First part of a two-part story, came about as a request by xi-entaj. Part two should show up within a couple weeks. Sexuality is relatively implied, so no descriptive sex here. Enjoy!

I suck at titles, btw.

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The beginning of the end came suddenly for everyone.

No one saw it for what it was, not at first, at least. A few sick people out on the far edges of society, far away from the cities and the centers of population where it really would have caused a scare. Sure, there were a few alert doctors, some health officials who saw the inherent danger when the disease claimed people in all different corners of the country - probably all over the world, too. Whole families were wiped out in a matter of days, before they even realized anything was wrong. It wasn't like anything that people had ever seen, either. Strange tumors erupting on the skin, weird growths full of hair, protrusions like horns, thick lesions the consistency of hooves. The disease was rapidly fatal, the victims dying within days of severe internal bleeding as the growths wreaked havoc upon their insides, or the even unluckier ones, found days afterward in puddles of their own blood where the growths had erupted from their chests, their abdomens, their faces. Grotesque images of disfigured rural folk briefly sent the cities into a panic.

No one knew what it was, how it came about, how to defeat it. The public came up with all kinds of strange names for the illness and even stranger theories as to its origin. Names like bestiality bug and zoo flu made their way from schoolyard playgrounds to the mainstream media. A great number of the public managed to convince themselves that the illness came from the farm animals, that it was caused by the hapless farmers having sexual relations with their animals; the fact that the victims seemed to grow patches of fur or horns or other animalistic features only served to fuel the wild speculation. They ignored the fact that whole families were wiped out, from those too young to imagine such perversions to those far too old to indulge in them.

It wasn't until the disease began to appear in the cities that people really began to pay attention. The first few victims were attributed to the same kinds of perversions, sufferers ridiculed with names like "dog fucker" and left to die of their condition. No self respecting doctor would have perpetrated such a myth, but at the same time, none dared to step forward and treat the sufferers, for fear that they, too, might be labeled as some kind of deviant sympathizer.

Yet there was no rhyme or reason, no pattern to the outbreaks. Childish accusations of bestiality - or worse - soon were forgotten as the victims began to number in the tens of thousands. Quarantines were of no use, as new victims appeared almost spontaneously, people who had no connection to those who were already suffering, those who had already perished. Within the space of a week or two, hospitals were filled to capacity with the sick and the dying. Within the space of a month, panic had set in, and society had begun to fall in to chaos. Victims no longer died in hospitals and filled morgues; they died in their homes, they filled the streets. The healthy tried to sequester themselves away, barricading themselves into office buildings and churches and high schools, protecting their own from invaders with shotguns and fire and knives. Even that was no use, as new cases continued to appear at random. Sanctuary towns for the healthy became ghost towns overnight as their populations succumbed to the illness in sudden, great waves.

Before the collapse, there were dire pronouncements of how many had died. Twenty, forty, sixty percent of the population. Grim tallies moved into the millions, then the tens of millions, then the hundreds of millions. But then things began to really fall apart. Television stations went off the air, police departments ceased to exist, power plants ground to a halt as there were simply not enough people to keep them running. Panicked rioters were replaced with looters, who were then replaced with dire prophets and doomsayers, and then the streets grew quiet as their numbers were whittled away by the sickness. No one is sure how many people were killed in the few months after the first outbreak, since the lines of communication between cities and nations fell dark and silent, but in the end, the survivors estimated that perhaps 90 percent of the population had been wiped out by the sickness. Almost six billion lives, gone.

At last there was a change in fortunes for the afflicted. Many began to live beyond more than a few days, making it to weeks, months, eventually even years. Invariably they would succumb to the disease, eventually, but some mutation in the virus, perhaps, meant that many of the infected could hope to enjoy at least some kind of existence, even if it meant one that was not quite human - for this new strand of the illness, instead of altering their bodies in a random and destructive fashion, transformed them into some kind of anthropomorphic, half-human, half-animal creatures. The reprieve of the disease, however, was soon replaced with the ire of the surviving humans who viewed these unfortunate souls as abominations, carriers of the disease, living and breathing evidence that the pandemic had its roots in bestiality and sin. The once-humans were labeled derisively as "bestials" and ejected from cities, forced to live in makeshift villages on the fringes of what was left of society. Anxious and fearful, the remaining humans fortified their cities, building makeshift walls to keep out marauding bands of bestials or crazed bands of pirates or worse - or, at least, that is what they told themselves. Foreswearing the consumption of meat, for fear that it, too, might be a source of the contagion and the reason that otherwise isolated humans still developed symptoms, the survivors convinced themselves that their little islands of civilization were all that was left of humanity.

