. Then another thought occurred to me. It was enough to send me running half-dressed down the stairs to our apartment

I found Brian on his bed, passed out and barely breathing. Blood had begun to leak from his pores. He was changing. You could see it happening. It was like an army of maggots was running wild under his skin. I could her the subtle crackling of his bones remaking themselves.

There are procedures for the final stages, they had been drilled into us every morning, there were posters on the walls reminding us. We were told to watch each other for signs of changes. If you see something say something. You call for the scientists, and they call for the soldiers. The infected are taken away for one last examination and then it’s cremation by flame thrower.

I laid down beside him.

I’m waiting now, I’ve been waiting for almost two hours. The battle is still going on outside but I could care less. The Red Virus will be done with its work soon and what sits up beside me won’t quite be Brian anymore but he’s going to touch me.

One last time.