It was weird at first, some dude munches down on a homeless guy near a Florida highway. Everyone plays the guessing game and lands on whatever drug is trending--in this case it was Bath Salts--but the toxicology comes back: pot? Everyone knows that's the wrong kind of munchies.
When Zika comes trolling out of the jungles and lands off of the Miami coast, it doesn't just play nice with the local CDC, it mutates and reforms the base of your skull into Putty (yes, the Seinfeld character), but in extreme cases it goes further down and injects a little post-apocalypse -soup into the base of your spine--this isn't your medieval black plague. It's viral and wants to play.
Tomorrow, people will guess Flakka when they hear the News, but being high and white wasn't enough to warrant NOT shooting a flesh eating twenty-something straight out of Hell's Real Kitchen Nightmares--you'd shoot your mother if she went flesh eating zombie, right?
"Carl! WTF!" Jones said eyeing the suspect, "Shoot him!"
"NO! Orders are to bring him back--"
It came out of the primordial ooze of the Keys. Malaria at least kept you human. But this college kid had stabbed three people with a pen knife and decided he was hungry.
Jones couldn't get past the sight. His gun was aimed and he wanted to fire.
Carl could see the thought forming and said, "They could be alive. We have to wait for backup." Carl knew why they wanted him alive, knew why the orders had been changed after the last attack--dead was ok, but a living specimen afforded time to study effects--he knew it because the coroner knew it.
Mrs. Carl Michelle Banks, couldn't find anything abnormal about his brain--she glanced at the weather channel and saw the silhouette of a hurricane inching closer from the Bahamas.
"Only a matter time," she thought....
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