The bestials, ejected from society, cut off by those who were once friends and family and neighbors, tried their best to survive. They had, in fact, no interest in marauding, no interest in attacking the paranoid human settlements, but rather fought to eke out an existence among the wreckage of modern civilization, trying to remember how to live off the land. They set up makeshift farms, gathered in crude settlements for companionship and protection, and managed to survive in spite of their abandonment. Within the space of a few years, they had formed successful and industrious - if crude and poverty-stricken - settlements outside of city walls, and their industrious behavior was noticed by the humans who remained. Gradually they began to lose their fear of the bestials, and gradually began to allow them to begin engaging in some measure of commerce, employing the bestials for menial labor in shops and factories, paying abominable wages that were nevertheless a godsend for the former rejects.

Surviving human populations have yet to accept the bestials for who they truly are. In spite of their appearance, they are still human at heart. They were raised among humans, they have family in the cities, and still yearn to be accepted as equals. Instead, they are feared as carriers of disease, reviled as sexual deviants and aberrations of nature. They are allowed within city walls only in controlled circumstances, allowed to interact with humans only in specific, restricted ways. They are forbidden contact with those who they have left behind - or, rather, those who left them to die.

It is my sincere hope, my fervent prayer that someday these injustices may be righted. Though we have been given every reason to hate the humans in their cities, we do not bear a grudge. We do not wish any ill upon those who have turned their backs upon us. Our lives are short on this earth - though we yet breathe, though we have been changed into these strange forms, the disease still ravages us to the core and will still, in the end, cut us down. We wish for no more than to be treated with respect, than to be allowed to go about our lives uninhibited, to be able to live what little life has been left with us in dignity and to its fullest.

If but one heart is softened to our cause by this tale, if but one human reads this and comes to the conclusion that the bestials are not death incarnate, but rather, men and women and children who love and wish to be loved, then I shall consider my effort at retelling it a success ...

#

The harsh sound of the klaxon blaring served as a kind of announcement for the unsteady clatter of the big diesel engines as they fired up. Joshua turned to look from his perch, a sort of crude balcony that overlooked the city's northern wall, where the big highway gates stood. He'd heard the klaxons blaring before, heard the rattle of the gates as they were slowly lifted up and out of the way, but he'd never actually seen it before; he'd never been on a break when it had happened in the past. Leaning a bit over the ledge, the sandy-haired young man gazed with intent curiosity as the heavy metal gates groaned and shuddered and finally began to lift up and away from the cratered surface of the highway.

"Attention! Stand clear of the gates. Do not approach the gates." A raspy loudspeaker - or rather, several of them - blared a pre-recorded message, its voice somehow both dire and emotionless at the same time. "All passengers traveling with the convoy, proceed to the eastern pedestrian gate for processing. To ensure rapid processing please have your documentation available for inspection. Do not approach the highway gate.

"All bestials seeking entry, continue toward the western pedestrian gate for processing. Do not approach the highway gate. All bestials approaching the highway gate will be shot without hesitation. I repeat, all bestials approaching the highway gate will be shot without hesitation. You will be processed at the western pedestrian gate. Unlicensed bestials will be refused entry. Your cooperation is appreciated."

A voice behind him caught his attention, drawing it away from the sight of the gates slowly lifting up and out of the way. "Never seen a convoy come in to town before?"

He turned and looked at Sean, another of the shift supervisors like himself. Like himself, he was a fairly young man - twenty-five if he had to guess - and wore a thick mop of black hair that dangled loosely from his crown. "No," he said quietly. "Seen the convoys inside of town, at the bazaar, but never seen 'em coming in."

"Not much to see, truth be told," the slighly older man said with a bit of a shrug. "Least, not if you seen the convoys themselves. Now those are pretty fucking cool. Imagine what it would be like, driving one of them down the open highway, headed down toward the coast, to Angel City ... or maybe east up past the mountains. Open road, open highway, nothin' in your way!"

Josh shrugged his shoulders and snorted. "Shut the fuck up, Sean. You don't know what the fuck you're talking about. You don't know the first thing about driving."

A sharp jab in the shoulder was the immediate response to his own verbal prod. "Fuck yes, I do. My dad used to be on patrol duty. Got to drive a police truck around the city, outside of the walls even. Took me along a few times, let me get behind the wheel. Damn straight."

He knew that it was a lie. Fuel was a precious commodity, and working vehicles even moreso; none but the wealthiest and most powerful had access to them. Perhaps the members of the council. Police officers drove them from time to time, but there was no way they would allow someone like Sean to touch one of them, no way they would put a resource so valuable in harm's way. "Yeah, whatever," he said dismissively, turning to look at the gates once again.

