We have many names, but now we are Elaine Haskell, whom we encountered a few days ago in the little town of Marysville not far from the military base. Now we are Elaine Haskell because she adds flavor as we grow.

The screaming brings the house lights up, stirring the audience in their seats; wide, startled eyes narrow to squint against the sudden onslaught of light and sound. A ripple of confusion passes through the theater. Three rows back from the screen, a young woman lurches up from her chair.

At 9:58 before the closing credits, Rolland Meadows killed the acre of flat-screen TV hanging on the wall opposite his bed and turned onto his right side. An hour and seventeen minutes later, the television switched itself on, bathing the second-floor room in electric blue light.

Sixty-six thousand souls turned to ash. 

That was what the man on the radio said. Sixty-six thousand didn’t survive the night. More than seventy-thousand reported injured, but that doesn’t count everyone suffering from radiation sickness. Or the bodies yet to be found beneath the rubble. 

The infection spreads quickly to the head, the haze of red blanketing my vision as I blink dying eyes to the bleary skies of the blood-soaked world. Head back, fists curled, no longer feeling the beat of my heart as my body stops and starts its decay.

The monster crossed the highway, dodging cars and trucks, and the crowd followed. One vehicle clipped his backside, caused him to pirouette mid-stride, but the monster quickly regained his footing and continued to flee. The car spun wildly across all three lanes and struck the center barrier.

She woke with a coppery taste in her mouth, her lips wet and sticky. A dark red liquid dotted her hands, her fingers—were they greener?

A small heap of a body lay next to her, bits of skin and shattered bone in place of where its head had once been.

It had happened again.

The blank canvases shone in the darkened room, like open doors to the hereafter.

Basil stood naked before them, paintbrush clutched tight in his fist, skin slick with sweat. He shook desperately for inspiration.

He took a long, deep breath and winced at the aroma of spoiled fruit and stale coffee that assuaged the very back of his throat.

“Stupid film.”

Rhoda pushed her way through the jabbering crowd in the lobby. Women fanned themselves in mock fright. Rhoda knew it was all part of the femme fatale act, and she hated it. Women made themselves victims acting like so. She wasn’t like that. As she passed out of the theater, the ticket boy smiled at her.

It began with remembering.

He remembered everything about her. Every bit of her was indelibly ingrained upon his memories and senses. He recalled most vividly the color of her eyes, the sound of her voice, her odd mélange of scents, and the aristocratic construction of her features.