FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

Close the city and

Tell the teople that

Something's coming to crawl

-Black Sabbath/Dio's "The Mob Rules"

+++++

Based on Von Kreiger's "New Found Form".

+++++

"Sir?"

General Ross had never been a morning person. Or an evening person. Not like you could tell what time of day it was, buried alive down there. Still, he rolled off the cot slowly.

"Status?" he growled, standing up.

"Not good, sir. Entire cities have gone dark. Most of the west coast has been infected; LA's still holding out."

"Intelligence?" Ross said, downing his coffee in one gulp. The aide winced; that MRE brew had more than twice the regular amount of caffine.

"Not much. Scientists were working on it at the lab where they were keeping patient zero and a few others, but they stopped responding a few hours ago. The dark cities aren't saying anything, but there's a lot of Internet traffic; we suspect cam whores."

"Who?"

"Ah, right. People who take pictures of themselves scantily clad on the Internet, sometimes for money."

"So someone's profiting off of this disaster?"

"Likely, sir."

"Ah, capitalism."

Despite herself, the aide smiled.

"What about our troops?"

"Nothing. Any time we've been able to get in touch with them for any length of time, they just tell us that it's wonderful and that we really should stop fighting."

"Not very likely," Ross said, as they reached Obs.

+++++

MacRonald's, Von County. Lunch time. Busy busy busy. Clarice Baron, not-so-renowned manager, stewed as she headed for the bathroom. She felt like she was about to burst-

Just as she reached the door, another woman came pushing out, her head down, face obscured by her dishwater hair. She nearly collided with Clarice, mumbled an apology, and left. Clarice saw her hook left, out of the door. Another one of those cheap hosebeasts who couldn't just pee on the side of the road. Or at least get an order of their world-famous fries.

Clarice cleared the door and stopped dead. There was some kind of white crap all over everything, dripping off the counter, all over the floor-

Clarice felt her lip curl. Yep. One of those.

She ducked back out into the hallway, and grabbed a mop and a bucket out of the supply cupboard. As a second thought, she took a "Wet Floor" sign. No sense in letting anyone else track in it. No sense in calling one of those putzes out there to do it either; they'd leave half this crap on the floor.

She really needed a cigarette.

+++++

An aide poked her head in. "Sir? The President is on line two."

The general rubbed his forehead wearily. "I'm getting too old for all this," he growled.

+++++

In a dairy, somewhere, a languid hand stretched toward a cellular phone. Or something like a hand, covered as it was in brown and white fur, the X fingertips a hard substance not unlike hooves.

The hand reached the phone; it had some difficulty pickness due to the slickness that covered its fur, but it eventually succeeded in flipping the phone open and hitting speed-dial two.

"Hello?" said the hand's owner into her cell phone. "Boss? I quit."

+++++

Fred was on his third martini, and feeling fiiine. He had gotten the window seat, which meant the classic Bathroom Block; he couldn't get to the aisle without stumbling over his fellow traveler's legs.

And what nice legs they were.

Dad had used an expression; "legs out to next week". Like that stretchy toy Barney's kid had back in the 80s. Fred had thought Ed was being old fashioned, but he had to admit the phrase had some merit. The dame next to him didn't have legs out to next week, she had them out to next month, next year. Legs that transcended time and space.

Fred loosened his tie; it was suddenly a bit hot in there.

This was his last trip for the year, Mr. Slate said. He had made a lotta clams for the firm, and now he would be able to buy Wilma that necklace made of huge rocks she wanted. Yeah, he nodded to himself, yeah. With those things hanging around her neck, with everything he had gone through for his family, why couldn't a man have an occasional...indescretion?

"Excuse me."

Fred looked up.

She was talking to him. She was actually talking to him.

"My call button seems to be broken. If you would just..."

Fred stared at her.

"Yeah?" he said.

She smiled. "Never mind, I'll just-" She leaned over, reaching for his call button. Her boobs, barely contained by the thin cotton of her dress shirt, brushed against Fred's face, and he nearly had a heart attack. Was this a come-on? Was she hitting on him? What was that smell?

He quietly slipped his wedding ring off.

"So...can I buy you a drink?" he said.

The goddess smiled at him. "I'd like that."

The stewardess left, just as the seat belt light turned off. Her name was Rose, she was in risk management, and she was traveling for pleasure. Fred listened with barely concealed impatience.

"Interesting. Interesting," he lied. "Say, have you ever heard of the mile-high club?"

She smiled again. "I do believe I have."

+++++

"Yes, I said Two, Mr. President. And Alert Level Red, Mr. President. Thank you, Mr. President." said General Ross. He hung up the phone, stared at it for a moment, then muttered "Jackass."

He stretched.

All their roadblocks and bag checks and searches and filters and all the other cumbersome, expensive apparatus of government might have been tissue paper for all they were doing to stop this thing. The General stared at the large, wireframe outline of the world on the main screen, the main source of light in the room. It was covered in little red dots, and, on a whim, he made a few complex passes. The map zoomed in on a certain road, in a certain state. The offical made a circle with his finger and thumb, and centered it, like a magnifying glass, over a certain green dot, next to several others. The number "20,505,461" appeared.

"How are they doing it?" Ross murmured.

+++++

Private Eric Taylor adjusted his grip on the assault rifle. This wasn't like the commercial. No one had said that he would be deployed to a gorram road in the rear-end o' gorram nowhere, and told to stand in the gorram sun for five gorram days while the real action was goin' on elsewhere.

Still, it was better than Iraq.

Sweat slowly trickled down his back.