Josh was too young to really remember the days when everyone drove a car, but he could at least recognize the vehicles that were sitting outside of the city gate. A small convoy of what were once school buses, modified with heavy steel plates that had been bolted haphazardly to their sides, rolling on rugged wheels that were intended for military type vehicles. They had probably been plundered from a school bus depot after the outbreak, long after the rest of the cars - those more desirable and familiar to the average person - had already been driven to destruction. There weren't a lot of people left who knew how to repair a vehicle, yet more reason that the machines were so damned expensive.

It wasn't the convoy, however, that caught the young man's attention - it wasn't even the modified school buses, or even the rag-tag collection of offroad vehicles that served as the convoy's armed escort. It was true that Josh had never seen a convoy come in tot he city, but watching the massive gates open afforded him yet another sight that he had never laid his eyes upon, not since the sickness had first ravaged society, not since the days of his first memories. What really caught his attention was the world beyond.

Outside the gates, the old city continued to stretch out into the distance. Those humans who survived the outbreak had clustered together, reclaiming the vital centers of the cities, the factories and the warehouses and the like. What had once been sprawling suburbs had been reduced to a veritable wasteland. Miles upon miles of residential neighborhoods and shopping centers had first been abandoned, then looted, and then stripped of much of their useful materials. Fires had broken out from time to time, charring huge swaths of the city to nothing but cinders and ashes, blackened remains of people's homes and lives crisscrossed by abandoned streets, all of them leading nowhere. If the old city itself had been largely surrounded by desert, the remains of its fringes had become a wasteland .

Far enough from the city's walls to make the humans feel safe, the bestials had set up their ghettos. Josh could make out the crude outlines of the structures they had erected, misshapen buildings fashioned from charred bits of wood and unclaimed scrap metal, decaying billboards, even rusted out vehicles; anything that they could use to create their rudimentary shelters. Even from this distance, their excuse of a settlement somehow reeked of desperation.

Then there were the lines. How many bestials lived in the shantytown, he had no idea, but there was a line of hundreds of them stretching out from the city walls, patiently waiting for their chance to clear the security checkpoints, patiently waiting for their chance to clock in at their crude, meaningless jobs, patiently waiting for the pittance of a pay they would receive. What little money they earned would be spent at the so-called Outer Bazaar, a seedy market set up outside of the city walls, where merchants would sell their leftover wares - food that was beginning to spoil, clothing that had become ripped or torn, goods that were probably broken before they were ever used - at enormously inflated prices. Still, he supposed, it must be better than the alternative, if the ever growing line was any indication.

"Fucking pathetic, isn't it?"

He turned to look at Sean again, who was now standing next to him and leering in the direction of the queued bestials. "I mean, just look at them. Some of the poor fucks stand in that line there from sunup to sundown, all so they can spend the rest of the night shoveling up our shit and hauling it out to a field. Fucking pathetic."

Josh shrugged his shoulders fractionally. "Guess the ones that work for us consider themselves lucky."

"Maybe the ones on your watch," the older man said with a snarl to his voice and a grin on his face. "But I make sure mine are earning their pennies. They used to cry and howl about wanting a break for this, a pause for that. I tell them if they need to piss, well, I don't give a shit what their pants smell like. Sick fucking beasts, they deserve to smell like their own filth."

"I'd rather have them pausing a minute to shit in the toilet rather than all over the floor," Josh countered with a bit of a grimace.

Sean only continued to smile. "Oh, don't worry. They know better than to make a mess of my floors," he said, accenting his statement by hefting his "Motivator", little more than a glorified cattle prod with a long handle, the primary method used to encourage the less diligent of the workers. Pulling the trigger, the Motivator issued forth a menacing buzz, electricity crackling between a pair of exposed metal prongs.

Josh was about to respond, his eyes already beginning to roll back in their sockets as another alert sounded - one much closer and much quieter than the droning klaxon at the gates. With a bit of a grimace and an overly satisfied grin, Sean squared his shoulders and picked up his mask. "Break's up. Remember, kid, you're the one in charge down there. Don't let those fucks forget it."

It was one thing that the young man did not have to be reminded of. Rather haphazardly, he picked up his mask - what had once been a motorcycle helmet, with the chin torn out and replaced by the business end of a gas mask - and pulled it up over his head. In that instant, he was no longer Josh, a sandy-haired youth just beginning to find his own place in the world. The mirrored visor obscured his face. The bulky, padded uniform that he wore hid his somewhat scrawny figure. He was a faceless shift supervisor, one of the nameless men armed with a Motivator, tasked with ensuring that the bestials under his watch performed their menial tasks with no interruption. It was one small step away from slave labor, making him one small step away from being a slavedriver. The thought gave him pause from time to time, at least until he got his paycheck.