He looked over at the Hummer. The OIC was sitting in it, listening to some crap music from that whore who couldn't keep her mouth shut, not if her life depended in her keepin' liquor, stupid, or Something Else in. The guys were walkin' around, trying to not yawn. Wouldn't be proper military discipline, sir no sir! The ones who weren't on were sitting in or by the vehicles were probably off takin' a p-car.

Taylor squinted. Yep. Car. Looked like one o' theirs, a tan that reminded him of the Marti Ross's thigh, behind the bleachers back home. The OIC told them to form up, and they made a passable parody of military discipline. The officer sighed. Rookies.

The car kept coming.

At a word, they aimed their guns at it. The Cap moved forward, careful to stay out of the line of fire. He waited for the car to stop, and then demanded authenication.

Taylor blinked sweat out of his eyes. Good thing he didn't have to wear those gorram gasmasks, like those poor sunsa's in the city. He adjusted his stance slightly.

The person in the car slowly got out, hands in the air.

"I need your identification!" yelled Cap, his sidearm out, his left arm extended.

The stranger was wearing riot gear, complete with tinted mask. That didn't make sense to Taylor; why would a civilian trooper be in a military vehicle? He tightened his grip as the cop ID'd themselves as Alex Satian, special permission from Gen. Hartenbrig. The officer frowned, and walked over to the radio.

Static.

"I don't understand." he muttered. "This thing is supposed to be able to cover most of the..." He spins the dials. "-can't even pick up FM-"

"Radio problems?" said Satian plesantly enough. "I'd be happy to wait until the situation is resolved."

The officer sighed. "Sure, whatever. At ease, men. Krieger, get over here!"

The men lowered their weapons, and looked awkward. Taylor approached the cop. "So, ah, what's your hurry?"

"No rush," said Satian. That mask really was opaque. "Truth be told, I'm not sure myself. They just told me to up and move."

Taylor nodded. "Yup. Know how that feels."

They stood there for a few minutes. Taylor felt a drop hit his face. "Is it raining? That's just what we need, rain."

"Don't think so."

Few minutes more. "That's all military life is about, y'know. Hurry up and wait. They bust your hump for not movin' fast enough, then when you get there there's nothin' to do!"

"You been in other parts of the service?"

"No, but my Pa was. And his Pa, and his Pa. One of the Taylors has fought in every single American war." He sniffed. "Best I could do was the ol' En-Gee."

"Maybye you'll get your chance." said the cop. Something made Taylor look at him, and he would've pursued the matter had one of his comrades in arms not moaned suddenly.

"What the-" Taylor said, hefting his weapon. The man had dropped his gun, and seemed to be trying to tear his clothes off, and was rubbing every inch of himself he could reach. A second later, another Guardsman started. And the Cap. He trained his weapon, spooked, as more and more of the soldiers succumbed. And then he felt it.

He lost his grip on the gun, and his eyes unfocused as an electric feeling coursed through him. He barely had the presence of mind to rip open his shirt before his hand reached into his shirt of it's own accord, scratching the worst itch ever. His nipples felt sensitive, and he could've sworn they were actually growing, swelling under his hands. With his hand in his pants restricting his movement, he falls to the ground.

"What-uugh-what did you do to us!"

"Nothing you didn't really want." said the cop. They slid up their visor, revealing a face out of Taylor's nightmares. "In a few minutes, you won't know the difference anyway."

"No..." he groans, and tries to gain enough control to wriggle away. "No! Not the rabbit."

"What?" says the rabbit creature, as some kind of half-human...lizard...thing appears out of thin air "Have we met?"

"Another job well-done," says the lizard. It has strange, swively eyes, and, though the soldier can't be sure, breasts. A chameloen, he realizes.

"How...how did you get out of my dreams?"

"Oh." said Satian, unbuckling his-no, her-clothes. "I'm another living nightmare?"

"Third one this week." notes the lizard. Something slips out of a slit, and it starts to drip on Taylor. "Mind if I..?"

"Not at all. In fact, I may join you." The rabbit removes his pants, and exposes its own member to the air. Like the lizard, it is male and female both. Both start to massage theirs, the lizard with it's extended tongue. More drips. Taylor groans and turns is face away, still rubbing furiously.

And then, as something deep inside takes control, he turns his face to the goo, welcoming it, snapping at it greedily.

It occurs to him that he was never cut out for the service anyway.

+++++

"Do we have anyone taking credit for this?"

"No one is claiming responsibility. In fact, most of the usual suspects seem to be having similar problems."

"Are you sure?"

"Roger. I triple-checked. They're in as deep as we are.

Ross looked at the screen. It was still zoomed in on the dot from earlier, now gone gold; the entire unit or detachment or whatever hadn't responded to the check in. In fact, there was a little cluster of yellow dots in the area.

"Radio jamming," he said to himself.

"What, sir?"

"Has anyone checked for radio jamming?."

The tech blinked, then fiddled around with the console for a few seconds. "Yes sir, the test signals are getting through, but there's no verbal response."

"The lights are on, but there's no one home. Fantastic." Ross returned his attention to the main screen. He zoomed out, and input a service number from memory. The view snapped to Afghanistan. Green dot. Mike was safe-

"Sir? ECHELON is picking up a lot of traffic on the Internets-sorry, online." The Tech listened intently to her headset for a few seconds. "They're starting to fetishize it."

Ross suddenly had a migraine.

+++++

"-these outward appearances are simply physical manifestations of the inner desires, one's id, as demonstrated by the combined theories of Jung, Freud, et al."

"Interesting, Doctor. Do you have any way of proving this hypothesis?"

"Thank you for asking, Marti. I have obtained a vial of a sample from Patient Zero, an unknown white substance. Before this taping began, I diluted a portion of it and placed it in the water supply of this building."

"Wait, what?"

"Specifically, the sprinkler system. Everyone, don't bother trying the doors; I'm afraid you'll find escape quite impossible."

And then he reached into his coat and produced a perfectly ordinary match.

+++++

Ross hated this. He hated just watching. He could communicate with the troops, of course, but he couldn't order, them only give "strong suggestions". The only reason he was even there was because he was one of the five people who could reccomend nuclear weapons, and for that he needed to be able to see what was going on.

Either way, General Ross was not a man who liked to just sit around. He stood up and began to pace.

+++++

Ruby was in a "career transitional period" right now, or at least that was what she told the landlord. She spent a lot of time online, particularly on various specialized iJournal communities.

Extremely specialized.

She spent even more time, now that the Tate-Fairchild quarantine was in effect. Even that little grocery two buildings down was closed. Cupping her hands around the window, she had spotted some white fluid on the linoleum of the darkened store. Maybe they tried to race the quarantine, and hadn't bothered to clean up.

Her own community, discussing The Syndrome, had become lots more popular, now that that furry website was down. Again. "RubyDog" wasn't a furry herself, and could only see the appeal in a vaugue, clinical sort of way. She supposed they felt the same way about fanfic.

Scratch that, she had seen what they did with that Gidget Hecklewrench or whatever it was.

Either way, she prefered iJournal, and the warm embrace of various fandoms, to the slings and arrows of her outrageous bad fortune. It seemed more real, somehow. An arc of light in the dimness that was her life.

Yawning, she padded over to her little white laptop. Brand new, this, bought by fans of her fanfiction in another fandom. She had mentioned, pointedly, that she wanted a certain popular MP3 player from the same manufacturer, but this-the notebook seemed to sigh as it was turned on-this was nice too.

Deiter had set it up.

It had taken a while, of course, with him staring at the screen and muttering something about the bar being at the top of the screen. She considered asking him over-he lived right next door-but he had just gone through a bad breakup with that cow 'Tea.

Her community had semi-open posting; iJ members' posts went right through, and while anonymice-sorry-anonymouses could comment without an account, their posts would have to be approved by the mod; her.

The first one had no real content. There was an empty box, about the size of her icon, with a pictograph of a ripped piece of paper. Obviously, the iJournal server loaded the thumbnail size, but not the actual image. She refreshed several times, even using the vaunted Ctrl+F5, but nothing change. Maybe it was a hosting error.

The broken thumbnail was followed by a single line of text; "I only know one trick, but it's a good one."

Spam, obviously. Ruby checked the IP; it matched iJournal itself. Clever little bot. The link that came up when she hovered over the thumbnail even went to a legit image-hosting site, so there was no risk in checking it out.

Her cursor hovered over Deny.

Crowley and Neil curled around her feet, pleading for attention. Always so needy, these cats.

She bent over to scratch both their ears in that way they liked, and her attention slipped to the next post in the queue. That weird spam could wait.

The kettle whistled. She poured herself a cup, and when she got back X and Y were debating the finer points of whether "Don't like, don't look" applied to the documentary footage that was being uploaded so fast that it almost bought GooTube's servers to their knees. They would be getting into the Caps and Godwinning in a minute, so X decided to head them off.

And so; administration.

She hadn't wanted this, she frequently claimed. She had just wanted to chat about what was going on, and now she was a glorified babysitter.

Except some of the content wasn't for children at all. Parental discretion was advised.

There was a link to a story about some Japanese fishery. She hit Approve. Another one about some sort of squid...tentacle...thing terrorizing the sleepy Benchley Island, New England. She hit Approve. And another one, with video. She paused, then IJ-cut and member-locked the post. The still she saw of the video reminded her of that time she walked in on her roommate spending quality time with his anime collection.

Ruby looked at her little rattrap and sighed. Back when she still lived in an apartment large enough to have a roommate.

Some 'mouse had made a post simply to report some possible rule-breaking. She hit Deny and went to check it out. Someone wanted to know if, hypothetically, anyone would be willing to pay to TFS roleplay with them. A smutty one.

Ruby didn't believe in profiting from cyber. She had RPed with those she felt *should* be paid, and she herself had been amply rewarded for her selfless endeavours, but cybering was the distilled spirit of all that was fannish and true. Also; no one was gonna pay it when they could get it for free.

She checked the comments; he was getting reamed. Good. She'd let him twist in the wind for a while before asking everyone to play nice. This was a safe space, after all.

After that TV show-she wasn't sure of the details, but there were clips of it on GooTube-every site on the planet was filled with newbies of the most hopeless sort. NYJoe demanded closer scrutiny of these new found fans. She made soothing noises in his general direction and turned to the next post. A link; some of the goons from That Forum had started to say that maybe those wacky furries weren't so bad. Huh.

Then there was the otherkin who was quick to point out that They were vindicated, that they were right all along. Others were quick to point out that their spirit animal was never a seven-foot hermaphrodite chipmunk. In fact, the spirit animal was never anything other than a large predator. And, as long as they were there, why didnt they explain why no one ever had a human living inside of them?

No otherkin responded.

The furries seemed to be dealing with their new found "internets mainstream" status fairly well, except for a small, hardgore group of old-timers who said that they had liked furry before it was popular. Of course, if they had liked it because it was mocked, that meant they were masochists, which was another fandom entirely.

A dozen little things she had to deal with, and always more to come. She took a sip of her tea.