Darkness enveloped him as he stepped his way through a pair of heavy doors, nodding to the pair of guards on either side that were armed with implements considerably more deadly than his Motivator. They, much like the makeshift gas mask that he now wore, were meant to protect the citizens of Berdoo from catching the zoo flu. It was part of why his job paid so well for so little. Anyone who worked in close proximity to the bestials was working in a dangerous environment indeed.

There was probably no place where one was in more contact with the bestials than here, beneath the city walls. A long flight of stairs dipped down into a warren of tunnels that had been constructed underground at the same time as the walls, tunnels lined with all manner of pipes and conduits and sewer passages, and almost always packed with bestials. He never really knew the purpose of the tunnels, or even what the laboring bestials working under his watchful eye actually did. It was never explained to him, as it wasn't important to his duty. His job was to make sure they were working, and nothing else.

He almost never had to discipline a worker, for they had already been appropriately "trained" by his predecessor. They were so busily engaged in their various tasks that most of them did not even turn to notice his approach. He brushed by some wolf-man who was huddled over a leaky pipe, apparently trying to fix the leak. Another fellow, who might have resembled some kind of scrawny bear, kept his head down as he dutifully scooped up the mud and grime and filth that had seeped out of the various pipes, filling one bucket after another. A rodent of some description hauled the filthy containers away to be disposed of. Not a one acknowledged him, except to scurry out of his way when he passed. Most he recognized, except when there were new hires to replace those who failed to return. There were even a few whose names he knew, a few who he had occasion to speak to for one reason or another, but most were every bit as nameless as he was.

Turning a corner, he spotted one of the bestials in particular that he recognized. A horse - a big Belgian draft, he had once been told - hammering away at a section of the wall that had become corroded. He did not expect to see this particular laborer, for he knew the horse to be assigned to a different shift. Gripping at the Motivator in his hand, he began to make his way purposefully over toward the horse. An explanation would be had. Josh chose to announce himself by jabbing the business end of the prod against the bestial's back, uncharged. "You. What are you doing here?"

The horse stiffened in surprise at the jab, but did not turn around to give an answer. "I ... I am replacing this section of the wall. It's rotted out," he said, gesturing to a pile of replacement blocks at his side.

"I can see what you are doing," he said, his tone irritated. The way his voice echoed in the helmet, the way it was muffled and filtered through the attached gas mask gave it a weird, almost inhuman quality. "This isn't your shift. What are you doing here?"

"I'm filling in," the horse responded, shifting his weight from one hoof to the other. "I'm just trying to help out ... and earn a little extra for myself ..."

Josh refrained from responding at first, intentionally allowing the bestial to grow uncertain and nervous. Removing the business end of the prod from the creature's back, he used the tool to point to the door to a nearby utility closet. "I wasn't informed of this. You, in there. We'll discuss this at length in private."

At that, the big horse turned his head to look back at Josh, big green eyes wavering slightly with fear at the prospect. "Please, I'm just ..."

"I wasn't asking." As if to punctuate his point, Josh pulled the trigger on his Motivator, sending angry, crackling sparks of electricity dancing against its prongs, jabbing it in the direction of the closet. "Now."

With a meek nod, the big draft horse turned his head and began to walk obediently in the direction of the closet. Josh knew that in any fair contest the creature could easily overpower him. Even with his Motivator in hand, the horse could probably have knocked it away when he used it in such a flaunting manner, leaving him defenseless. The thought probably never occurred to these sad beasts, however, knowing what the punishment for such behavior would ultimately be.

The door to the utility closet was opened with a creak. Josh waited for the horse to step inside, ducking his head to get in. A forceful prod in the side encouraged the beast to hurry up. Josh closed the door behind him, locking it securely in place, before turning to look at the chastised creature standing in front of him. The wan, flickering fluorescent light overhead seemed to heighten the fearful features on the beast's face. Josh had to forcibly hold back a chuckle. "Turn around. Face the wall."

Cringing, the beast complied, turning halfway around and leaving his back exposed. Josh took a moment to look the beast over before grunting out another command. "Shirt off."

"Please," the drafter started to beg, before the crackle of electricity at his side convinced him otherwise. Fumbling nervously, the beast undid the few good buttons that held on his tattered shirt, letting it fall to the ground at his hooves. Josh studied the beast's back for a moment, from the big, broad shoulders on down to the small of his back. The creature looked every bit as muscular and powerful as the beast he had been modeled on, a true workhorse, and had lived up to that reputation. No mere scooper of grime, this beast was given the most taxing, most burdensome of physical tasks, and it showed.