That first post kept drawing her; she had been using the 'tubes long enough to know that the imghost probably had some kind of hiccup while generating the thumb.

Neil hopped into her lap. His tail tickled her chin, and she stroked him as she thought.

That's all it was; mechanical error. Of course, if she approved the post, it would instantly be seen by-she checked-several thousand people, and probably reposted to the 'chans, if it hadn't come from th-ow.

Neil had bit her, as cats were wont to do. Ruby examined the wound. Broke the skin, but no blood. She didn't even bother to reach for the absinthe.

Of course, she could just Deny it. She was the sole mod, after all, and no one would be the wiser. But she couldn't honestly say to herself it was spam unless she opened the link. It might even be relevant!

Besides, she thought, as she clicked on the thumbnail, you couldn't get sick from the Internet, could you?

+++++

"We're getting some serious migration, sir." The map wall zoomed in. "Apparently people are leaving their homes to go to..." The aide's face crinkled in confusion. "...a dairy?"

"What?"

"A dairy. Someone posted the address on the Internet, and now there's this whole movement. Songs, paintings, even-" she stabbed a key "-videos."

A prompt came up from the largest video host on the Internet, asking them to confirm they were over 18. Ross, leaning over the aide's shoulder, nodded. They confirmed.

The video was grainy, obviously handheld. There were fluids. There was swaying. There was-

"That's Huey Lewis and the News, sir," the aide confirmed.

"I would've used 'A little less conversation'," Ross commented.

There was an awkward silence.

"Huh," said Ross.

"Intelligence says that it's like Woodstock out there. Except without the drugs."

"Then it wouldn't be Woodstock." Wait, what was that? He needed some sleep. Or coffee. Coffee was good.

"Where's the gorram coffee?" he exploded a few seconds later.

"Sorry, sir, we're out. More should be coming in at about oh-eight-hundred hours."

"Fantastic. If our troops are this good, it's no wonder we're losing!"

Silence, but for the beeping.

"Sorry," he said, rubbing his forehead.

+++++

Doran Wilchinski was having difficulty enjoying the movie.

It wasn't bad, to be sure. The camerawork, music, cinematography and costuming were all top-notch, even if the acting was a bit flat. But he could take bad acting. What he couldn't take was people making out during the movie.

Like those two in the back row.

What was it, Doran wondered. Was it the shaved head? The guns? The suit? Or the strangely incompetent cops. Did they even know what the movie was, or did they just plop down their two bits for the next thing playing?

Wait, did he actually use "two bits" seriously? Was he turning into his dad?

With a sigh Doran levered himself out of the chair and walked towards the beast with two backs.

"Hey!" he said. They were under an overcoat of some kind, and didn't seem to notice.

"Hey!"

They stopped, and looked up. He couldn't see their faces properly, but it looked like they had masks on or something.

"Would you like to make it a threesome?" he said sarcastically.

It was hard to be sure, but it seemed like the one on top smiled. "Yes, please," she said, and lifted the overcoat. Something wafted.

Doran blinked, and stepped forward.

+++++

"And so, comrades, this is a sign! A sign that we must overthrow the capitalist oppressors, and begin our glorious revolution!"

There was cheering in the warehouse. Marcus Slansky felt his heart swell as he looked as the proletariat, soon to be free. He took a Suckerware container full of an opaque white fluid, and placed it on the podium. The crowd grew silent.

Slowly, Marcus lowered his pants.

+++++

Toby Bradshaw saw his boss enter the kitchen. He was carrying a carton of fresh, never frozen beef patties to be flame-broiled when she wandered in. He couldn't see his watch, but he could've sworn she left for the bathroom over a half-hour ago. Also, she was all spacey, like the way his neighbour's dog was when he got into the weed patch.

"Ms. Baron?" he asked.

"Bradshaw?" she said. Was she leaning? To the left, just a little.

"Are you all right?"

"Yes, fine." She blinked and grabbed an empty milk container. "I'm just going to take care of this for you..."

"Um, that's really my job-"

Something like her regular steel snapped back into her eyes, and she hissed "Are you arguing with me, Bradshaw?"

"N-no ma'am, I just-"

"Because there are plenty of acne-faced teenagers who want this job, am I making myself clear, Bradshaw?"

"Yes'm."

"Good," She stepped back. "I'll be in my office."

Toby exhaled and shook his head. He didn't have to take this. He had, like, two hundred friends on FaceSpace.

+++++

Claire Quentin walked into room 104. "I come, bearing apples," she singsonged.

Her colleague, Shati Amrit, didn't bother to look up from her computer. "Do you want the green or the red?" Claire continued.

"Green," Shanti said. She was typing furiously, the screen relflected in her glasses.

"As you wish," said Claire. She had wanted the sole green, but it was a small price to pay for love. She put the apple down next to the computer, and sat on the stool next to Shanti.

She had bought the apple, along with a half-dozen red ones, from an old lady who had come by. Owned an orchard, couldn't ship her product with the roads closed.

"So, how about that quarantine, huh?" Claire said, desperate to fill the silence. She watched the way the light bounced off of Shanti's jaw. "I mean, the students can't leave, we can't go into town, and we're done marking our papers."

Shanti grunted neutrally.

An awkward silence.

"So...where did you go to college?" Shanti asked. She turned from the computer, and Claire felt like cheering.

"My dad was a math professor before he quit and got our forty acres and a mule."

"Forty...?"

"Our farm."

"Oh."

"He named me Claire. Broke his heart when I became an English teacher."

"Ah. Mine was a geneticist. I'm fairly certain I was named after a virus of some sort."

Claire smiled. "To fathers."

"To fathers."

They bumped apples and bit.

"Why did you cross the pond?" Claire asked.

"I lost a bet."

"What, really?"

"No!" said Shanti, giving her coworker a playful shove. "I applied to this school and a few others, and got accepted."

"Why here, specifically?"

Shanti blushed. "I heard you had good-" she mimed putting something to her mouth and inhaling. "-you know." She bit into the apple to cover her embaressment.

Claire watched her. Shanti hadn't been as neat with this bite, and some of the juice dribbled down her chin. "I had no idea you liked the Wacky Tobaccy".

"Well, not anymore," mumbled her colleague. She looked down at the wet mark that had just appeared on her lapel and cursed in Hindi.

"Here, let me help you with that," she heard herself say, as her arm reached out. It had gotten halfway there before she realized that it wasn't holding or a napkin. Still, might as well keep going.

Her hand struck the lapel, and grabbed Shanti's breast through it.

There was a frozen sort of silence. Shanti started to blush.

It occured to Claire that she might as well be hung for a sheep as for a lamb. She let go, and slipped through the folds of the lab coat to grab Shanti's actual breast, moving her thumb to the left to cup the gentle curve, sliding her finger's down towards the areola in a maneuver taught to her by her brothers and perfected by college. Though, strictly speaking, it was supposed to be overhand, not sidearm.

It kept sliding. Shanti blushed harder.

Claire's eyebrows furrowed. Wait a second, these weren't the modest, yet attractive B-cups she had long admired from afar. Her finger struck the areola, which was much larger than it was supposed to be, she rubbed it experimentally. The texture was off, too. Shanti squawked and fell off the stool.

"Shanti!" said her colleague, momentarily free of whatever it was that had compelled her to fondle her co-worker. She stood up, only to find a penis snaking out from between the other woman's legs.

Well, that was different.

+++++

Pedro swore.

"Dude, what?" said his coworker Leo. He walked over to the counter to find Pedro holding an open video case with a white fluid dripping out of it, onto the counter, and onto Pedro's sandalled feet.

"It was in the overnight return slot. I open it, and-BAM-this crap is all over my feet." His acne-scarred face curled in distaste.

"Third time this month, right? Want me to clean it up?"

"Please."

Leo grabbed the paper towel from beneath the counter. The white stuff soaked through the cheap paper in an instant as he wiped it off the counter. Now he would have to wash his hands-

"Leo," his coworker said, sounding oddly strained. Leo glanced up. Pedro's moustache was thicker, somehow, and he was looking down at him with...something in his eyes.

"Pedro?" he said, and then he felt it too.

"Leo..."

"Pedro..."

Silence.

And then they reached for each other.

+++++

Toby had just finished cleaning up some kid's spill-with the second mop, he couldn't find the first-when Ms. Baron came out of her office with a full tank of milk.

"Ms. Baron, what-"

"Don't ask." she said vacantly. "Just...put this in the milkshake machine."

"Ms. Baron? There's a customer here with a complaint," a cashier called.

"Excuse me," said a woman in a wheelchair-no, she was in one of those fattie scooters, as Toby and his friends privately called them. "I went in the bathroom, and there was this white stuff all over it, and a bucket an' mop too! Someone just walked away in the middle of cleaning it up!"

"I'm dreadfully sorry, Ma'am," said Ms. Baron. Toby tried to think of the last time he had heard her apoligize. "We'll get someone on it right away. In the meantime, would you like a free milkshake?"

Toby doubted she was the type of woman who would turn down a free milkshake. She wasn't.

"There you go," said Ms. Baron. "In fact, free milkshakes for everyone!"

Cheering.

Toby looked on. There was something wrong about all this, something he couldn't quite put his finger on. But if there was one thing working in a fast-food multinational had bred out of Toby Bradshaw, it was independant thought. He shrugged, and sipped at his shake.

Baron looked at the next customer's order. "Ah," she said, and tucked her hair behind a slightly pointy ear. "And would you like special sauce with that?"

+++++

Michael Mallon walked into the dimly lit shop, and shivered. There was an indifferent young...person in there. Andy...andy-what's that word? Androgynous. Skinny, dark hair falling all over their face, sleeveless striped t-shirt. Black and white, horizontal, like the bad guys in those comics he used to read when he was a kid. The person behind the counter wasn't wearing a Kato mask, though they were wearing enough makeup for someone to make that mistake, in a bad light.

"Can I help you?" they said languidly. Mallon realized he'd been staring.

"Yes. I mean, I hope so." Grow a pair, Mike. Say it to his or her face. You're a grown man and you know exactly what you want. "I-I mean, my therapist-said we, that is my wife and I, need to add some-" he made an odd-little two-handed thrusting gesture. "-spice back into our relationship."

"So you, being the big, strong conquering male, decided that you needed to get a little kinky, right?" the clerk drawled. They had an accent Mike couldn't place; not quite American, not quite jolly ol' Albion. Albionese. Albonics. Screw it.

"Er, yes."

"Whaddya want? We got whips, masks, toys, harnesses of all shapes and sizes, candles, chains, scarves, handcuffs, and instruction manuals."

"I don't really-did you say candles?"

"Yes."

"What for?"

A level gaze. "Stuff."

Mike decided to look around the store, in case anything came on him. To. Came to him.

The promised items were in evidence, along with a few things that the clerk hadn't mentioned. Like that feather. Or that riding crop; did that fall under "whips"? Either way, he doubted the missus would let her apply the latter instrument to her somewhat fleshy thigh.