Quietly, the young man put the Motivator down on a shelf at his side. While the horse was left to stand there, his sides heaving slightly with nervous energy, Josh pulled the cumbersome helmet from his head, breathing in sharply. "You should have told me you were going to be here today, Brandon."

At that the big horse whipped his head around, eyes wide with confusion. "Josh?"

He did not wait to reply before he threw himself forward, wrapping his arms around the horse's midsection and hugging tight. He could feel his hands clasping together over that firm tummy, leaning in to rest his cheek against the male's naked back, just below the shoulders. Breathing deep and close like this, he could inhale the horse's natural scent, reassuring, hidden beneath the rancid filth and muck that pervaded the place. "I'm glad to see you."

"Jesus Christ, Joshua ... you had me scared half to death," came the shaky reply. Brandon was still quivering, his breath still coming in nervous little snorts as he let out a nervous little chuckle. "I thought for sure I was going to get a beating. You should have told me ..."

Josh half wished that he was facing the horse, so that he could see the reaction on the male's face, but found himself in too comfortable and convenient a position at the moment. "What would be the fun in that?"

"We're not down here to have fun ... supposed to be a job, remember?" By now the horse was beginning to calm down a little, the nervous edge in his voice softening as he allowed himself to relax. "And a miserable one at that."

"Oh, I don't know about that," Josh said, grinning to himself. The feel of his horse held up against him, the scent of him in his nostrils, and the unexpected pleasure of seeing him was rapidly having an effect on him, if the sensation between his legs was any indication. "We've managed to have quite a bit of fun down here before," he said, letting his voice become a little low and sultry, his hands beginning to wander southward down the drafter's belly.

A low grunt and a warm chuckle sounded in the little closet. "Aww, come on, hon. Going to go there so quickly?"

The horse was wearing a pair of jeans that was probably a size or two too small for him, and probably more out of necessity - and poverty - than any kind of conscious decision. Josh didn't entirely mind, however, as it meant the male's package was poorly disguised beneath the fabric and simple for his wandering fingers to find and trace. "I'd have brought flowers if I knew," he replied with a little chuckle, beginning to gently stroke at the shape he felt.

Brandon was not trying to stop him, at least not very hard. The big Belgian snorted out another little grunt, followed with a soft sigh. "Still ..."

"It's been, what, a week? I've missed you, Bran," the young man interrupted in protest, his fingers moving up and down the front of those jeans, tracing the outline of his horse's flesh. The desired effect was swift, as the outline quickly grew more pronounced, the equine starting to squirm a bit. "I've missed this."

"Ahh, Josh," the response came in a bit more of a hushed voice, the horse leaning forward a bit and using one arm to prop himself up against the wall. "You're always so hard to refuse ..."

The encounter was quickly becoming intoxicating to the young man, and his clothes were not even off yet. The sound of his lover's plaintive little groan at the fondling, the feeling of his tail coming up and flicking between his own legs was driving on his own need. "Then why try?" He grinned to himself, but then paused as a thought brushed through his rapidly hormone-fogged mind. Letting go, he stepped around so as to face Brandon directly, hugging around his hips again, letting his growing bulge press and grind against the horse. "Make love to me, Bran?"

Brandon's big green eyes widened at the question, the horse's frame shuddering at the lewd grinding. "Oh, hon ... I can't do that," he protested, in spite of the obvious desire in those big green eyes.

"Sure you can," Josh replied with a sly grin, reaching down to begin undoing the Belgian's pants. "I know this is quite capable ..."

"Nnngh. It's not that." Josh's fingers had succeeded in undoing the button and were pulling down the zipper, slipping inside and grasping at the horse's swelling flesh, clearly making it difficult for him to reply. "We've already ... nngh ... talked about that. It's too risky ..."

The scent of Brandon's musk was rising to the young man's nostrils, making him lick his lips. He wanted this bad, wanted his horse bad. While the equine tried to formulate his thoughts, he was already unbuttoning his own pants. "No one is going to find us down here, we're not going to get caught. Don't worry about that."

"I'm not worried about that ... I just ... you know, I don't want to hurt you ..."

"I've fucked some pretty big guys before, you know that. All we have to do is take it slow. I can handle it," Josh said with increasing urgency, just as he was getting his pants undone, freeing his manhood. The horse was taller than him by at least a foot, but with a little manipulation he was able to bring his lover's arousal against his, squeezing them both with a groan. He knew that he was avoiding Brandon's real argument, that the horse was not talking about his size, but the need he felt refused to confront it. Perhaps he could get the beast to surrender ...

Brandon was clearly feeling the same need. The horse's hands found their way to Josh's backside, kneading them, pulling him up and close to compliment the grind. "You know what they say, Josh ... it's the one thing that's sure to infect you ... I'd love to, but ..."

Again Josh grunted with need, whining a little. "How do they know? They could be wrong ... I mean, look how many times I've tasted you and I'm fine ... they're probably just making it up to keep us apart. Please, I need you ... I'm willing to take the risk ..."

With an almost forceful grunt, the horse closed his eyes and shook his head. "But I am not."

The argument was hardly new. Josh had lost it every time, and he was going to lose it again - that he did not doubt. With a bit of an annoyed growl to his voice, he gave one last firm grind against his lover before he pulled back. "One of these days, I'm going to get a hold of some condoms, and then you'll have no argument," he said with a measured pout, before grinning wickedly. "For now, though, I'm not going to let this opportunity go to waste."

Before Brandon could offer any further argument, Jason tugged the horse's jeans down his waist to expose him better, before dropping down to his knees. In this, at least, the horse had no power against him - now he was in control of the moment. One day he would wear down the equine's defenses, refute his arguments and then he would have his way with him. Until then, he would have to settle for this consolation prize - which was no small enjoyment in itself. Licking his lips, he reminded himself of just how lucky he was before he leaned in and made the most of the encounter.

#

"Come on, Josh. You heard the announcement - a public assembly is being convened."

He had, in fact, not heard any announcement. Hardly half an hour had passed since the time that he had come home from a long day on the job and thrown himself into his bed for a bit of a nap before dinner. His mother's voice sounded more grating than it ought to have, clouded by the desire for sleep that forced him to grunt loudly in response. "What are you talking about?"

His mother pouted at him from where she stood in the doorway to his bedroom. "Don't tell me you're already sleeping in there? Didn't you hear? There's a public assembly. We need to report to the auditorium in fifteen minutes."

"Ugh ... an assembly? What's the occasion this time?" Josh managed to roll himself to the side of the bed, sitting upright and clasping the sides of his head, shaking off the dull throb of sleep. Assemblies were dull, onerous affairs, where the town councilmen - sometimes even the Mayor himself - felt the need to stand in front of the thousands of citizens of Berdoo and preach about the latest threat to society, or remind everyone how all hope for the future rested on their capable shoulders.

"I don't know. They caught someone fornicating with a bestial, though. I'd guess it has something to do with that."

Lifting one eyebrow and feigning surprise, Josh suddenly felt a bit more awake at that revelation. "What?" As he called out after his mother, she had already turned and headed back down he hallway, forcing him to physically get up and out of bed to follow her. "Who was it? What happened?"

She didn't respond until she had made it to the front room. His father was already there, seated on a dilapidated couch and tying his shoes, acknowledging him with a tacit little nod. Again he turned to look at his mother, who merely shrugged her shoulders and frowned in exasperation. "Oh, Joshua, I don't know. Why does it matter?"

"I'm curious," he replied, brushing back his hair with the palm of his hand, stumbling over to the side of the room where he had left his own boots.

"Well I don't know, they didn't really say. Maybe they'll say something at the assembly. Oh, but, I did hear that they have already scheduled the trial for tomorrow. Can you imagine that? Maybe it's some high official or something like that."

Josh already knew that he was safe. His own rendezvous would remain a secret - he had made sure of that - but the curiosity still nagged at him. He had always wondered how many others there were who indulged in relations with the bestials, and if he might even have known them. A part of him yearned to know who he might be able to speak to, another human inside the city he could open up to, and the thought that there would soon be one less who might understand him made it feel like a personal loss, all the same. "You don't think they're going to show that awful movie again, do you?"

"Probably." This time it was his father who answered, grunting derisively at the thought. "No better way than to scare the younger folks away from that behavior. I hope it isn't someone you know, Joshua. Good way to catch the bug. Perhaps you should get tested ..."

"I don't know anyone like that," he interrupted with a hint of defensive irritation to his voice, beginning to stuff his feet into his boots.

"Still, it's risky. I know the pay is good and all, but you're down there all day with those filthy creatures. Breathing the same air."

Josh knew where this conversation was going, as it was not a new conversation in the least. "I know, Dad, I know. Don't worry. That's what the masks are for."

His hopes at cutting the conversation short were soon dimmed, his old man squaring his jaw as he stood up from where he had been seated. "I worry about you being down there with all of those perverts, son. Unnatural behavior got them where they are, and they're not going to hesitate to try and spread their filth. A young, unmarried guy like yourself is practically a trophy to those freaks ..."

"Dad," he groaned in exasperation, cinching the laces on his boots, shaking his head.

"Would you two boys knock it off?" His mother had unwittingly come to his aid. She was standing at the door, holding it cracked open and glancing outside with an anxious expression on her face. "I think the assembly is about to begin ... hurry up, we don't want to be late."