There was a teapot on a table. Mallon figured he didn't want to know what it was for.

"Oi! What's this for?"

"Tea." Couldn't even get gender from the voice.

He poked around for a few more minutes before returning to the counter. "I'm not exactly sure what I'm looking for," he confessed.

"Did you have any requirements in mind? Size, color, anything?"

Mike racked his brains. "Can't be too fussy; we have to do it when Timothy is asleep."

"Ah. So you want something at the beginner's level." said the clerk, crossing their folded hands in a manner also reminiscent of Mike's childhood villains. Though those usually had moustaches and top hats.

"Yes," he replied, chafing slightly. He had a kid; he shouldn't be a "beginner" anything. The clerk gave him an altogether too-knowing smile.

"It's all right, sir, a lot of men are shy when they first come in." they said, suddenly businesslike. "Less the second time. None the third." Pause. "I make sure of that."

While Mike was trying to decide how to respond to that, the clerk pulled a box out from behind the counter. They laid their fingertips lightly on the lid before opening it, staring at Mike.

"Well?" he said. The clerk sighed.

"No mystery for these children" they muttered as they flipped the box open. "No sense of wonder."

Inside, in a velvet-lined indentation, was a black phallus.

Mike felt heat in his cheeks. Stop it, he told himself. He'd seen these before, plenty of times. He had one, though it was a different color. Nothing to be embarrassed about.

"You know what this is?" the clerk said, their finger tracing over the lines of the object without actually touching it. Black nail polish, Mike noted. He leaned a little closer.

"I have a fair idea."

"Not such a beginner." Her-or his-breath smelled of mint, and their hair hung over their face, a glint or two of metal visible behind it. Was that-was that chamomille? Did they even make that in shampoo? Maybe it was homemade-

"-here," the clerk said. Gah, not again. "See it?"

Looking closer, Mike could now see strange letters on the length. The clerk's finger was hoving over one. "And here. And here." They looked up at Mike expectantly.

"Ah," he said.

"Of course, that's just for heat. If there's anything else, you'll have to-" A pause. "-experiment."

Mike decided it was time to get out.

"How much."

"Call it a free sample."

"I insist."

"Thirty quid."

Mike didn't have much experience in comparison sex toy shopping, so he dropped the money on the counter, grabbed the box, snapped it shut, left. He paused on the threshold.

"I have to know...are you a man or a woman?"

The clerk pulled their hair back. They smiled at him, a shark's grin, and Mallon was suddenly, illogically, afraid. "You tell me."

Mike stepped out the door, into the crisp, clean afternoon sunlight, to be smiled at and to wonder where the nearest pub was.

The clerk stood staring at the door for a few seconds, their grin growing even wider.

"Pleasure doin' business with you, Mr. Mallon," they said, turning back to the counter.

+++++

Marti Ross stumbled through the trees near the river.

Stupid Roy, she fumed. Leavin' the stupid house to go for a stupid swim when there was a stupid quarantine on. It weren't safe to go in the water durin' these attacks, everyone knew that! And now she had to go call him to dinner.

"Roy," she yelled as she burst out of the trees. "Mama said get outta that river and come eat your supper right now!"

"In a minute!"

Marti nearly had a stroke.

"Don't you tell me to wait, Roy Michael Ross! Get out out that river this instant!"

"Marti! Look what I found!" yelled Roy. He had some stone thing. Probably was buried in the cliff that had collapsed into the river.

"Give it here and get out of that river!" Roy obligingly tossed the thinig, and it landed in her hands with a solid smack. Seemed kinda warm, probably from Roy holding it.

Her brother swam to the side and climbed out while she wondered why anyone would make one of these out of rock, or put lots of squiggly letters on it.

"All right, you looked at it. Now give it back!" Roy said, dripping.

Her thoughts strayed to old Thunder, back home, under a stack of old Sixteens in that trunk under her bed.

"C'mon, Marti, give it back!"

Marti stared at the object; it seemed to be getting hot. She bought it closer to her face-

"Maaartiii! Give it to me or I'm telling Mom!"

Something whispered in her ears

that one

something that pushed her eyes towards one last squiggly letter

do it now

"I'm gon' give it to you all right," she muttered, and pressed the rune.

+++++

The dot was now red. Long past the safety margin, still no radio contact. Ross sighed.

"Latest?" he asked.

"We have reports of some talk show being contaminated; one of the guests bought it on. It was a taped show, so no word got out."

"Good." Beat. "Was it one of the ones with the DNA tests?"

"No..."

"The ones with guys in suits talking about politics?"

"No. The type that reviews books and gives away cars."

Breep boop, bree-oop, a phone rang. A tech tapped a button and listened intently for a moment. "Sir, we've got a live feed of troops moving in on an infected area."

"Onscreen."

The map was wiped and replaced by a somewhat grainy, lo-fi feed from the helmet cam of a PFC named "Krieger, Vaughn". Pulse rate was slightly elevated, probably due to the gas mask and going into a combat situation blind. Krieger was behind the standard double line of troops, with the armour-a standard light recon-behind them.

Ross frowned and bought up the recon's feed next to Krieger's. He panned the camera left and right; semi-industrial area, halfway between the suburbs and the city. And there was no one around. Ross switched the recon's thermals on, and just before it finished warming up he realized that every door and window on screen was closed.

"It's a trap!" he said, as the thermals revealed dozens of contacts. But it was already too late.

The first hit was on the commander; a precisely aimed water balloon that wasn't filled with water burst on his legs. There was just enough to trickle down the gap between his pants and his combat boots, and he immediately began convulsing.

One of the men ran forward and tried to drag the CO back to cover. His rifle dipped, just for a second, and a barrage of white hit him from all sides.

"Fall back!" someone yelled. Krieger's pulse and respiration had already started spiking, and he turned and started for the recon when a few well-aimed white-covered rocks shattered the windows. He pulled up short, and began firing at the contacts that were coming out of the woodwork. A rock shattered the lenses of his mask and he ripped it off frantically.

That's when they got him.

From the way the camera moved, he fell to the ground. More improvised biological weapons rained down on him, turning the camera view to white. The monitoring system caught a drastic spike in his pulse rate and then shut down due to ACU compromise.

The screen switched to the usual SATTAC view of the area.

"Enemy casualties-" said a voice in the darkness, and swallowed. "Zero."

The system also noted suit compromise in all of their troops. There was a stunned silence.

Ross thought of the Devil's own luck.

+++++

Shanti got up, and turned to her little white computer. She bought up the web browser, and began opening pages faster than Claire could read them.

"This really is an incredible scientific discovery, you know. There's already a significant fanbase around this thing. There are rumours of a file-like that video with the girl in the well-that can transfer the virus, like magic. I suspect it was this file that lead to my own change."

"Shanti-" Claire squinted at the screen; were those stickers?

"It's incredibly resilient; some of the more potent strains can even be boiled in water and still remain virulent, according to some reports, though they're understandably garbled-"

"Shanti-" Claire said, as something dripped down her colleague's leg.

The virus hyperfertilizes-is that the right word?-hyperfertilizes its hosts, to the extent that they can be pregnanted by just about anything. It tends to feminize the figure, as well as increasing the prominence of both primary and secondary sexual characteristics-

"Shanti, why-"

"I'm not clear on why it tends to blend its hosts with nearby animals, though it probably has something to do with pheremones-"

"Penis," Claire broke in.

Shanti's hands stilled on the keys. She stared at the screen for a second, then sighed and closed her laptop.

"Sorry," she said with an abashed grin. "It's just that I expected this to kill me or the like. But here I am, not dead. In fact, I feel more alive than ever!" She spread her arms wide. "I'm doing science and I'm still alive!"

Claire was not impressed.

"Oh, right," said Shanti, slightl mollified. "You've been watching the news lately?"

"Yes. that Tate-Fairchild Syn-you didn't."

"I did."

"Where did you get a sample?"

"Internet."

"I thought all shipping was shut down."

"No, I mean, literally. Someone emailed me this file, and I opened it, and now-" her gesture took in her entire body- "I'm like this!"

"Did it happen all at once?" Claire was interested despite herself. She moved closer.

"No. I had enough time to fic up a rig to, er, hide it." She was blushing again. "There were some other effects..." She took off her lab coat.

She had an extra pair of boobs.

Claire considered herself a boob woman. She loved them, any shape, any size. And these were probably the best she'd ever seen; perky, round, and with just the right heft to them-

"Could you stop that?"

Claire looked up. Somehow, she had started fondling Shanti again.

"That's the second side effect; I'm putting out some kind of scent that makes me irresistible. I had to fight off a mouse earlier. It's why I've been in here all day."

"What's the first?"

Shanti slowly unbuttoned her top. Claire's breath caught; this was it.

The other woman had two pairs of teats. Or was it four teats on each breast? Was it the breast that was called the teat? Claire thought she should know the answer-she grew up on a farm-but she couldn't seem to think straight. "Teats," she mumbled.

"Yes, they are. Udderlike, actually."

Claire stood up. She gently placed her hands on Shanti's hairline, feeling the coolness of her brow.

"What are you-"

"Shh."

She slid them back, toward the ears. And there they were; horns. "I think you're becoming a cow."

Shanti flinched. "What-no!" Her questing fingers found the buds on her head, little fluttery movements.

"Aren't cows sacred in your culture?"

Shanti gave her a surprised look. "What, South London?" She resumed her examination. "Well, that's a sodding stick up my rear."

"What?"

"Family in-joke."

"Oh. Because that phrase has a different meaning over here."

"Yes, I know."

"Oh."

Pause.

"I'm sorry, this must be terribly disappointing to you."

"What? Me? No, I'm fine."

"I mean that I'm finally able to reciprocate your feelings for me, and now I have-" she gestured downwards- "this."

"Oh, right. Tha-wait, you knew?"

"For months. But I don't like women. At least, not until I opened that email."

Claire was not averse to dicks, not entirely. Pedantically, she was not averse to them as disembodied objects in odd colors, which she kept in a locked box under a loose floorboard. However, attached to a man was something else entirely. She had never even contemplated it attached to a woman, but she probably would've turned it down, if not for that scent wafting from her colleague.

"There are some problems, however. From what I've gathered, sufficient exposure to my...semen will trigger a similar transformation in any partners I might take."

"Before we go on; could you please stop being modest? You have a dick, there's no need to stand on ceremony."

"Of course, if there is some way to...ignore our differences-" she spread her arms. "Will you...have me?"

Claire considered to irony; the woman of her dreams, and she had a dick.

She had looked forward to this day, actually; the day Shanti confessed that she really was gay, and then Claire would whoop with joy and then tear her clothes off and then they'd have big, sweaty girl-se, right on the floor in front of her last boyfriend. Of course, she had realized that the freak would probably just get off, but she found that, for some reason, she was okay with that now. Ready to do it in front of him and everyone. Her fondest wish. Bring it.

Claire licked her lips nervously. Of course, every well-read English teacher knew wishes never came out how you expected them to.