As much as he was uninterested in the assembly, Josh was glad to take it as an alternative to rehashing the same old discussion with his father about the dangers of his job and the deviants that he worked around. Even if he agreed with the sentiment, he was sure that he would be sick of hearing it over and over again by now. "Yeah, I'm ready," he called out, pushing his way past his mother and out into the street.

It was a short walk from their home to the auditorium, and they covered the distance quickly. Still, his mother's fear was realized, as the assembly was already under way when the arrived. The ushers at the doors gave them stern, disapproving stares on their way in; they would undoubtedly get a stern rebuke after the assembly, and probably a fine for their tardiness. The fine would, of course, fall to him to pay. Not that he really cared - he made more money than his parents combined. Still, he was not looking forward to the self-righteous rebuke he would get from the town officials, and the followup at home that he was sure to recieve.

Inside the auditorium it was highly crowded, and they were forced to stand near the back of the crowd, pushing their way inward to try and hear what was going on. The mayor himself was presiding, an indication that it was, indeed, quite an event. The mayor - part political leader, part religious figurehead - was already droning on in his best "doomsday" voice about the dire threats faced by the good people of Berdoo. Joshua didn't have to hear the first part of the speech to figure out what was going on, and he didn't even have to listen to the rest very closely. It was the same sort of speech that was always given, with the same heady pronouncements. The citizens of Berdoo were under assault, their way of life was threatened, their health and sanity and purity were at risk. The future of Berdoo was at stake. The future of humanity was at stake. They would have to be stronger than the threats. All they had to do was listen and obey.

Easy to predict, it was also easy to ignore. Josh was so adept at tuning it out that when the lights in the auditorium dimmed in preparation for the movie, he was caught off guard. Just as his eyes adjusted to the dark, the projector fired up, a brilliant rectangle of light cast on the screen at the center of the auditorium. making him squint reflexively. The sound came on, somber music that popped and rasped in the speakers, before the grainy, flickering image popped up on the screen. He had seen it before, dozens of times, and each time he was more disturbed than the last, but somehow he was unable to look away.

The man on the screen was supposed to have been his age. Younger in fact, by a few years, though he did not look it. He was lying in a hospital bed, strapped down, writhing and moaning in obvious pain. Doctors and nurses milled around him, dressed in white and wearing protective masks, while the man was naked at least to the waist, the rest hidden off screen. Blood seeped like tears from his eyes, dabbed up by one of the nurses when it would drip down to his cheeks. Most of the hair on his head had fallen out, while irregular hairy patches had sprouted up on his cheeks, his shoulder, his sides. Several ugly tumors had formed over his skin, one bulging ominously from the side of his neck, another covering a broad swath of his chest, while countless smaller ones pockmarked the rest of his exposed skin, all oozing thin reddish fluid. A collective gasp of horror went up among the crowd.

"Here we see the consequence of sinful, lascivious behavior! Here, a young man, barely twenty-one years of age - in what should be the prime of his life - suffers unimaginable physical distress, fighting for his survival!" The voiceover was sonorous and dire, almost melodic as if it were some kind of melodramatic dirge being sung in advance of the man's demise. It, too, was familiar to Josh, yet he found it too hard to simply tune it out. "This young man is paying the price for his mistakes, for he has been infected with ... the zoo flu. Now in the third and most difficult day of his infection, he fights for his very life! Doctors and nurses work nonstop to ease the pain, reduce the suffering, but there is nothing they can do to cure the man's condition.

"Already the disease has ravaged his body. Hair grows where it should not. Bones swell and deform, breaking and creating new joints, fusing old ones. Strange growths just beneath the skin swell with inhuman hormones. The virus has mutated his body, but into what?" The narration paused as the subject in the film let out a cry of pain, his body flailing against the bed, the doctors taking a step back with horrified looks on their faces. The large tumor on his chest had begun to burst, the hardened skin there cracking open and spilling its contents in a gush of blood and pus and other unidentifiable materials before one of the nurses rushed in with a handful of gauze to try and sop up the mess, to stanch the bleeding.

"Even now, his skin cells transform into strange patches of keratin, changing from skin to the same material as fingernails, as horns. Unable to cope, the body reacts by rejecting the growth, the tumor rising to the surface and splitting. Blood loss becomes a major threat. How long can the doctors sustain their battle with this beast?"

As the medical staff seemed to get the better of their reactions, another nurse stepping in to help cover the new wound, the changes in the man's body became more apparent. Some of the smaller tumors were beginning to fall off, leaving raw, running sores behind. Others were transforming into features that looked like little horns, or little patches of leathery hide, or patches of fine fur. Each burst of a tumor was accompanied by a shrill cry of pain. "No amount of morphine can help alleviate this man's suffering any longer. Blood vessels have rerouted themselves, making it impossible to distribute needed medicines. His physiology has become strange and alien to the doctors, leaving them ignorant as to how to help their patient.