"Can I see that email?" she said.

+++++

"Sir? Line five."

Ross picked up the phone, listened for a few seconds.

The President wanted to know if he reccomended the use of nuclear weapons.

Ross stared at the screen. The US mainland was almost solid red and gold. The same colors were starting to spread out of the south of London, too, but there was still plenty of green-

"No, Tom, I don't think so. I c-we can't jeopordize innocent civilians just for a shot at these things. There has to be a better way."

"That's all well and good, Thaddeus, but what do I tell the boss? He's not big on philosophizin'."

"Tell him? What do you tell him?"

Later he would realize that the waiting and the watching and his frustration at the blasted impotence of himself and the People he Worked for had all combined into one heaving ball of pissed-off, somewhere in his gut. At the time, however, he hadn't been thinking much at all.

"Tell him that he's an idiot." he snarled into the phone.

There was a stunned silence on the other end. Ross used it to gather his anger around him like a cloak.

"Tell him that if he hadn't decided to go to Iraq half-cocked, then maybe we wouldn't be having this problem. Tell them that the victims of this thing aren't really hurting anyone. Tell him that they might even be alive and sentient. Tell him that we've messed up the planet enough already, and maybe-just maybe-it's time to wipe the slate clean. Tell him that we can't kill people just to contain this.

"Tell him...tell him there's at least one good man in Sodom," Ross said, and hung up.

+++++

"Now Timmy, what you just saw Mommy and I doing was a very beautiful thing."

+++++

Doc Marvin'd feet, walking briskly down the hall.

"Miss Amrit, Miss Quentin!"

A door opening.

"Oh, there you are. The Dean's been l-"

Pause.

"What the-"

+++++

"-we have unconfirmed reports of a biological weapon in the area around the MacRonald's. Government officials will neither cofirm nor deny that this has anything to do with the mysterious Tate-Fairchild Synd-wait, something's moving in the quarantine zone. If you could just zoom in, Steve, so the viewers at home can get a better look-"

+++++

"Deiter?"

"Ruby?"

"Can I borrow a cup of sugar?"

+++++

Subject: MAKE IT BIGGER

MAKE EVERYTHING BIGGER!

Boobs, cock, butt

CLICK HERE NOW!

The young man stared at his screen.

"Eh, whatever," he said, and clicked.

+++++

General Thaddeus Ross sat in a chair, staring at a wall.

Well, that was it. So much for his career. Assuming there would be anything to have a career for, tomorrow.

Funny. He had expected something more dramatic for the Apocalypse.

He snickered.

Might as well get some sleep to watch the end of the world as he knew it.

As he headed for the door, he passed an aide carrying some coffee. In a cute little cardboard tray, with cute little cups, with cute littler cups for the creamer. Ross wasn't too tired to sneer; he drank his coffee black.

His mouth slackened. His eyelids grew heavy. His head fell. He started to nod off. Then he started and glared at the aide. "Where did you get that coffee?"

The aide looked down. "It-it was delivered. I-I thought-"

"No one take a sip of that coffee!" yelled Ross, in full drill sargeant mode. The aide flinched and dropped the cup. The flimsy plastic cover popped off, and Ross winced as it splashed onto his techs' feet, soaking through to their skin.

Nothing happened.

"Did anyone else get any of this coffee?" Ross said slowly, staring as the brown fluid slowly stained the carpet.

"Uh, Tony over in Comms caught one when I was coming down the hall."

Ross picked up the phone.

+++++

It was late afternoon in the shadowed interior of the C-Note night club. A woman walked into the vacant establishment, carrying a box. As she set it on the bar, a dark-haired, harried-looking man rose from the counter.

"Can I help you?" he says.

The deliverywoman gives him a brilliant smile. "Can I speak to the manager?"

"Speaking."

A raised eyebrow.

"I just came in to count the money."

"Any you left the door open...sir?"

"I have Casey here. Besides, nothing much is gonna come in until after the big party tonight."

"Really?"

"Yeah, that singer, the one with the custody problems, is supposed to be here tonight with that other girl, the one with the sex tape."

"That doesn't really narrow it down, sir."

While they were talking, the manager had located a kitchen knife and opened the box.

"What's this?"

"Our new Organic Irish Creme, sir. A sophisticated, cosmopolitan drink that's still enviromentally friendly."

"Is that why it says 'Carbon-neutral' on it?"

"The marketers insisted."

"We didn't order a-"

"Free sample, sir. We hope to establish a demand that will more than make up for the initial loss."

"You're smart for a humble deliveryperson," said the manager, staring at her tight-fitting uniform openly. "Maybye you'd like to educate me a little more tonight, over a glass...or five...of your product here."

The deliverywoman licked her lips. She would, she really would. "Rain check," she pleaded. "I have one more delivery to make..."

Several hours later and not too far away, Anthony Stark shook his head, even though the general couldn't see it. "No sir. I'm on my second cup and nothing's happened."

The general slowly put the phone down. "All right, back to work." A rueful smile. "I suppose I need to take a break."

As he headed for his cot, he heard someone call dibs on that fancy-named iced coffee. A thought struck him, and he half-turned in the doorway.

"Does anyone know how Stark drinks his coffee?" he asked.

Someone added creamer-no, cream-to their cup, raised it to their lips.

"Same way you do. Black, no sugar, no cream." someone replied.

Ross lunged back into the room, but it was already too late.

+++++

Save yourself, serve yourself.

World serves it's own needs

Listen to your heart bleed.

-REM's "It's the End of the World as We Know It"