"So severe are the changes to his body that they are unable to even administer a merciful dose of tranquilizers. Euthanasia is no longer an option for this man. The doctors know that death approaches, yet they fight valiantly on." The statement was something of an exaggeration, however, as most of the doctors in the image had resigned themselves to watching helplessly as the man succumbed to his disease. His cries of pain had become a near constant wail, his body thrashing against his bonds as whole patches of skin and hair began to slough off, leaving behind raw sores, or in some cases, bizarre growths beneath them.

Monitors in the film began to beep urgently, leading to a rush of activity around the bed. "Now the end approaches for our unfortunate patient. He is among the more fortunate of the sufferers, for there are those who suffer this fate for days on end, or worse, those whose entire bodies transform into hideous half-men, half-beasts, forced to contemplate their sins for years before the disease claims their lives. Remember this warning! Warn your friends and your children! Do not stand by idle while those you love and care about give in to the urges of the flesh, or risk dooming them to this fate!"

In a grotesque coda, the narration faded away and left the audience to listen to the helpless cries of pain. Suddenly the large tumor on the man's throat swelled and burst, splitting open in the middle and spilling its foul contents - blood and pus, piles of matted hair and fur and other gore that simply could not be identified. The staff rushed to try and cover the wound, but the bleeding was simply too great. In the space of a few heartbeats too much of the precious blood had rushed out from the new wound. The bursting had torn into his windpipe, too, the pained cries changing to a strangled gurgling sound. For a painfully long moment his body thrashed against the bed, tensed, and then finally went still. Another horrified gasp went up from the assembled crowd, and then the screen went black.

"One among us as fallen to the temptation of the flesh," the mayor cried out, standing up in front of the crowd once again, his arms outstretched. "But such sins do not only endanger the sinner, they endanger all of us. They risk not only becoming infected themselves, but spreading the infection to the rest of us. No one has the right to risk the health, the safety, nay, the life of all of the citizens of Berdoo! We cannot tolerate this kind of deviancy! We will not tolerate this kind of behavior!"

A kind of hoarse cheer rose up from the crowd. Josh felt like rolling his eyes at the display of ignorance, but then another sound just behind him caught his attention - a shrill scream, a woman's scream. Before he could turn to see what was going on, however, a sudden and intense pain blossomed from his back, spreading outward like a flash of lighting to take his body in a weird, painful grasp and squeeze him tight. All of his muscles felt instantly out of control, seizing up and convulsing, his arms lashing out uncontrollably before the strange sensation left his body. Still stripped of control over himself, his muscles all simply relaxed and he collapsed into a heap on the ground, gasping and wheezing. The pain had been so intense and brilliant that it nearly knocked him unconscious, leaving his vision dimmed, his ears ringing like a swarm of angry hornets.

He was aware of continued screaming, as well as a flurry of disorganized shouting through the buzzing in his ears, but for a moment he was only able to lie there, groaning and writhing on the ground. He felt a boot against his side, shoving, pushing him over, rolling him on to his back.

Though his vision was blurred by the sudden jolt, he was still able to focus enough to realize what was going on. Dimly he could make out the form of Sean, the other shift supervisor that he had been speaking with that morning. The slightly older man was leaning over him, it looked like, making an angry face, saying something - yelling something. Waving something in his face. It was hard to see, hard to hear. There was screaming, yelling, confusion going on about him.

Then it clicked. Suddenly it made sense.

The sound of a woman screaming was his mother. There she was, flailing wildly in his direction, held back by a pair of town enforcers. The sound of the yelling was his father, grappling with the enforcers, trying to pull them away from his screaming mother, a third enforcer trying to peel him off. A fourth enforcer, rifle in hand, was standing next to Sean, who was busily waving a Motivator at him, electricity crackling angrily from the business end of the device. He'd been struck by it and nearly knocked out.

It could only mean that they knew. He had no idea how, but they knew. It had been him they were talking about the entire time. Sean's voice was still indistinct, tinny sounding in his ears, but finally clear enough that he could hear what the man was saying, his voice laden with disgust. "You sick pigfucker ... I hope you rot for this ..."

Again his mother screamed out, almost in agony, but Josh could no longer see her. Sean had stepped closer, waving the Motivator in his face, the acrid scent of ozone stinging his nostrils. "I hope they hang you for this. But before you die, I hope to all hell that your dirty fucking balls are the first thing to rot off." The crackling rod was pulled back and then thrust right into his crotch. The angry crackle of electricity was the last thing Josh heard before his world went black.